If the Spannings had been more active socially, Sperry’s friends might have noticed that he resembled the heiress’s husband. As Arthur Sperry, head of a middle-class family, he had many friends and admirers. All admitted that they knew little of his history or work, but all described him as charming and helpful, an excellent listener who was loyal to his friends. He was active in his local parish.

To the great frustration of the DeMonts, no criminal charges were filed against Spanning; their lawsuit to prevent him from inheriting Gwendolyn’s estate was also unsuccessful.

What happened with the bigamous marriage to my aunt was typical of cases where there is no clear attempt to defraud the second spouse. Although the marriage to Briana was invalid, it was apparent that Arthur didn’t marry Briana for financial gain, so no criminal charges were filed against him. She was given custody of their son, and refused Spanning’s offer of child support.

I made a quick search of the remaining boxes from the apartment; there were some photos of Travis that might come in handy, but not much else.

The dogs suddenly scrambled to their feet; I heard Frank’s car pulling into the driveway. I began to put the papers away. I was putting the stack of bills into one of the desk boxes when something caught my eye. It was a puce-colored flyer, announcing that Cosmo the Storyteller would be appearing in a free program for children at the Crescent City Public Library on the second of January at one o’clock.

Crescent City. The first library on the phone bill. And one so far north of San Pedro, Briana would have no reason to check a book out of it, let alone attend a children’s program. Cosmo the Storyteller.

Frank called a greeting from the front door. I set the boxes and papers aside and hurried to give him a proper welcome home. I was patient, which is not the first attribute anyone will mention in my eulogy. I listened to him talk about his day, let him vent some steam about cases that would suffer while he was away, even waited until he had changed clothes and was starting to pack for Idaho before I told him that I thought I had figured out how to find Travis.

We rode to LAX with Pete and Rachel early the next morning; the flight to Boise from Los Angeles International had been cheaper than any out of Las Piernas, but involved ten times the headaches. The department doesn’t have to justify headaches, only dollars.

While we watched brake lights on the San Diego Freeway, I repeated to Rachel what I had told Frank the night before.

“I don’t get it,” Pete said, listening in on our conversation. “How can you be sure Travis is this storyteller?”

“I can’t,” I said.

He snorted. “So this is just a hunch? Woman’s intuition?”

Don’t be such a pain in the ass! I wanted to shout, watching Rachel scowl at him. “Just leave Pete up there in Idaho-okay, Frank?” she said.

Oh, God.

Frank, who was driving, glanced into the rearview mirror to look at Pete, then shook his head. “Even the governor couldn’t pardon me for doing something like that.”

“It was more than a hunch,” I said. “And I’m not saying he’s the storyteller-just that this storyteller probably knows where to find him. Briana made calls after Travis’s father died. Probably trying to find Travis.”

“An assumption,” Pete pointed out.

“Yes, I’ll admit that.”

“A logical one, Pete,” Frank said. “This woman was such a loner, she didn’t even have an address book. She was dead for some time before anyone noticed she was missing. She didn’t have much money-seemed to be barely getting by. But when the father of her son died, she spent over sixty dollars calling public libraries. I doubt she was trying to hunt down a book.”

Pete shrugged. “Okay. Go on.”

“The calls were to libraries up and down the state,” I said, “but they started with Crescent City-which is not far from the Oregon border. Crescent City is the same place the flyer comes from. Briana didn’t have a car, but even if she did, I doubt she would have driven seven or eight hundred miles to see a storyteller. So why would she have a flyer from a distant library for a children’s event?”

“You call this library yet?” Pete asked.

“Pete,” Rachel said with exasperation, “we left the house at six o’clock in the morning. You think the average public library was open for business by then?”

He shrugged, and took out a stick of cinnamon gum. The only time I ever see Pete chewing gum is before he gets on a plane.

“Ha qualcosa contro il mal d’aria?” Rachel asked in a low voice.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve got the pills. But it isn’t really air sickness that bothers me, you know?”

From that point on, there was a concerted effort to distract him from his fear of flying.

It was probably a good strategy where Frank and I were concerned as well. Distracting Pete kept our thoughts away from the last time Frank had gone to interview a witness. That time, he ended up a hostage. This trip was coming too soon after that ordeal. Neither of us had been able to sleep well-his nightmare had awakened both of us at about three in the morning. Knowing the alarm would be going off in a couple of hours, we lay there in a too-tired-and-too-wired state, worried minds continually snatching our weary bodies back from the brink of sleep.

At the airport we behaved in a perfectly respectable fashion, focusing our efforts on having a pleasant conversation until the flight was called. Frank gave me a brief hug, a kiss and a smile, then said, “I’ll call you tonight,” in the same way anybody else might have said it to a spouse. Said it as if he were going to Idaho to talk someone into buying a copier rather than to convince some weasel-faced, scared-ass, hiding-out known associate of a criminal to admit under oath that he had seen said associate kill a man in cold blood.

I understood, took my cues and ignored the knot in my stomach. It would be an ordinary day with an ordinary good-bye, and no one would question anyone’s ability to face it, no one would say aloud that there were damned good reasons for nightmares that woke everybody up, that there was no shame in it, that it was too soon, too soon-because that would be akin to saying the aftermath of his captivity still had legs to run on. Which it did. Trauma runs the marathon, not the fifty-yard dash.

I thought he might go all the way down the jetway bantering with Pete, might get on the plane without glancing back, so I relaxed my guard and failed to have the correct devil-may-care expression on my face when he looked over his shoulder. But he wasn’t wearing a smile either, not until I tried to come up with one. I hoped mine didn’t look as forced as his did, and raised my hand to wave-or beckon him back, I’m not certain-but he didn’t see the gesture, because Pete said something to him just then. They took another step and were past the point where Rachel and I could watch them.

Rachel didn’t object when, instead of leaving the nearly empty waiting area, I moved to the wall of tall windows, squinting in the bright morning sun, watching until the plane was pushed back from the gate. There was nothing to be done now, I told myself. Once again, being on my best behavior had proved damned unsatisfying.

I turned in my story on campaign contributions and left the office. I had a council meeting to cover that night, so I took a few hours off in the early afternoon. I went home and spent some time with Cody and the dogs, then stretched the phone out onto the back patio. It was a warm day, bright and breezy. Frank’s garden lay before me, the dogs plopped down at my feet, and Cody settled on my lap and purred his approval of the arrangements.

I opened my notebook and resumed my search for my cousin.