"Mr. McDermott." I extended a hand. "Liz Bowles, White Rock Times. Do you have a minute?"

He resumed filing. "I do, but we aren't hiring."

"Hiring? Oh, no, I'm not a photographer. I'm a journalist."

McDermott closed the filing cabinet and moved to his desk. "From where?"

"White Rock."

He waited.

"Cottage country," I added.

"Oh." A slight twist of the lips. "The Muskokas."

"The Kawarthas, actually."

"What can I do for you, Miss…"

"Bowles. Call me Liz."

Not likely, his eyes said with another glance at my midriff.

I beamed a small-town smile. "Not a big fan of black-fly country, I take it?"

He rewarded my smile by picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, turning to the filing cabinet, and presenting me with a lovely view of his back. He then proceeded to file as if I'd already left.

"You should get up our way sometime," I continued. "This time of year, it's absolutely gorgeous. We have some great vacation getaway deals, too."

I watched his body language for any reaction, any tensing of the muscles. Instead, he gave a soft snort. "I'm sure it's beautiful, but I've already taken my spring vacation. To Venice." He glanced at me. " Italy."

"Wow. I bet it was gorgeous."

McDermott turned to nod, and I detected the faintest thaw in his cold front.

"It was quite nice, yes," he said. "Of course, one really should see Venice in June, but my fiancée had a photo shoot, so we had to settle for April."

"She's a model? Wow. You must have just got back home."

"This week."

"That must be tough. Coming back here after a week in Venice."

"Three weeks."

I widened my eyes. "Wow. Our readers are going to flip. A Bancroft boy, dating a supermodel, and jetting off to Venice."

McDermott's brows arched. "Bancroft?"

"You're from Bancroft, aren't you?"

He snorted. "Hardly. Born and raised right here in Toronto, thankfully."

"Oh, my God. I am so sorry, Mr. McDermott. I'm looking for a Jordan McDermott, son of John and Hazel from Bancroft. He's supposed to be a photographer in Toronto and someone gave me this address."

"I see," McDermott said, cooling fast. "Well, then I would suggest you double-check your sources. I have work to do."

Every once in a while, you get lucky and everything goes smoothly. Of course, I guess if things had gone really well, McDermott would have been moonlighting as a hitman and confessed to killing Sammi, but nothing's ever that simple.

If Sammi had tried to double-check the information, she'd have discovered that a man named Jordan really did work for Pfeiffer Photography in Toronto. Had she attempted to contact him, she would have learned he was on vacation.

Whoever had taken those pictures had put a lot of effort into his story. Exactly the kind of attention to detail you'd expect from a professional killer.

As we drove, I told Jack what we'd found. Then I tried Denise Noyes again. She answered on the third ring.

"I'm calling about Deanna Macy," I said. "I got your name off one of the missing-persons Web sites."

"Yes?"

Noyes invested the single word with such joy that I winced.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't have any news for you."

"Oh." Her voice drooped.

"I'm calling because my niece has disappeared, in circumstances similar to Deanna's. She vanished with her six-month-old daughter. The police say she's run away – "

"But you know better, don't you? You can tell. The police – I guess they've heard that story a million times, they stop listening after a while." Her voice shifted, as if she was settling into a chair. "I'm glad I decided to come home for lunch today. I forgot some tests I'd marked over the weekend."

"Are you… a friend of Deanna's?"

"Her sister. Well, half sister. Our dad got around. I was from his first marriage. Deanna was from number four. He's on six now. I'd be lying if I said Deanna and I were close. I didn't know she existed until I bumped into her at a family funeral a few years ago. Helluva way to meet, huh?"

"I bet."

"She's half my age, so we didn't exactly do the sister thing, but I could see she was in a bad place, her mom dead, our dad long gone, Deanna living with her nana, who didn't much want her around. I've done okay for myself, so I tried to help out, but she wasn't comfortable with more than the occasional lunch date. After the baby, her nana kicked her out. I offered to let Deanna stay with my husband and me, but I think she didn't want to intrude, so I helped her find the group home. It wasn't ideal, but she seemed to like it there."

"Which is why you don't think she ran away."

"I know she didn't run off because if she had she wouldn't…" Another pause. A sharp intake of breath. "I'll be blunt. I don't mean to speak poorly of Deanna. She was doing the best she could but, if she'd left, she wouldn't have taken Connor. If she'd wanted to start a new life, it wouldn't have included him. She was having a hard time. She wanted to be off with her friends, going to parties, dating…"

"Like any sixteen-year-old."

"Exactly. When she became pregnant, I strongly suggested adoption. Maybe too strongly. I might have made her feel like I didn't think she could care for a baby and she wanted to prove me wrong."

In the silence, I could hear Noyes's self-recriminations and hurried to change the subject. "I saw Deanna's picture. She's a beautiful girl."

"Isn't she? And Connor? He was gorgeous. People used to stop Deanna in malls and tell her Connor belonged on TV."

"Did anyone ever take his picture? Offer to make him a model?"

Noyes paused. "No. Why?"

"A few weeks before my niece disappeared, a man took photos of her baby. He claimed to be from a modeling agency, but I was suspicious. You hear so much about perverts – "

"Yes!" Noyes fairly shouted the word. "Oh, God, yes! I knew it. I knew it. I told the police, but they brushed me off – " She inhaled, controlling her excitement. "A few weeks before Deanna and Connor vanished, she took him to a Christmas parade. This man said he was from the Free Press and wanted to take Connor's picture. Deanna was thrilled. She thought her baby was going to make the front page."

"But he didn't."

"Not the front page, not the back page. I know photographers don't use every shot they take, but when Deanna told me the story, I didn't like it. She said he took a whole roll of pictures, mostly of Connor, but some of the two of them together. That's too many takes for a simple human-interest shot."

"Did Deanna get his name?"

"She didn't ask. Too excited, I'm sure."

"Did she tell you anything about him?"

"She said he looked like a photographer. Clean-cut. Nicely dressed. Homely." A laugh. "That's not the word she used, but you know what I mean."

"Unattractive."

"Yes. She said he was around my husband's age. Thirty-five or so. Oh, and he had very nice teeth. Very straight, very white. She made a point of saying that. As if no one could be a pervert and practice good oral hygiene. Does this sound like the man your niece met?"

"She didn't say anything about his appearance." I hated to lie, but I couldn't have Noyes phoning the police with added information. "I don't know if there's a connection, but I'm going to keep after our local police. Would you like me to keep you updated?"

"Even if there's no connection to Deanna, let me know if your niece turns up. And hang in there. I know it's hard, but there's always hope, right?"

God, how I wished that were true. But there was no hope for Sammi, and I was pretty sure there wasn't for Deanna, either. I could only hope there was still some for their babies.