Gurney still had Holdenfield’s number in his cell phone. (They’d collaborated briefly on the Mark Mellery and Jillian Perry cases, and he’d imagined they might cross paths again.) He brought the number up on the screen and placed the call. It went into her voice mail.

He listened to a lengthy introductory message regarding her office hours and location, website, and the e-mail address to which inquiries could be sent. The sound of her voice conjured up an image of the woman. Tough, brainy, athletic, and ambitious. Her facial features were perfect without being pretty. Her eyes were striking, intense, but lacked the warmth that might have made them beautiful. She was a driven professional whose therapy practice filled whatever time was left over from her primary career in forensic psychology.

He left a terse message that he hoped would intrigue her. “Hi, Rebecca. This is Dave Gurney. Hope all is well. I’m involved in an unusual situation that I’d like to discuss with you, get your insight and advice. It involves the Good Shepherd case. I know how incredibly busy you are. Get to me when you can.” He ended the call with his cell number.

For anyone else he hadn’t spoken to for six months, that message might have been too lean and impersonal, but for Holdenfield he knew there was no such thing as too lean or too impersonal. Which is not to say that he didn’t like her. In fact, he could recall moments in the past when he’d found her sharp edges disturbingly attractive.

Making the call gave him a satisfying sense of having set something in motion. He went back to the open incident report on his desktop screen and started working through it. He was halfway through the fifth report an hour later when the phone rang. He glanced at the ID: ALBANY FORENSIC CONSULTANTS.

“Rebecca?”

“Hello, David. Just pulled over for gas. What can I do for you?” Her voice underscored her odd combination of brusqueness and availability.

“I understand you’re a bit of an expert on the Good Shepherd case.”

“A bit.”

“Any chance we could get together for a quick chat?”

“Why?”

“Strange things have been happening that may be related to it, and I need some insight from someone who knows what she’s talking about.”

“There’s a ton of stuff on the Internet.”

“I need a point of view I can trust.”

“When does this need to happen?”

“Sooner the better.”

“I’m on my way to the Otesaga.”

“Beg pardon?”

“The Otesaga Hotel in Cooperstown. If you can meet me there, I can set aside forty-five minutes—from one-fifteen to two.”

“Perfect. Where shall I—”

“Come to the Fenimore Room. I’m presenting a paper there at twelve-thirty, followed by a brief question session, followed by schmoozing around the buffet. The schmoozing I can skip. Can you be there at one-fifteen?”