But she feared spring might never come for this particular Persephone.

ONLY WHITNEY PROFESSED TO BE SURPRISED WHEN Tess began developing the symptoms of a raging head cold within hours of her impromptu bay swim.

“Getting your head wet in cold weather doesn’t cause colds,” Whitney proclaimed the next morning. Proclaimed, it should be noted, over the phone, intent on keeping herself at a safe distance from whatever germ Tess carried. “That’s the oldest of old wives’ tales.”

“Yes, but a wet head, wet feet, and wet internal organs when the temperature is in the forties-don’t you think that could make one the teensiest bit ill?” Tess was irritated, and frustrated. How could her body let her down when she was so close to finding Jane Doe?

“All in your head,” Whitney insisted.

“Of course it’s in my head. It’s a head cold.”

“Get lots of rest,” Whitney said, as if this were a revolutionary piece of advice. “And eat a lot. Feed a cold, starve a fever.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the exact opposite.”

“Okay, then do that.”

As it happened, Tess did neither. She ate as she always ate-heartily, happily-while discovering that technology made it almost too easy to work from one’s sickbed. Crow, who was temping in Kitty’s store for the holiday rush, left her Monday morning with a mug of cocoa and her laptop. By 10:30 A.M., she had exhausted the garden-variety directories in trying to track down a current phone number for Devon Whittaker. She had several numbers for other Philadelphia Whittakers, but she was too stuffed up to bluff her way through phone calls to people who might or might not be relatives. They’d think they were getting obscene phone calls from Donald Duck.

Tess then searched the online archives of the Philadelphia papers, looking for the name Whittaker. The surname was there, it was all over the place, in the benign, bland bits that made up the society pages, but she couldn’t find it attached to Devon. By lunchtime-a scorched but well-intentioned grilled cheese from Kitty-she conceded defeat and made a snuffly call for help to Dorie Starnes, one of the robber barons of the Information Highway. There was no freight that Dorie couldn’t highjack, but she charged dearly for her black-market goods, especially if speed was required.

A restless Tess had progressed from bed to sofa when Dorie arrived the next day. Her cold was now mostly in her chest, leaving her with a wet, slushy cough and a wonderfully husky, Lauren Bacall voice.

“I wish I could lie around on the sofa when I was sick,” Dorie said.

“You can,” Tess rasped. “You’re the one who works for a corporation, the one with paid sick leave and medical. I’m self-employed, and pay for my own health insurance.”

“I run my own business, too.”

“From your office at the Beacon-Light.”

Dorie shrugged. She reminded Tess of a robin, with her round, full torso and ruffled, cowlicky hair. “They get what they pay for.”

Esskay wandered out of the bedroom and began circling excitedly at the sight of a guest. Dorie, who wasn’t much taller than she was wide, held her ground, putting out a tentative hand. “Nice doggie,” she said, fingers tapping the top of Esskay’s skull the way someone else might dribble a basketball. Luckily, Esskay wasn’t fussy about human contact, as long as she got some. She returned contentedly to bed. It had disrupted Esskay’s routine, having Tess at home during the day. When left alone in the apartment, Esskay was used to moving freely from bed to sofa and back again, and now here was Tess taking up her space, throwing little bits of tissue around.

“Ready?” Dorie asked. Tess was one of the few customers that Dorie didn’t exact payment from before she spoke. Suspicious of computers, hostile toward paper, she worked from her own memory, which she claimed was impeccable. “Devon Whittaker is a student at Penn-”

“I knew that. I told you that.”

Dorie didn’t acknowledge Tess had spoken. “-but she lives off campus, in an apartment. She’s nineteen years old and her phone number is unlisted.”

“But you got it.”

“I couldn’t charge these prices if I didn’t.” She recited it, wincing slightly when Tess wrote it down.”

Tess didn’t ask how Dorie had gotten the number. Don’t ask-don’t tell was the cornerstore of their working relationship. She suspected Dorie used the Beacon-Light’s commercial side to run credit checks on people, which was definitely illegal. Besides, even if Dorie’s methods were within the law, Tess wasn’t sure she wanted to know all her secrets. She liked Dorie’s magic act aura.

“Finding this girl was actually much simpler than most of the stuff you bring my way,” Dorie said. “But then, she’s only nineteen. It’s hard to leave too many electronic footprints at that age. How many addresses can you have?”

Something in Dorie’s voice tripped Tess’s paranoia switch. “Have you ever run my vitals through your programs?”

“You’re not much of a challenge. Baltimore is full of people who know your business, and how to find you.”

“That’s not a no,” Tess pointed out.

“It’s not a yes, either.”

“What’s my middle name?”

Dorie struggled for a moment, torn between her natural inclination toward secrecy and wanting to show off.

“Esther,” she said. “But anyone could know that.”

“Last address?”

“One-oh-six West University Parkway.”

“Weight on my driver’s license?”

“A lie. A flat-out lie.”

What could Tess say? It was.

The next morning, her head clear, her voice still pleasingly husky, Tess took the train to Philadelphia. She had not called Devon Whittaker first. She almost never called first. No one wanted to hear a stranger’s voice on the phone. Strangers never brought you good news. And the phone was so easy to slam down, to avoid, to screen through an answering machine or Caller ID. Doors were bigger, harder to shut, and most had only a fisheye to give you a distorted view of the visitor on the other side. As long as Tess wasn’t holding a copy of The Watchtower, she was pretty sure she could gain entrance to anyone’s home.

Crow dropped her off at Baltimore’s Penn Station, embracing her as if they were to be parted for weeks, or even months. He was romantic, in the best sense of the word, and she was beginning to accept that his love for her was not a passing phase.

“Do good,” he told her. “Be safe.”

“It’s just Philadelphia. You know what Philadelphia is? It’s Baltimore, only bigger.”

“Call me as soon as you know if you found her. I feel as if I have a stake in this, too.” He kissed her again. They were drawing a small crowd.

She suspected he was inspired, in part, by the old-fashioned train station. It was small, with only six gates. But the ceilings soared to wonderfully wasteful heights, and high-back wooden benches lined the walls. Tess much preferred it to Washington’s Union Station, which had been turned into a mall, with glossy restaurants and movie theaters. Here, it was possible to imagine Ingrid Bergman slithering by in a trenchcoat, spies exchanging briefcases, lovers meeting surreptitiously.

The tiles on the tote board swirled and clacked, the “All aboard” sounded. Tess settled into a window seat on the east side of the train, because this provided the best views. She was the only person she knew who considered the trip scenic. But then, Tess had always been intrigued by the rear view of things, which she found truer, full of unexpected glimpses into people’s real lives. She was fascinated by what people did when they thought no one was watching. Not sex per se-she had no interest in spying on people in bed, unless someone was paying her to do it. Even then, she held her nose. No, she liked to watch people hanging laundry and scratching themselves, having desultory arguments with children and spouses. Everyone wore masks these days, and they seldom slipped. The extreme was the reality-based television shows, where people created meta versions of themselves by trying to act in a way they thought was natural.