“Devin. Devin Raine. He’s not here today. He volunteered to search. We’d probably all be doing that but the business has to keep running.”

“Can you tell me about Leah’s work hours?” A.L. asked.

She shook her head. “You’d have to ask Devin. Our paralegals are salaried and their timekeeping is done on an exception basis. If we don’t see an exception noted in the time records, such as vacation or sick, we assume they were here.”

Probably an okay assumption except for when Leah was at the casino, secretly videotaping her mother.

“Can you give me Devin’s direct line?”

Again, she turned to her computer. “This is his cell. I suspect that’s where you’ll have the best chance of reaching him. How is Leah doing? I keep wanting to call but I don’t want to bother her.”

“That’s probably a good decision,” he said. “Thank you, Ms. Pistolle.” On the way out of the building, he spent a minute in the lobby, where they had photos of all the lawyers. Devin Raine was a good-looking guy. Dark blond hair. Blue eyes. Maybe early fifties with a tan fit for the most selective of golf courses.

As he walked out of the law firm, he was dialing the man. It rang four times and went to voice mail. Guy probably didn’t answer any numbers he didn’t recognize. A.L. left a message asking for a call back.

Then he drove to the Whitmans’ house. There was a news van parked on the street, across from the house. He did a slow drive-by. Didn’t look like there was anybody in it. He did a U-turn in the street and parked across from it. He found Leah in her kitchen. Sitting at the table. Staring at her hands. The agents still at the house were in the living room. “Just checking in, Leah, like I said I would.” There was no need to tell her that minutes ago he’d been having a conversation about her. Or that they had questions about the financial solvency of her husband’s business.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Last night I dreamed that I could hear Emma in her room. I woke up and ran down the hall. I...think I might be losing my mind.”

“You’re not. You’re under a huge amount of stress.”

“I stayed in her room. All night. Her sheets smell like her.” Leah’s voice cracked.

He could feel his own throat closing up. “Is Troy out searching?” A.L. asked.

“He was. They sent him home to sleep. But he’s not sleeping. He’s in the garage,” Leah said. “With Steven Hanzel,” she added. “I don’t like it when they smoke in the house.”

“I think I’ll take a walk out,” he said.