No, Rhyme thought, if we’re skillful. He said to Ben, “Cut a piece of the pants—near the cuff—and run it through the chromatograph.”

Bell stepped out of the office to talk to Steve Fan-about getting priority frequencies on the radios without tipping the state police about what was happening, which Rhyme had insisted he do.

Now the criminalist and Ben waited for the results from the chromatograph. As they did, Rhyme asked, “What else do we have?” Nodding toward the clothes.

“Brown paint stains on Garrett’s pants,” Ben reported as he examined them. “Dark brown. Looks recent.”

“Brown,” Rhyme repeated, examining them. “What’s the color of Garrett’s parents’ house?”

“I don’t know,” Ben began.

“I didn’t expect you to be a storehouse of Tanner’s Corner trivia,” Rhyme grumbled. “I meant: Call them.”

“Oh.” Ben found the number in the case file and called. He spoke to someone for a moment then hung up. “That’s one uncooperative son of a bitch…. Garrett’s foster dad. Anyway, their house is white and there’s nothing painted dark brown on the property.”

“So, it’s probably the color of the place where he’s got her.”

The big man asked, “Is there a paint database somewhere we can compare it to?”

“Good idea,” Rhyme responded. “But the answer’s no. I have one in New York but that won’t do us any good here. And the FBI database is automotive. But keep going. What’s in the pockets, anything? Put on—”

But Ben was already pulling on the latex gloves. “This what you were going to say?”

“It was,” Rhyme muttered.

Thom said, “He hates to be anticipated.”

“Then I’ll try to do it more,” Ben said. “Ah, here’s something.” Rhyme squinted at several small white objects the young man dug out of Garrett’s pocket.

“What are they?”

Ben sniffed. “Cheese and bread.”

“More food. Like the crackers and—”

Ben was laughing.

Rhyme frowned. “What’s funny?”

“It’s food—but it’s not for Garrett.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever fished?” Ben asked.

“No, I’ve never fished,” Rhyme grumbled. “If you want fish you buy it, you cook it, you eat it. What the hell does fishing have to do with cheese sandwiches?”

“They’re not from sandwiches,” Ben explained. “They’re stinkballs. Bait for fishing. You wad up bread and cheese and let ’em get good and sour. Bottom feeders love ’em. Like catfish. The smellier the better.”

Rhyme’s eyebrow lifted. “Ah, now that’s helpful.”

Ben examined the cuffs. He brushed a small amount out onto a People magazine subscription card and then looked at it under the microscope. “Nothing much distinctive,” he said. “Except little flecks of something. White.”

“Let me see.”

The zoologist carried the large Bausch & Lomb microscope over to Rhyme, who looked through the eyepieces. “Okay, good. They’re paper fibers.”

“They are?” Ben asked.