THE ELEVATOR IN KLASSEN'S PANTRY was a knotty-pine box about the size of a double-wide coffin. Conklin, Klassen, and I stepped inside, and I lifted my eyes to where the number board should have been, seeing only the numbers "one" and "four" – no stops in between.

The car opened on the top floor, a bright forty-by-fifty-foot space with furniture, lights, rolled-up carpets, and backdrops stacked against the walls. A high-tech computer station took up a back corner.

It was a wide-open space, but I scanned it anyway for signs of a child.

"It's all done digitally these days," Klassen was saying. He straddled a stool in front of a flat-screen monitor. "You shoot it, download it, and edit it all in one room."

He threw a switch, rolled his mouse, and clicked an icon labeled Moonlight Mambo.

"This is the rough cut I shot on Saturday," Klassen told us. "It's my time-dated alibi – not that I need one. I started shooting at seven, and we worked the whole day."

Latin music came through the computer's speakers, then images jumped onto the screen. A young dark-haired woman wearing something black and scanty lit candles in one of the now-disassembled bedroom sets.

The camera panned the room, stopping at the bed – where Klassen fondled himself and uttered cornball come-ons as the woman did a seductive striptease.

"Ah, jeez," I muttered.

Conklin stepped between me and the computer monitor.

"I'll take a copy of that," he said.

"My pleasure." Klassen slipped a CD out of the drawer, put it in a red plastic case, and handed it to Conklin.

"You have any pictures or films of children on this computer?"

"Hell, no. I'm not into kiddie porn," Klassen huffed. "Besides being in violation of my deal, it's not my thing."

"Yeah, that's terrific," Conklin said smoothly. "So now I'd like to take a quick search through your computer files while the sergeant walks through your house."

"Looks like a neat place, Mr. Klassen," I said. "I love what you've done with it."

"What if I say it's not okay?"

"We'll take you in for questioning while we get a warrant," Conklin told him. "Then we'll impound your computer and search your house with dogs."

"The stairs are that way."

I left Conklin and Klassen at the computer console and strolled downstairs, poking my head into every room, opening doors, checking closets, looking and listening, hoping with all my heart to find a little girl.

Mr. Wu was changing the sheets in a second-floor bedroom when I showed him my badge and the picture of Madison Tyler.

"Have you seen this little girl?" I asked him.

He shook his head vigorously – no. "No children here. Mr. Klassen not like children. No children here!"

Ten minutes later, I was taking deep breaths of cold, clean air on the front steps when Conklin joined me, closing the heavy oaken door behind him.

"Well, that was fun," I said.

"His alibi is going to check out," said Conklin, folding a list of names and numbers into his notebook.

"Yeah, I know it will. Rich, you think that guy is straight?"

"I think he'll twitch for anything that moves."

Klassen was in his driveway when Conklin and I got into our squad car. He lifted a hand, gave us another cheese-eating smile, said, "Buh-bye."

He was whistling to himself, buffing the silver haunch of his Jaguar, when our humble Ford shot away from the curb.

CONKLIN AND I SAT ACROSS from each other in the squad room. Beside my phone was a pile of unreturned messages from various tipsters who'd reported seeing Madison Tyler everywhere – from Ghirardelli Square to Osaka, Japan.

Dr. Germaniuk's autopsy report of Paola Ricci was open in front of me. Bottom line – cause of death: gunshot to the head. Manner of death: homicide.

Dr. G. had stuck a Post-it note to his report. I read it out loud to my partner.

Sergeant Boxer,

Clothing went to crime lab. I did a sexual-assault kit, just to say I've been there, but don't count on it coming back with anything positive due to total submersion, etc. Bullet was through and through. No projectile recovered.

Regards, H. G.

"Dead girl. Dead end," Conklin said, running his hands through his hair. "The kidnappers have no problem with murder. And that's all we know."

"So what are we missing? We have a half-baked sighting from a witness who gave us nondescriptions of the perps and the car. We have no plate number, no physical evidence from the scene – no cigarette butts, no chewing gum, no shell casings, no tread marks. And no freaking ransom note."

Conklin leaned back in his chair, said to the ceiling, "The perps acted like muscle, not like sexual predators. Shooting Paola within a minute of capturing her? What's that?"

"It's like the shooter was itchy. High on crack. Like the job was subbed out to gangbangers. Or Paola was excess baggage, so they offed her. Or she put up a fight and someone panicked," I said. "But you know, Richie, you're right. Totally right."

His chair creaked as he returned it to an upright position.

"We have to turn this investigation on its head. Work on solving Paola Ricci," I said, planting my hand palm down on the autopsy report. "Even dead, she could lead us to Madison."

Conklin was putting in a call to the Italian Consulate when Brenda swiveled her chair toward me. She covered the mouthpiece of her phone with her hand.

"Lindsay, you've got a caller on line four, won't identify himself. Sounds… scary. I asked for a trace."

I nodded, my heartbeat ticking up a notch. I stabbed the button on the phone console.

"This is Sergeant Boxer."

"I'm only going to say this once," said the digitally altered voice that sounded like a frog talking through Bubble Wrap. I signaled to Conklin to pick up on my line.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"Never mind," said the voice. "Madison Tyler is fine."

"How do you know?"

"Say something, Maddy."

Another voice came over the line, breathy, young, broken. "Mommy? Mommy?"

"Madison?" I said into the phone.

The frog voice was back.

"Tell her parents they made a big mistake calling the police. Call off the dogs," said the caller, "or we'll hurt Madison. Permanently. If you back off, she'll stay alive and well, but either way, the Tylers will never see their daughter again."

And then the phone went dead.

"Hello? Hello?"

I jiggled the hook until I got a dial tone, then I slammed the phone down.

"Brenda, get the Call Center."

"What was that? 'They made a big mistake calling the police?" Conklin shouted. "Lindsay, did that little girl sound like Madison?"

"Jesus Christ, I couldn't tell. I don't know."

"What the hell?" Conklin said, hurling a phone book against the wall.

I felt dizzy, physically sick.

Was Madison really fine?

What did it mean that her parents shouldn't have called the police? Had there been a ransom demand or a phone call that we didn't know about?

Everyone in the squad room was looking at me, and Jacobi was standing behind me, literally breathing down my neck, when the radio room called back with the result of the phone trace.

The caller had used a no-name cell phone, and the location couldn't be traced.

"The voice was altered," I told Jacobi. "I'll send the tape to the lab."

"Before you do that, get the parents to listen to it. Maybe we can get a positive ID on the child's voice."

"Could still be a sicko getting his rocks off," Conklin said as Jacobi walked away.

"I hope that's what it is. Because we're not 'calling off the dogs.' Not even close."