This was one of the things that astonished me about Tim, a man I’d known only a few months. In spite of my secrets, and notwithstanding the shield I’d raised between us, he was always willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. It had surprised me when it happened before. It stunned me now.

I was ready with my answer, had thought about it all the way from the souvenir shop and felt good about my plan. “Basements,” I said. “Search the one at Boldt Castle again, and the ones in town, too—apartment buildings, commercial businesses, places like that. In New York, he kept his victims in a basement. That might be his comfort zone.”

Tim nodded as he jotted notes.

“In the meantime, who can we send to Smuggler’s Cargo for a sketch?”

“We’ve got a forensic artist down in Albany. Part-timer, but she can usually fit us in, and she works remotely using illustration software to speed things up. I’ll get her on a video chat with the shop owner.”

“Perfect.”

“What else?” he said.

My gaze traveled to his notebook. “I could look over what you’ve got so far, see if anything lights a spark.”

Tim smiled a little. “Have at it.”

I reached for the notebook in Tim’s hand. He didn’t let it go. “I shouldn’t have complained about the cases we were getting,” he said, and I recalled the work report he’d given me at Nelly’s, the jokes we’d both cracked about Miss Betty and her stolen motorboat. “That little boy’s still out there, scared. Maybe worse.”

“Yeah, he is,” I said, locking him in my gaze. “So let’s go find him.”

THIRTEEN

Tim left the room to call his contact, and I flipped through his notes, savoring the sensation of being back in action. It was a thrill to hold information in my hands that might help us save a life. If we solved this case, it wouldn’t be my name on the report, but that was okay with me. As for my supervisor in Oneida, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

While the majority of data these days is digital, Tim and I share a common love of paper. I’d never seen the inside of his notebook before, and at first poring over the facts as he perceived them, from verbal and nonverbal responses to stream-of-consciousness estimations he’d written in his tidy script, felt like an intrusion. I got over it quickly. There was no time for discomfiture now.

Half an hour passed this way before Tim reappeared with two bottles of water and the news that his forensic artist would be calling the shop owner shortly. “Anything?” he asked hopefully, nodding at the notebook. I’d scribbled a few notes of my own, but most of those were questions or comments about gaping holes in the case. I shook my head.

“The parents are pushing for a press conference,” Tim said. “They want to make a plea to the public for help. I’d rather do a broader search first, send some divers into the water, but it’ll be black as pitch in an hour, and I guess a conference couldn’t hurt. I’m thinking first thing tomorrow.”