"That's all he's got. Look, Brinkley seemed rational, and I said so. The jury's not going to take Brinkley's word that he was hearing voices."

"Yeah." Yuki shredded her paper napkin. "I wonder what Marcia Clark's best friend said to her just before the jury found O. J. Simpson 'not guilty.' 'Don't worry, Marcia. Nobody's going to care about that glove.' "

I sat back in my seat as Syd brought our burgers and piles of fries. "Hey," I said, "I saw Mickey on the steps of the courthouse, mobbed by reporters. Funny how much we loved his magic act with the press last summer. Now I think, You media hog."

Yuki didn't laugh.

"Yuki," I said, circling her wrist with my fingers, "you're coming off smart, on top of your case, and most of all you sound right."

"Okay, okay," she said, "I'm done whining. Thanks for your testimony. Thanks for your support."

"Do something for me, girlfriend."

"Hmmm?"

"Put some calories inside your body and have a little faith in yourself."

Yuki lifted her hamburger, then put it back down on the plate without biting into it. "You know what's going on with me, Linds? I made a mistake. In a case like this one, you don't make mistakes. Not even one. And for the first time, I really see that I could lose."

"MACKLIN JUST CALLED," Jacobi said the minute I returned to the squad room after lunch. Conklin and I walked Jacobi to his office, Jacobi saying, "A kid was snatched off the street in Los Angeles three hours ago. A little boy. Described as some kind of math genius."

I didn't even sit down.

I fired a flurry of questions at Jacobi: Had the child been abducted by someone in a black van? Was there any evidence at the scene? A tag number, a description – anything? Had the parents of the child been checked out? Had they heard from the kidnapper? In short, did this abduction resemble the kidnapping of Madison Tyler?

"Boxer, curb your enthusiasm, will ya?" Jacobi said, chuck-ing the remains of his cheeseburger into the trash can. "I'll give you everything I've got, every single detail."

"Well, make it snappy." I laughed. I sat down and leaned forward, putting my elbows on the desk as Jacobi filled us in.

"The parents were inside their house, and the kid was playing in the backyard," Jacobi told us. "Mother heard a squeal of brakes. She was on the phone, looked out the window onto the street, and saw a black van speeding around the corner. She didn't think too much about it. A couple of minutes later, she looked into the backyard, realized the boy was gone."

"The kid wandered out to the front yard?" Conklin asked.

"Possibly. The gate was open. Kid could've opened it – he's smart, right? – or maybe someone else did it. The LAPD put out an Amber Alert, but the father, not taking any chances, called the Feds."

Jacobi pushed a fax toward me, headed with the logo of the FBI. The second page was a photocopy of an adorable little boy – big round eyes, dimples, looked to be a perfect little sweetheart.

"The boy's name is Charles Ray, age six. The LAPD did an analysis of the tire marks outside the Ray house, and they match the type that comes standard with a late-model Honda minivan. That said, there's no proof that the vehicle was involved in the abduction. They haven't pulled any useful prints off the gate."

"Did the child have a nanny?" I asked.

"Yes. Briana Kearny. She was at the dentist when Charlie was taken. Her alibi checks out. It's a long shot, Boxer. Maybe the same party who kidnapped Madison Tyler is involved, maybe not."

"We should interview the parents," Conklin said.

"Like I could stop the two of you if I wanted to," said Jacobi. "Pair of freakin' attack dogs."

Jacobi pushed two more sheets of paper over to our side of his desk – electronic airline tickets in my name and Conklin's, San Francisco to LAX, round-trip.

"Listen," Jacobi said, "until we learn otherwise, we're treating this boy's abduction as part of the Tyler case, so report back to Lieutenant Macklin. And keep me in the loop." Jacobi looked at his watch. "It's two fifteen. You could be in LA by four or so."

SQUAD CARS WERE PARKED on the one-lane street outside the Rays' wood-frame cottage. It was one of several dozen similar houses butting up against one another, lining both sides of the street.

Cops were talking on the sidewalk. They greeted us when we flashed our badges. "The mother's home," a uniform told us.

Eileen Ray came to the door. She was white, early thirties, five nine, looked to be about eight months pregnant and terribly, terribly vulnerable. Her dark hair was banded up in a ponytail, and her face was raw and red from crying.

I introduced Conklin and myself, and Mrs. Ray invited us inside, where an FBI tech was wiring up the phone. "The police have been… wonderful, and we're so grateful," Mrs. Ray said, indicating a sofa and chair for us to sit on.

The living room was crammed with stenciled cabinets, baskets, birdhouses, and dried flowers, and folded-down cardboard boxes were stacked on the floor near the kitchen table. The pervasive fragrance of lavender added to the gift-shop effect of the Ray abode.

"We work at home," Mrs. Ray said, answering my unasked question. "EBay."

"Where is your husband now?" Conklin asked.

"Scotty and an FBI agent are driving around with Briana," she told us. "My husband is hoping to God that he might see Charlie wandering out there, lost.

"Charlie must be terrified!" Eileen Ray cried out. "Oh, my God, what he must be going through! Who would take him?" she asked, her voice breaking. "And why?"

Conklin and I had no answers, but we lobbed questions at Mrs. Ray – about her movements, her relationship with her husband, and why the gate to the yard was open.

And we asked if anyone – family, friend, or stranger – had shown excessive or inappropriate attention to Charlie.

Nothing she told us lit up the board.

Eileen Ray was twisting a handkerchief in her hands when Scott Ray came home with the FBI agent and the nanny, a baby-faced young woman who was still in her teens.

Conklin and I split up, Conklin interviewing Scott in the child's bedroom while I talked to Briana in the kitchen. Unlike the Westwood Registry's European imports, Briana Kearny was a second-generation American, a local girl who lived three blocks away and looked after Charlie on a per-hour basis.

In other words, Briana was a babysitter.

Briana cried deep, heart-wrenching sobs as I pressed her, asking about her friendships, about her boyfriend, and if anyone had questioned her about the Rays and their habits.

Conklin and I finally closed our notebooks and said our good-byes, leaving the homey little cottage right as the electric candles in the windows came on.

"That girl had nothing to do with the child being snatched," I said.

"I didn't get anything bad off the husband, either," my partner told me. "This feels like a 'pedophile lures the kid into a van' thing."

"Yeah. It's just too fricking easy to steal a child. Perv says, 'Want to see my puppy?' Kid toddles over. Perv drags the kid inside and takes off. No witness. No evidence. And now," I said, "the long wait for a phone call… that never comes."