“So what else is new?” he said. “He did manage to acquire a police record, but not the type that would get entered in NCIC or any other national file. Indecent exposure pled down to a misdemeanor trespassing in Vivian, Louisiana; bad checks settled by reimbursement, no jail time, in Keswick, Virginia; sexual assault in Carrol County, Georgia. That one was dismissed. Sheriff said he knew Andruson did it but the girl he was accused of seducing had cerebral palsy and could barely talk. They figured she wouldn’t make the grade as a witness, wanted to spare her the ordeal.”

“Moral of the story: go for the vulnerable.”

“I asked Sue to find what she could on that missing girl, Miranda. Gave her Olivia’s number. Talk about your meeting of the minds.”

Out of his jacket pocket came tinny music. No more Beethoven, some sort of Latin beat. He reached in and extricated his cell phone. It kept tangoing as he checked the caller’s number. He had reprogrammed the ring. I’d thought it was mostly kids who did that.

“Sturgis . . . yeah, hi. No, there’s no parking on the property. I’m sure, Sean. You’re positive you didn’t miss anything? Well, that definitely complicates things . . . hope not . . . yeah, yeah, check all that out, our E.T.A.’s fifteen, twenty, I’ll call you unless you learn something earth-shattering.”

Click. “Sean’s been in place since six forty-five. Neither Daney’s Jeep nor Cherish’s Toyota are in sight. Ditto for Malley’s black truck. The gate’s closed so he can’t tell if anyone’s home. No sight or sounds of any kids, but he’s a hundred feet up. I told him to list the plates of any cars on the block and run them.”

“Both gone, separate cars,” I said.

“Maybe they went for doughnuts. Why don’t you drive a little faster?”

I sped over the canyon, raced through morning traffic, finally reached Vanowen just after eight. Milo got back on the phone and asked Binchy about the vehicle registrations. “No, keep going . . . no, no . . . hold on, repeat that one . . . interesting. Okay, stay there until we show up. Thanks mucho, lad.”

“Something come up?” I said.

“Cream-colored Cadillac DeVille parked right in front of the house,” he said. “And guess who pays the sticker fees.”

* * *

The Reverend Dr. Crandall Wascomb looked as if his faith had been tested and he wasn’t sure he’d passed.

He opened the gate within seconds of Milo’s pounding, stepped back, stunned.

“Dr. Delaware?”

Milo’s badge made his shoulders drop. Not dismay, relief. “Police. Thank goodness. Cherish called you, as well?”

“When did she call you, sir?” said Milo.

“Early this morning,” said Wascomb. “Just after six.”