“Our details aren’t much different from yours,” she went on, “except ours happened in Brattleboro, Vermont.” She added, “Did you ever come across the name Seamus Kyle? He might’ve been a child of a servant or a playmate of your missing kid.”

“Kyle? Nope.”

“When you had Shaw under the microscope,” Sam asked, “did you ever try to fit him for any other disappearances? Or anything involving anything sexual? We’ve got him at a strip club. Nothing illegal, but it seems odd.”

“Male or female strippers?” was the response.

“Female. You think he was gay?”

“Just asking,” Ryan answered. “If I’m right about him, his appetite is preteen boys. I’m no shrink, but I’m guessing strip clubs are a second-rate substitute. You met Lucy yet?”

“She’s dead.”

For the first time, Sam felt she’d brought Molly Ryan up short. “You’re kidding me. He killed her.”

“We can’t say that. It’s up in the air.”

Ryan grew more animated. “No. That didn’t come out right. He killed her. You get me? It’s not a question. She had him by the balls. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if I’m wrong.”

“He’s got an alibi. Claims he was in your town seeing his moneyman at Fitch, Mayhew. Had dinner with him, too.”

“Give me that,” Ryan demanded. “I’ll talk to him myself. On the house. You won’t owe me. You got somebody else looking into it?”

“No. Thank you.” Sam gave her the date, along with the details she read off the business card Shaw had given her.

“I’ll call you.”

The phone went dead. Sam looked at Willy and said quietly, “Okay. Nice chatting. Have a nice day.”

Willy chuckled and kissed her. “Whatever,” he said.

CHAPTER TEN

James Hendrix, whom nobody, including his mother, ever called Jimmy, looked like a recruitment poster for the New Hampshire State Police. Tall, muscular, thin-waisted, close-cropped, and serious of demeanor, even dressed in civilian attire, as he was now, he’d been accused by others of never having had a choice of professions as a young man out of college—except, perhaps, a Navy SEAL.

In fact, he’d driven a truck and worked construction upon graduation, never liked the water, and hadn’t become a cop until hitting his thirties. It seemed he was the last one to get the memo.

After that, watching him had been like taking in a fireworks show. His rise through the ranks had been blessed, unchecked, envied, and without mishap, ending with his arrival as commander of the Major Crime unit. There, he’d happily settled and seemed content to stay, as fit as ever, but now gray-haired, his face more lined than before, and his manner reflecting a calming maturity.

He knew about Joe Gunther through reputation rather than personal exposure, as he imagined was the case for many law enforcement leaders across northern New England. By accomplishments or pure longevity, Gunther had managed to become as well known in this highly specialized milieu as a superlative freelance bass guitarist might be to world-famous touring rock bands looking for local talent. He was the star everyone knew, but only within the profession.