The cops exited their cruisers in dark waterproof ponchos, walking around from either side as officers will do when strangers come toward them, cautiously, neither trying to hide nor be too conspicuous about the readiness of their draw hands, but keeping them just near enough to their holsters to exert a subtle, nonprovocational psychic weight.

Ricci took note of their guarded stances with an evaluative eye. He had met unknown persons the same way on hundreds of occasions in his decade with the Boston force.

The first cop came forward carefully.

“Gentlemen.” A little nod. Calm, polite tone. “What can we do for you?”

Ricci told him their names, flashing his Sword insignia card in its display case.

“We’re UpLink private security,” he said. “You might’ve heard of us.”

The uniform checked the identification. He nodded.

“Sure,” he said. “Good things. I once checked out job opportunities on your Web site. There are some tough prereqs just to snag an interview.”

Ricci did not comment.

“Our boss’s daughter,” he said. “She’s your missing person.”

The cop gave another nod. He had dropped his show-room face.

“Julia Gordian,” he said. “This is a damn bad one.”

“We need to take a look around the C.S.”

The cop paused a moment. He wore his cap under the hood of the poncho and its bill shed droplets of water as he shook his head.

“Not possible,” he said. “The area’s been secured.”

Ricci stared at him.

“We drove all the way from SanJo,” he said. “Make an exception.”

Thibodeau tried to moderate Ricci’s harshness.

“We understand you got physical evidence needs to be protected and want to feel comfortable,” Thibodeau said. “And we won’t give it no nevermind if somebody from your department sticks with us, make sure we don’t disturb nothing.”

The cop gave him a curious glance. “Louisiana?” he said.

“And proud of it,” Thibodeau said. “Didn’t think anybody could hear no accent.”

A grin.

“Went down for Mardi Gras once. Beats the hell out of me how you people can take eating that spicy food.”

“Secret’s to line the gut with moonshine.”

The cop’s grin enlarged a bit.

“Look, I really wish I could do something to help, but we have rules about restricting access to unauthorized parties.”

Thibodeau made his pitch. “No special considerations for fellas you hear such great things about?”

“None I have any pull to give. You’d need to arrange for special clearance.”

Ricci briefly let his glance range over the cop’s shoulder. A crime scene van and other police vehicles stood farther uphill. Small clusters of technical services and investigative personnel were everywhere. He noticed a plainclothesman in a raincoat moving between them on the drive. He was hatless, carried no umbrella, and had both hands in the pockets of his coat.

He turned his attention back to the uniform.

“Who’s the scene coordinator?”

“That would be Detective Erickson—”

Ricci cut him short. “Then stop wasting our time and call him over.”