A little bit after two-thirty kids started drifting past with books, and at five minutes before three a dark-haired boy in a plaid Timberland jacket came pumping down the street on a beat-up red Schwinn mountain bike. Toby Nelsen. He was horse-faced and gangly, with a wide butt and narrow shoulders, just like his father. His rear end was up and his head was down and he whipped the bike across the sidewalk and skidded to a stop by the front door of the bank just as a dark green Chrysler LeBaron pulled into the parking lot. He was laughing. A woman who might’ve been Karen Shipley got out of the Chrysler. A dozen years older than the Karen Shipley in the videotape, wearing a tailored rust-colored top coat and heels and tortoiseshell sunglasses. Together. Her hair was short and set off her heart-shaped face nicely and she stood straight and confident. She didn’t bounce or wiggle. Toby raised his hands over his head and yelled, “I beatcha by a mile!” and she said something and the boy laughed again and they went into the bank. I crossed the street after them. Elvis Cole, Master Detective. We Always Get Our Mom.

When I got into the bank, Karen Shipley was seated in one of the back offices, talking on the phone, and the boy was at a little coffee table, writing in a spiral notebook. I went to the end of the tellers’ counter again and waved at Joyce Steuben. “I’m back.”

Joyce Steuben looked around at Karen Shipley, still on the phone. “She’s on a call now. Can I tell her who wants to see her?”

“Elvis Cole.”

“Would you like to have a seat?”

“Sure.”

I walked back to the little round table and sat down across from the boy. He was writing in the workbook with a yellow pencil and didn’t look up. Fractions. He was big for twelve, but his face was smooth and unlined and young. He looked exactly like his father, and I wondered if he knew that. I said, “You Toby Lloyd?”

He looked up and smiled. “Yeah. Hi.” He looked healthy and happy and normal.

“You’re Karen’s son?”

“Yeah. You know my mom?”

“I’m here to see her. I saw you guys racing down the street. You were really flying.”

His smile flashed a yard wide. “I really creamed her today. Usually she wins.”

Karen Shipley said, “Mr. Cole? May I help you?” She was standing in the little passage at the end of the tellers’ counter.