Stride shifted his gaze to the windows fronting the Stoner house and saw a man inside carrying a drink into a back room. The crystal glass caught light from the chandelier and glinted like a mirror sending a message.

"So what do we have here, Mags?" Stride asked.

"Nothing you don't already know," she said. "Rachel Deese, seventeen years old, senior at Duluth High School. The jock, Kevin, says he saw her Friday night around ten o'clock driving away from Canal Park. Since then, nothing. Her car is parked in the driveway, but so far no one saw her arrive home on Friday or leave here on foot or with anyone else. That was two days ago."

Stride nodded. He took a moment to study Rachel's Volkswagen, which was surrounded by officers doing an exhaustive search of the vehicle. It was flashy red, cute, and clean, not the kind of car a teenage girl would willingly leave behind.

"Check for bank ATMs on the route from Canal Park to the house," Stride suggested. "Maybe we'll get lucky with a security tape from Friday night. Let's see if she really was heading home, like Kevin says."

"Already being done," Maggie informed him. She arched her eyebrow as if to say, Am I stupid?

Stride smiled. Maggie was the smartest cop he had ever worked with. "Graeme's her stepfather, right? What about her natural father? I think his name was Tommy."

"Nice try. I thought about that, too. But he's deceased."

"Anyone else missing? Like a boyfriend?"

"No reports. If she ran off, she either did it alone or with someone from out of town."

"People who run off need transportation," Stride said.

"We're checking the airport and bus station here and in Superior."

"Neighbors see anything?"

Maggie shook her head. "So far, nothing of interest. We're still doing interviews."

"Any complaints involving this girl?" Stride asked. "Stalking, rape, anything like that?"

"Guppo ran the database," Maggie said. "Nothing involving Rachel. Go back a few years, and you'll find Emily and her first husband-Rachel's father-in a few scrapes."

"Like what?"

"Father was often drunk and disorderly. One domestic abuse report, never formally charged. He hit his wife, not his daughter."

Stride frowned. "Do we know if Rachel and Kerry knew each other?"

"Rachel's name never came up last year," Maggie said. "But we'll ask around."

Stride nodded blankly. He put himself in Rachel's shoes again, re-creating her last night, tracing what may or may not have happened along the way. He assumed she made it home on Friday. She was in her car, and now her car was at home. Then what? Did she go inside the house? Was someone waiting for her? Did she go out again? It was sleeting and cold-she would have taken the car. Unless someone picked her up.

"Time to talk to the Stoners," Stride said. Then he paused. He was used to relying on Maggie's instinct. "What's your gut tell you, Mags? Runaway or something worse?"

Maggie didn't hesitate. "With her car still parked outside the house? Sounds like something worse. Sounds like Kerry."

Stride sighed. "Yeah."

Stride rang the doorbell. He saw a shadow through the frosted glass and heard the click of footsteps. The carved oak door swung inward. A man about Stride's height, smartly attired in a V-neck cashmere sweater, a white dress shirt with button-down collar, and crisply pleated tan slacks, extended his hand. In his other hand, he swirled the ice in his drink.

"You're Lieutenant Stride, is that right?" the man greeted him. His handshake was solid, and he had the easy smile of someone accustomed to country club cocktail parties. "Kyle told us you would be arriving shortly. I'm Graeme Stoner."

Stride nodded in acknowledgment. He got the message. Kyle was Kyle Kinnick, Duluth's deputy chief of police and Stride's boss. Graeme wanted to make sure Stride understood the juice he had at city hall.

He noted the discreet wrinkles creeping along Graeme's forehead and around the corners of his mouth and calculated that the man was about his own age. His chocolate brown hair was trimmed short, an executive's haircut. He wore silver glasses with tiny circular rims. His face was broad and soft, without noticeable cheekbones or a protruding chin. Even late at night, Graeme's beard line was almost invisible, which caused Stride involuntarily to rub his palm against his own scratchy stubble.

Graeme put a hand on Stride's shoulder. "Let me show you to the den," he said. "I'm afraid the living room felt rather exposed with the crowd outside."

Stride followed Graeme into the living room, furnished with delicate sofas and antiques, all in brilliantly varnished walnut. Graeme pointed at a mirror-backed china cabinet, stocked with crystal. "May I offer you a drink? It needn't be alcoholic."

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

Graeme paused in the middle of the room and appeared momentarily uncomfortable. "I must apologize for not raising concerns with you earlier, Lieutenant. When Kevin stopped by on Saturday night, I really wasn't troubled at all that Rachel hadn't come home. Kevin gets very excitable about Rachel, you see, and I thought he was overreacting."

"But you don't think so now," Stride said.

"It's been two days. And my wife rightly reminded me about that other girl who disappeared."

Graeme led the way through the main dining room and then through French doors into a sprawling den, warmed by a gray marble fireplace on the east wall. The white carpet was lush and spotless. The north wall was framed entirely in full-length windows, except for two stained glass doors that led to the darkness of a back garden. A series of brass lanterns, mounted at intervals on each of the other walls, lit the room with a pale glow.

To the right of the garden wall, one on either side of the fireplace, sat two huge matching recliners. Lost in one was a woman holding a bell-shaped glass of brandy.

The woman nodded at Stride from the chair without getting up. "I'm Emily Stoner, Rachel's mother," she said softly.

Emily was a few years younger than Graeme, but not a trophy bride. Stride could see she had once been very pretty, although she hadn't aged gracefully. Her blue eyes were tired, overly made up, with shadows underneath. Her dark hair was short and straight and hadn't been washed. She wore a plain navy sweater and blue jeans.

Seated near Emily on the hearth, holding the woman's left hand, was a man in his late forties, with graying hair combed to protect a thinning hairline. The man got up and shook Stride's hand, leaving behind a clammy residue that Stride tried unobtrusively to rub away. "Hello, Lieutenant. My name is Dayton Tenby. I'm the minister at Emily's church. Emily asked me to be with them this evening."

Graeme Stoner took a chair near the garden windows. "I'm sure you have many questions for us. We'll tell you everything we know, which I'm afraid isn't much. Incidentally, let's get the unpleasantness out of the way up front. My wife and I had absolutely no involvement in Rachel's disappearance, but we understand that you have to clear the family in these kinds of situations. Naturally, we'll cooperate in every way we can, including taking polygraphs, if necessary."

Stride was surprised. Usually this was the ugly part-letting the family know that they were suspects. "To be candid, yes, we do like to run polygraph tests on the family."

Emily looked at Graeme nervously. "I don't know."

"It's routine, dear," Graeme said. "Lieutenant, just send your questions to Archibald Gale. He'll be representing our interests in this matter. We can do it tomorrow if you'd like."

Stride grimaced. So much for cooperation. Archie Gale was the most feared criminal defense lawyer in northern Minnesota, and Stride had tangled with the suave old goat many times from the witness stand.