“I think they’re stealing identities. Names, dates, Social Security numbers…” He pointed to where a long string of numbers trailed after a cluster of letters. “I bet these are credit card numbers. Maybe even passports.”

“But those aren’t names.”

“It’s been encoded. With what looks like a cheap program. Maybe some freeware they downloaded off the Net. A good decryption program will break this in fifteen seconds.” He looked up at the chief. “I’m just guessing, based on what we’ve found so far. But I’d lay money I’m right.”

The chief nodded, his eyes alight. “It makes sense. The Keane woman hires out as a pet sitter. While she’s in the house, either she or her boyfriend goes through the old credit card bills, the tax returns-”

“She could take things like birth and marriage certificates, make copies, and then put ’em back.”

“The vacationing pet owners come home, everything’s in order, nothing missing, Fido and Precious fat and happy-Keane takes damn good care of those animals, I’ll bet.” He straightened. “It fits perfectly.” He glanced around the house. “The neighbors said she’s lived here two or three years. If she was pulling this scam off all that time, I think she’d be living a little higher on the hog, don’t you?”

Mark nodded.

“My guess is, the job started out as legit. Then her boyfriend arrives, after a year or two of her living alone. What does that suggest to you?”

“He was doing time.”

“Uh-huh. I bet he’s got a record for fraud as long as my arm.” He stalked to the window and glared out at the road. “When the hell is that crime scene technician getting here? The sooner we lift his fingerprints, the sooner we get his name off the d-base.”

As if in response to the chief’s complaint, an MKPD squad car crested the ridge, followed by an unmarked and the NYSP mobile crime lab. Noble Ent-whistle, in the cruiser, pulled ahead, letting the unmarked and the CS van squeeze into the last of the driveway. Noble parked his car opposite, lights on in warning.

Emiley Jensen and Lyle MacAuley emerged from the unmarked. It was a toss-up which of them looked less happy. The investigator’s teeth were gritted, as if she had torn off a hunk of nasty and now was going to have to give it a good chew. The deputy chief’s chin was jutting out and locked in place, as if he had something so enormous lodged in his craw he had to keep his jaws clamped to prevent it spilling out.

The chief vanished through the front door. Mark scooted the chair over to work on the next computer in line. He could hear the chief limp across the porch floor, the squeak of springs as he opened the door.

“Chief Van Alstyne!” Investigator Jensen’s voice cut through wall and glass like a blowtorch through butter. “You’re under arrest! Officer Entwhistle, cuff him.”

Russ ignored the woman crunching up the walk toward him. Instead, he focused on the state police technician, who was pulling equipment out of the rear of the van. “Hey! Sergeant Morin! You got a computer uplink in there?”

“Sure,” Morin shouted back. “Can’t guarantee it’ll pick up a signal out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Did you hear me?” Jensen demanded. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”

Russ glanced at her. “Don’t rush the gate, Investigator. There’s no way you’ve gotten Ryswick to sign off on a warrant this soon.” He turned to Morin again. “I need you to run some fingerprints for me right away. The perp who stole my car’s just moved up into the prime suspect slot for our homicide.” He could say “our homicide.” It put a welcome distance between his heart and his brain.

“You’re the prime suspect in the murder of Linda Van Alstyne,” Jensen said. She barreled through the porch door, followed by Lyle, who lifted one bushy eyebrow and tilted his head in query. What’s going on?

Russ looked away. “Come on into the living room,” he said to Jensen. “I’ll fill you in on what Mark and I have found out.”

“Resisting arrest,” Jensen said.

“I’m not resisting anything.” He stood out of the way so Noble, holding up the other end of Sergeant Morin’s box of tricks, could back through the door. “Just as soon as Noble here comes at me with his cuffs, I’ll surrender gracefully.”

Noble shot him a worried look.

“You want fingerprints?” Morin asked. “Best place is usually the bathroom.”

“Upstairs.” Russ caught at Morin’s parka sleeve before the technician could turn. “In the second bedroom back, you’ll see a dresser on the other side of the bed. There are two automatics and a K-Bar knife in the bottom drawer.”

If they hadn’t been paying attention to him before, they were now. “Let me bring you up to date,” he said to the room, as Morin clomped up the stairs. He outlined Quinn Tracey’s statement about the car and how Lyle had run the plates for him. Jensen shot MacAuley a dirty look but didn’t interrupt as Russ described what he was now thinking of as the chain of crime: his breaking and entering followed by assault and grand theft auto. He conveyed the information he had gotten from the McAlistairs and told how he had uncovered the weapons. By the time Sergeant Morin thudded back down the stairs with his fingerprints and disappeared into his van, Mark was explaining his identity theft theory. Then he and Russ pieced together the possible events leading up to Linda’s murder.

Noble looked impressed. Lyle, the rat bastard, was nodding.

“Your wife hadn’t told anyone she was planning to be away?” Jensen asked.

“No, but that-”

“Do you have any evidence she hired this Keane woman? A check, maybe, or a record of a phone call?”

“We’ll have to look at the phone records and the bank statements again, now we know what to look at.”

“So you’re basing the entire connection between the pet sitter and the victim on the fact that your wife got a cat?”

“Quinn Tracey positively ID’d Keane’s Civic!” He expected her to treat him as a suspect. He didn’t expect her to blow off credible evidence pointing to another. He took a breath.

“A minor whom you questioned without the permission or presence of his parents.”

“I’m sure he’ll be willing to testify again. On the record.”

“I’m sure he would be. If you want him to.”

Now he really was mad. “What the hell are you implying? That I’m some sort of small-town Machiavelli who can co-opt anyone I come in contact with?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating outright that this investigation has been tainted from the beginning. Your men left the goddam kitchen door open for hours, dropping the temperature and hopelessly muddling the time of death. Despite the fact that you were separated from your wife and have no alibi for the hours during which she might have been killed, you’ve refused to submit to questioning.”

“I have not-”

“You steered the investigation toward a mysterious ‘released felon’ ”-she air-quoted with her fingers-“who killed your wife out of spite. When I showed up asking questions, you disappeared. Now you pop up again with a new theory, supported by a conveniently absent pair of scam artists who-surprise, surprise!-have a knife identical to the murder weapon in their underwear drawer.”

Rage rendered him nearly inarticulate. “Are you saying I tossed a throw-down? You saying I framed this perp?”

She looked at Mark. “Officer Durkee, were you with Chief Van Alstyne at all times when he was upstairs?”

“Uh… mostly.”

“At all times, Officer Durkee.”

Mark stared at the floor miserably. “No, ma’am.”

“Did anyone witness this alleged assault?”

Russ broke in. “You can’t deny that. The bastard rammed right into Ethan Stoner’s car trying to get away.”

She stared at him, her eyes narrow. “For all I know, this unknown man fled the house after you threatened him. You have your service weapon, don’t you?”