Vince watched her, studied her. “People are as ignorant as they want to be. Do you think that woman wants to know that her husband is a monster? Do you think she wants to own that? She’ll go to her grave saying he’s a good man if we don’t prove otherwise beyond all doubt.”

He walked out of the room with a file folder under his arm, went across the hall, and knocked on the door. Dixon came out.

“Let me come in for minute.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Dixon asked. “Can you keep your cool?”

“I can do what I need to do,” Vince said quietly. “I’m in and out. You stay with her.”

“Okay.”

Vince walked into the room and placed his file folder on the table. Janet Crane glared at him. She was on her feet, arms crossed.

“Please have a seat, Mrs. Crane,” he said, his tone quiet, civil, formal, respectful.

She hesitated.

“Please,” he repeated in the same quiet tone.

Janet Crane sat. Perched might have been a better word—her back straight, her arms still crossed.

“I apologize for my outburst earlier,” he said, taking a seat himself. “I’ve been belligerent and disrespectful to you, and I apologize for that. I let my emotions get the better of me. I’m sure you can appreciate that now, as you have to deal with the emotions of not knowing where your son is.”

She lifted her chin like a queen and looked him in the eye. “I am choking on my emotions right now.”

Vince nodded, looking down. “I know. Over my years in the Bureau, I’ve sat with many parents of missing children. It’s a terrible thing to know someone you care about is out of your sight, out of your influence.

“I’m quite fond of Miss Navarre,” he admitted. “I’m very upset that she’s missing—and that your son, Tommy, is missing. I believe that they are both probably with your husband, and that they are both in grave danger.”

“Peter would never hurt Tommy,” she said, lifting a forefinger for emphasis. “Never.”

“Not the Peter you know,” Vince said. “The Peter you know is a fine, upstanding family man. A really nice guy. I’ve met him, spoken with him. Heck of a nice guy.”

“Yes.”

He nodded earnestly, agreeing with her. “Yes. But that’s not who we’re talking about now, Mrs. Crane. We’re not talking about your husband. The man we’re talking about—you don’t know him. You’ve never met him. Your son doesn’t know him.”

She said nothing. The lack of response in and of itself spoke volumes.

“The man we’re talking about did this,” Vince said.

From the file folder he removed a full-body photograph of Lisa Warwick taken at autopsy, which he placed on the table in front of Janet Crane.