Phil answered by cross-referencing Lightfoot’s address with the state licensing board for financial traders. Given that Lightfoot used to be an investment banker, it stood to reason that he kept his license up, if only to manage his own assets.

Sure enough, the database spit back the name Andrew Ficke, son of Wayne and Sheila Ficke. Sheila had an address in Newburyport, not far from her son. Wayne, a former sheriff, had died two years ago.

D.D. called Sheila, told the bewildered woman that her son was currently assisting the BPD with an urgent investigation and they needed to locate him immediately. A list of known addresses, please?

Turned out Andrew owned a seaside home, a yacht, and a co-op in New York. If souls really got to choose their experiences, D.D. was coming back as a New Age healer.

She doubted Andrew would run all the way to New York with an abducted woman. Seaside home too obvious. Yacht more interesting; lots of privacy out at sea. D.D. would notify local uniforms to watch the docks, and the Coast Guard to monitor the harbor.

“Sorry to call so late,” D.D. told the woman, not wanting her to be alarmed and attempt to contact Andrew. “We’re all set now. Thanks again.”

“What’s the case?” Sheila asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said Andrew was assisting with a case. Which case? If you can talk about it, of course.”

D.D. almost said no. But then, at the last second: “He’s helping us investigate the murders of two families. Maybe you’ve seen the reports on the news.”

“Oh, that sounds like Andrew. He’s been fascinated by such cases ever since his father’s involvement, of course.”

“His father’s involvement?”

“Way before your time, dear. Back in eighty-five, when Wayne was still sheriff, one of his former deputies got drunk and turned his gun on his family, then himself. Only the girl survived. Danielle Burton. Such a terrible night. Wayne put together an album of the event, filled with newspaper clippings and such. Right up until his death I’d find him searching through it. I think he kept looking for what he might have done differently, the warning he should’ve spotted, the action he could’ve taken, which would’ve spared that poor family.”

“Where’s the album?” D.D. asked immediately.

“Andrew took it. My husband was the first on the scene, carrying the girl from the house. Many of the newspapers dubbed him a hero. I don’t know that Wayne agreed, but the articles are flattering and it’s nice for a son to have such stories of his father.”

“Wayne ever talk about that night? The details of what happened?”

“No, he wasn’t a talking sort of man. He put together the album. I think that was his therapy.”

“What about Andrew? Did he question your husband about the case?”