Heil was doing something with his gun. He had the magazine out in his hand and he looked at it and then snapped it into the chamber. Ngyun and Flannigan were putting on dark blue windbreakers that said POLICE in all-caps white letters across the back.

The uniformed patrol cops they had tracking down tips were sitting at their desks talking on the phone or clicking through Web sites, but Susan could see their eyes following the detectives.

Susan looked around for Anne and saw her sitting at an empty desk, with a laptop open and stacks of files and notes around her.

“What’s going on?” Susan said.

Heil was reholstering his gun. “We’re going to check something out,” he said. “You’re staying here.”

“But—” Susan said.

“Not open for discussion,” Heil said.

Susan stalked over to Anne. “Do you know what’s happening?”

Anne kept her gaze firmly on her notes. “They have a lead on where the boy might be,” she said. “That’s all I know.”

“Ask if we can come,” Susan said.

“Nope,” Anne said.

“You’re not going to fight it?”

She looked up at Susan and sighed. “I have two kids,” she said. “When they say it’s not safe, I listen.”

Susan’s phone rang. It wasn’t the Times editor calling her back; she had already programmed in a ringtone for his number—“Big Apple Dreamin’” by Alice Cooper. This was just the default ring. She didn’t recognize the number.

Ngyun tossed a windbreaker at Heil. He tried to catch it but missed, and the windbreaker fluttered to the floor. Heil leaned over and picked it up.

“Hello?” Susan said into her phone.

There was a pause. “Susan Ward?”

“Yes,” Susan said slowly.

“This is Frances Larson. I’m Gloria Larson’s daughter. You wanted me to call?” Susan had nearly forgotten that she’d called Brad at the Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility and asked him to get a message to Gloria’s family.

Ngyun, Flannigan, and Heil were putting on baseball caps now. The same blue, the same white letters that spelled POLICE.

“Are you there?” Frances Larson said.

Susan returned her attention to the call. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, thank you.” She tried to figure out a simple way of explaining everything. “I wrote a story yesterday for the Herald about a skeleton that was found a few days ago in the Columbia Slough. The skeleton’s old, dating back to the forties or fifties. Your mother read my story and called me. She said she thought she knew the identity of the man.” Susan mentally crossed her fingers. “Someone named McBee?”

“I’m sorry my mother bothered you,” Frances Larson said. “But she gets confused. She likes to read the news, and it agitates her sometimes.”

Susan gave it another try. Just to be sure. “You never heard her mention someone named McBee?”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

“Did she ever live in Vanport?”