The Bethboro police station was a brand new chunk of beige cement surrounded by a parking lot. Inside, were plastic plants and the smell of Lysol; it looked nothing like Hill Street Blues reruns. Rose and Grace gawked hesitantly before they went up to the young policeman presiding at the big sweep of front desk. Rose asked to speak to Silver Henning.

“What for?”

Explaining a dream to a cop wasn’t going to be easy. “It’s confidential,” she said.

The policeman sat up straighter and pursed his lips. “Who are you?”

“Rosecleer Potter.”

“Rose who?”

“Rose Potter,” Grace piped up. “It’s very important for her to see Chief Henning.”

“He’s busy. You’d better tell me whatever you want to tell him.”

Rose dithered, not wanting to explain a dream in full view of the door and the plastic plants.

Grace said reasonably, “Could we see a detective instead?”

The policeman gave a condescending smile. “You can’t see anybody until you tell me what it’s all about.”

Rose was ready to argue the point, but Grace blurted, “Nancy Emerson.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” He picked up a phone, pushed some buttons, mumbled into it and told them to go upstairs and turn right at the coffee machine. “Detective O’Hara,” he said.

“Detective O’Hara,” Grace whispered as they climbed the antiseptic staircase. “A big beefy guy with a red nose and a chip on his shoulder. Chain-smoker, too. Our hair will stink. My mother will accuse me of smoking again. I’ll have to take a shower at your house before I go home.”

“Stop chattering,” Rose said. “I’m nervous, too.”

“Who’s nervous? I was theorizing.”

They made a right at the coffee machine and found the room. The door was ajar but they hesitated, debating whether to walk right in or knock.

“Come on in, girls,” a pleasantly sweet voice called out.

Detective O’Hara wasn’t big or beefy. She was slim, blonde and young-looking, sitting behind a desk littered with diet Pepsi cans. She was chewing one of her long red fingernails. She inspected the nail critically before waving them into the hard metal chairs in front of her desk. Her gold bracelets clinked.

“What can I do for you, girls?” she asked chummily.

It was a little disappointing. Rose had expected eager anticipation to hear anything about the Emerson case. Instead the detective sat there, relaxed and smiling, as if she could care less. Rose felt tongue-tied.

Grace cleared her throat, a signal that Rose should get on with it.

“This is going to sound weird. I really don’t know how to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” Detective O’Hara said. “It’s always the best place.”

“Well, it’s not really a beginning. Unless you count last night. I — ”

“She had a dream,” Grace forged ahead. “About Nancy Emerson.”