After he fetched a magnifying glass from the study, further examination of the photos availed him nothing. Her eyes were owlish under the enlarging glass, and she met his stare with her own.

| 6 |

Isaac Eisenstein wasn’t just a private investigator, a gumshoe with a third-floor walk-up office on a shabby side street. He owned one of the largest security companies in New York City, providing alarm systems and armored vehicles and armed bodyguards. With his staff of licensed PIs, he was able to conduct investigations of any complexity. A valued research source for David’s novels, Isaac was also something of a friend. He was in his office at nine o’clock eastern time, when David placed the call.

Standing by the kitchen sink, watching through the window as a ruby-throated hummingbird took its breakfast from the flowers on a red-bark arbutus, David said, “Isaac, I need help.”

“So I’ve told Pazia like a thousand times.”

Pazia, his wife, was a psychiatrist with a thriving practice.

“I might actually want to talk to her before this is done. But right now, I’m going to send you six photographs.”

“So you’re doing lewd selfies like that asshole congressman?”

“No. I wouldn’t want to make you feel inadequate.”

“Dreamer.”

“These are three pictures each of two girls. They look like the same girl, but maybe not. Can you run facial-recognition software, tell me are they the same person?”

“Easy peasy.”

“I’m also sending you a California license-plate number from a vintage Mercedes 450 SL. The DMV registration would be helpful. And I’d appreciate a picture of a driver’s license issued to Maddison Sutton, age twenty-five.” He spelled the name.

“No can do, boychik. This operation is so clean my grandmother would eat off the floor, even though she’s a germaphobe.”

If Isaac couldn’t backdoor every DMV computer system in the country, he knew someone who could. The information would be forthcoming in spite of his denial.

“Well,” David said, “I had to ask.”

“And I had to say.”

“Understood. Some of the photos are straight off my iPhone, but the other three are scans from old black-and-whites.”

“Good enough. Listen, kid, are you in trouble out there?”

“Not trouble. Just this weird situation.”

“Want to tell me?”

“When I get back to New York.”

“Which means never.”

“No, I will,” David promised.

Isaac sighed. “You play everything so close to your vest, it’s like your entire life is one long poker hand.”

| 7 |

The previous Tuesday, knowing that he was coming west, David Thorne had booked a commuter flight from Orange County’s John Wayne Airport to Sacramento. At 9:40 a.m., the plane touched down at Sacramento International.

The rental car had a GPS, but he didn’t need it. He’d made this drive to Folsom State Prison so often he knew the route by heart.