“Will do.” Marge put her sunglasses back on her nose, then took a tissue and spread it over her right palm. “Let me see that key.”

Decker dropped it in the pink Kleenex.

Marge said, “Wrong shape for a safe-deposit box.”

“Yep.”

“Post office or mailbox?”

“Could be. Looks more like a strongbox key to me.”

“Me, too,” Marge said. “I’m just thinking that whoever rewound the messages might have taken the box.”

“Thought crossed my mind.” Decker bagged the key. “I’ll give the place another going-over.”

“Call when you’re done. We’ll compare notes.” Marge winked at Cindy. “Look after him, kid.”

Decker waited for Marge to leave, then said, “Did Rina leave the hospital all right?”

Cindy nodded. “Her parents picked her up right on time. She’s very proud of what you’re doing, Dad. She’s worried about Caitlin, too.”

“Caitlin?”

“The baby’s name. Lourdes told me.”

Caitlin, Decker thought. So the little thing has an official name. “Cindy, the only reason I’m not chopping your head off is because I’m indebted to you—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am, and so is Rina. We both have you to thank for Hannah’s safety. But…as your father…I’m furious at you.”

“It’s only because I care! Dad, I’ve got eyes. Let me help you look for this box. I won’t get in your way after this. I promise.”

Decker hesitated. It was unprofessional, but at the moment another pair of peepers just might do the trick. Hell with regulations. Look how regulations had helped Caitlin Rodriguez last night.

“All right,” Decker said. “Start with the kitchen. Be slow and methodical. I’ve already gone over everything twice…but maybe I missed something.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“S’right.” Decker felt a sudden burst of warmth in his heart. “I love you, princess.”

Cindy smiled. “I love you, too.”

16

Sitting in the hospital cafeteria, Marge pondered why all institutional coffee tasted like swill. Lips puckering as she sipped, she noticed that Paula Delfern wasn’t making much headway with her java, either. The nurse was gazing into the white ceramic cup as if reading tea leaves, fingers gripped around the mug. She appeared to be in her midtwenties with a creamy complexion and tawny-colored hair cut to the shoulders. Her dark eyes were set into a moon-shaped face. Her features were small but broad—a wide nose, a wide smile. With makeup, she could be pretty. Scrubbed-faced as she was now, she looked the part of a healthy farm girl. Marge took out her notebook.

Paula said, “I really don’t know how I can help. I mean, Marie and I are friends. But thinking about that, I really don’t know much about her. When we used to talk a lot, I was the one having the problems. We talked about me.”

“What kind of problems?” Marge asked.

“Is that relevant?”