I WAS ABOUT TO TURN AND GO when Cindy opened the door in her pink PJs, her curls rubber banded into a pom-pom on the top of her head. She was looking at me as if she'd just seen the dead.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Me? I'm fine, Lindsay. I live here, remember? What's wrong with you?"

"I would've called," I said, hugging my friend, using the moment to try to get a grip on myself. But clearly Cindy had scanned and memorized the shock on my face. And frankly she didn't look so good herself. "But I didn't know I was coming until I was here."

"Come in, and for God's sake, sit down," she said, staring at me anxiously as I made for the couch.

Cardboard cartons were stacked against the walls, and layers of Bubble Wrap wafted around my feet.

"What's happened, Lindsay? As Yuki would say, 'You look like you've been dragged through a duck's ass.' "

I managed a weak laugh. "That's about how I feel."

"What can I get you? Tea? Maybe something stronger."

"Tea would be great."

I fell back onto the sofa cushions, and a few minutes later, Cindy returned from the kitchen, pulled up a footstool to sit on, and handed me a mug. "Talk to me," she said.

No joke, Cindy was a perfect paradox: all pink ruffles and curls on the outside, never leaving home without lipstick and the perfect shoes, but inside that girlie-girl was a bulldog who would get a grip on your leg and hang on until you had no choice but to tell her what she wanted to know.

I suddenly felt idiotic. Just seeing Cindy changed my mood for the better, and I no longer wanted to open myself up and talk about Joe.

"I wanted to see your apartment."

"Give. Me. A. Break."

"You're relentless -"

"Blame it on my choice of career."

"And proud of it."

"Ab-solutely."

"Bitch." I found myself laughing.

"Go ahead. Get it off your chest," she said. "Give me your best shot."

"Calling you a bitch was my best shot."

"Okay, then. What gives, Linds?"

I covered my face with a throw pillow, shutting out the light, feeling myself tumbling down. I sighed. "I broke up with Joe."

Cindy grabbed the pillow away from my face.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Be nice, okay, Cindy? Or I'll throw up on your rug."

"Okay, okay, so why did you do that? Joe's smart. He's gorgeous. He loves you. You love him. What's wrong with you?"

I pulled my knees up and hugged them tight with my arms. Cindy sat down next to me on the couch. She put an arm around me.

I felt as if I were holding on to a skinny tree while being lashed by a tidal wave. I'd been crying so much lately. I thought I might be losing my mind.

"Take your time, honey. I'm here. The night is young. Sort of."

So I gave in, blurted out the story about my totally embarrassing trip to DC and how I felt about the whole mood-swinging affair with Joe. "It really, really hurts, Cindy. But I did the right thing."

"It's not just because you got your feelings hurt when he wasn't home and you saw that girl?"

"No. Hell no."

"Oh, God, Linds, I didn't mean to make you cry. Lie down here. Close your eyes."

Cindy pushed me gently onto my side, put a pillow under my head. A moment later, a blanket floated over me. The light went off, and I felt Cindy tuck me in.

"It's not over, Linds. Trust me. It's not over."

"You're wrong once in a while, you know," I muttered.

"Wanna bet?" Cindy kissed my cheek. And then I was swept along by whatever dream featured me in a starring role. I sunk into a deep hole of agonized sleep, waking only as sunlight streamed through Cindy's bare windows.

I forced myself to sit up, swung my legs off the couch, saw the note from Cindy on the coffee table saying she'd gone out for rolls and coffee.

Then the day hit me for real.

Jacobi and Macklin were having a staff meeting this morning at eight. Every cop on the Tyler-Ricci case would be there – except me.

I scribbled a note to Cindy, stuck my feet in my shoes, and raced out the door.

JACOBI ROLLED HIS EYES when I edged past him, slipped into a seat in the back of the squad room. Lieutenant Macklin gave me a short, glancing stare as he summarized the meeting so far. In the absence of any information regarding the whereabouts of Madison Tyler and Paola Ricci, we were assigned to interview registered sex offenders.

"Patrick Calvin," I read from our list as Conklin and I got into the squad car. "Convicted sex offender, recently released on probation after serving time for the sexual abuse of his own daughter. She was six when it happened."

Conklin started the car. "There's no understanding that kind of garbage. You know what? I don't want to understand it."

Calvin lived in a twenty-unit, U-shaped stucco apartment building at Palm and Euclid on the fringe of Jordan Park, about a mile and a half from where Madison Tyler lived and played. A blue Toyota Corolla registered to Calvin was parked on the street.

I smelled bacon cooking as we crossed the open patio area at the front entrance, climbed the outside stairs, knocked on Calvin's aggressively red-painted door.

The door opened, and a tousle-haired white male no more than five foot three stood in the doorway, wearing plaid pajamas and white socks.

He looked about fifteen years old, making me want to ask, "Is your father home?" But the faint gray shadow on his jowls and the prison tats on his knuckles gave Pat Calvin away as a former inmate of our prison system.

"Patrick Calvin?" I said, showing him my badge.

"What do you want?"

"I'm Sergeant Boxer. This is Inspector Conklin," I said. "We have a few questions. Mind if we come in?"

"Yes, I mind. What do you want?"

Conklin has an easy way about him, a trait I frankly envy. I'd seen him interrogate murdering psychos with a kind of sweetness, good cop to the max. He'd also taken care of that poor cat at the Alonzo murder scene.

"Sorry, Mr. Calvin," Conklin said now. "I know it's early on a Sunday morning, but a child is missing and we don't have a lot of time."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Get used to this, Mr. Calvin," I said. "You're on parole -"

"You want to search my house, is that it?" Calvin shouted. "This is a goddamned free country, isn't it? You don't have a warrant," Calvin spat. "You have shit."

"You're getting awful steamed up for an innocent man," Conklin said. "Makes me wonder, you know?"

I stood by as Conklin explained that we could call Calvin's parole officer, who would have no problem letting us in. "Or we could get a warrant," Conklin said. "Have a couple of cruisers come screaming up to the curb, show your neighbors what kind of guy you are."

"So… mind if we come in?" I asked.

Calvin countered my scowl with a dark look of his own. "I've got nothing to hide," he said.

And he stepped aside.