Kelly entered the kitchen—from where she could see into the dining room—and puttered around for several minutes. She wanted to observe them interacting with each other, without them knowing. In any kidnapping case, it was standard FBI procedure to first scope out the parents. Too often it was the mother or father who was guilty.

Her first impression of Amy Techer was poor. The woman sat at the kitchen table clutching a cup of tea so hard she might have been trying to strain the leaves. Her pretty face was flaccid, lost of all willpower—her dark lashes dragged down by dried tears. She seemed lost in a reverie that she dared not solve by action. Under normal circumstances, Kelly suspected Amy did not relate well to others. It was merely an observation.

David Techer was another matter. He couldn’t decide whether to sit or stand so he polluted the air with waves of nervous energy. His eyes were a cold blue, his skin red and puffy, probably the result of an overworked liver and too many drinks after twelve-hour days. He was clearly a type-A personality, who carried disdain for every other letter of the alphabet. His flabby gut hung over his belt like a loaf of bread waiting to rise.

When Kelly finally did enter the dining room, David Techer gave her a look that said he didn’t like her. Well, she thought, ditto. He especially didn’t appreciate the black tape recorder she set in the center of the table. He pointed at it like it might chase him to court.

“We’ve already told your boss everything we know,” he said.

Kelly ignored him and sat across from Amy, spoke in a soothing tone. “My name is Kelly Fienman. I’ve a lot of experience in cases such as this, and I know this is a terrible time for both of you. I also know our procedures must seem clumsy and ineffective. But there’s a reason behind them that usually produces good results. Now I have to question you about a few details, and some of them will appear unrelated to your son’s abduction. Please, for the time being, just bear with me.”

Her politeness had the desired effect. David settled back into a chair and glanced at his wife. The look said it all. He blamed her for the loss of their son. Amy lowered her head and searched for reassurance in her tea leaves. Clearly a product of European and Latin blood, she had a large sensual mouth and beguiling cheekbones. Kelly addressed her directly.

“May I call you Amy?”

She nodded, spoke in a little girl’s voice. “That’s fine.”

“Were you alone here with your son when he was taken?”

“We’ve already talked about this with that other woman,” David interrupted.

“I need a complete record, from scratch,” Kelly said firmly, before turning back to Amy. “Were you alone?”