“Fred?”

“My, we are impatient this morning. Phone belongs to one Robert Ellis, head of a teensy start-up—my own description—in San Jose. In town lookin’ for seed money. No record, pays his taxes. Profile’s as booooring as a corset salesman’s. And when I’m saying start-up don’t be thinkin’ Facebook, Crap-Chat, anything sexy and lucrative. His spec-i-al-i-ty’s media buying. So it’s not looking like a competitor snatched him.”

“Associates or family hear from the taker? About ransom?” Sellitto asked.

“Nup. Phone logs show calls to a mobile registered to a woman lives at the same address he does. So, status o’ girlfriend’s a solid guess. But the provider says her phone’s, of all things, way, way over in Japan. Presumably in the company of said lady, one Ms. Sabrina Dillon. My ASAC called her but hasn’t heard back. Other numbers aren’t remarkable. Just a guy in town for business. Doesn’t seem to have much else in the way of family we could find.”

“Domestic issues?” Mel Cooper asked. He was a lab specialist, yes, but also an NYPD detective who’d worked cases for years.

Dellray: “Nothin’ on the radar. Though, even if so, I’m thinking a bit of cheatin’ nookie doesn’t really make you trunk-worthy.”

“True,” Sellitto said.

Rhyme said, “No OC connection.”

“Uh-uh. Boy is not a gangbanger, ’less they’re teaching that now at UCLA. His alma mater.”

Sellitto said, “So, we’re leaning toward some crazy.”

There was the noose, after all…

“May be agreeing with you there, Lon,” Dellray said.

“Speculation,” Rhyme grumbled. “We’re wasting time.”

Where the hell were Sachs and the evidence collection teams?

Cooper’s computer made a cheerful noise and he looked it over.

“From your evidence folks, Fred.”

Rhyme wheeled forward. The federal crime scene unit—the Physical Evidence Response Team—had analyzed the phone carefully and found no fingerprints. The perp had wiped it before pitching it out of the car.

But the techs had found some trace—smudges of dirt and, wedged invisibly into the OtterBox cover, a short, light-colored hair. Human. There was no bulb attached, so no DNA analysis was possible. It was dry and appeared to have been dyed platinum blond.

“Picture of Ellis?”

A few minutes later Cooper downloaded an image from California DMV.

A nondescript man of thirty-five. Lean face. His hair was brown.

Whose head had the paler hair come from?

The kidnapper himself?

The aforementioned Sabrina?

The door opened and Rhyme could tell that Amelia Sachs had returned. Her footfalls were distinctive. Before she even breached the doorway, he was calling, “Sachs! Let’s take a look.”

She entered through the archway, nodded a greeting to all. Then handed over the milk crate, containing evidence bags, to Cooper, who set them aside. He now dressed in full protective gear—booties, gloves, bonnet and splash guard, which mutually protected examiner and evidence.

He set the items out on examination tables, which were in a separate part of the parlor, away from where the others, dressed in street clothing, clustered, to avoid contamination.