She snorted. “Someday this department will finally get a female officer, and then you’ll see it’s not that I’m so great, it’s that women are naturally smarter than men.”

“I never doubted that for a second. I have a hunch about the doctor, and I’m going to look into it. I’ll be back in touch ASAP.”

“Gotcha. I’ll call if one of the guys turns him up in the meantime.”

He said good-bye and rang off. He stood for a moment, the phone’s stubby antenna just touching his forehead, like a meditative finger. There wasn’t any reason to suspect that Debba Clow’s unexpected appearance at Clare’s house was connected to Allan Rouse’s equally unexpected disappearance. But he had been a cop, military and civilian, for a quarter century now, and he had learned to trust the little nudges that occasionally bubbled up from the bottom of his brain. He dialed Clare’s number again.

This time, her machine answered. He listened to her mechanically flattened voice advise him of her office and cell numbers, and when invited to leave a message, he said, “Clare, it’s Russ. Please pick up. I need to-”

“Hi, it’s me. What’s up?”

“Is Debba Clow still there?”

“Yes, and we’re having a pretty intense discussion, so I really can’t-”

“I’m not calling to chitchat, I promise. I’d like to speak to Debba.”

Clare’s voice was more guarded. “Why?”

“Just tell her I’d like to speak to her. Please.”

“Okay…”

He walked upstairs to his bedroom while he waited for someone to come back on the line. He pulled his jeans out of a pile of clothing on a chair. After a second’s thought, he also retrieved the uniform shirt he had worn earlier that day. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to put them on.

“She would rather not speak to you right now.” Clare was trying to sound neutral, professional, but he could hear the undercurrent of distress in her voice. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Can you tell me why she needed to talk to you so bad she couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

There was an exasperated burst of air. “You know I can’t disclose what I’m told in priestly confidence.”

“She’s not one of your congregation.”

“Russ, I’m not a priest just for card-carrying, pledging Episcopalians. I’m a priest for anybody who needs one. My obligations remain the same.”

He almost smiled. “I know.” The thought of telling her about Allan Rouse went through his mind. Followed by the thought of her telling Debba, and Debba splitting before he or anyone else had a chance to ask her what she knew about the doctor’s whereabouts. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I interrupted your conversation.”

“Russ.” Her voice was pitched halfway between exasperation and concern. Concern won out. “What’s going on? Can I help you?”

He did smile. “Not at the moment. But I’ll let you know. Later.”

“Okay.” She trailed off. “Later.”

He dropped the phone on his bed and shucked off his sweatshirt. He had been right. He was going to have to get dressed again after all.

When Russ rolled his pickup to a stop in front of Clare’s house, Debba Clow’s Toyota Camry was still parked in her drive. He got out, shrugging into his parka and tugging a wool cap over his head. The night sky was clear, with a full moon and winter-bright stars, and the temperature, which had risen a few degrees above freezing during the day’s sunshine, had plummeted back into the low teens.

There was barely enough space for him to edge between the cars and the icy snowbanks crowding the drive. The heavy, compacted snowbanks, tossed up over four months of shoveling the drive, were slipping forward, like glaciers riding on their own melting remains. Clare’s front door, sheltered by a graceful Dutch revival porch, was inaccessible to anyone without an industrial-strength snow-blower. He clumped up the back steps to her kitchen.

The door opened before he had the chance to knock.

“Chief Van Alstyne. What a surprise.” Clare stood blocking his way, one hand cocked on her hip. She didn’t look happy to see him.

“I’d like to speak to Debba Clow.”

“Have you got a warrant?”

“Do I need one? For Chrissakes, Clare, it’s colder than the monkey’s brass balls out here. Lemme in.”

He could see in her eyes the exact moment when she calculated it wasn’t worth it. “Come in, then,” she said with ill grace, stepping back from the door.

He kicked the ice off his boots and entered. He hadn’t been in this room in over a year. It was still a bland white box, straight from the lowest-grade aisle of kitchen fittings in HQ, but she had cluttered it into warmth with a braided rug and splashy seat cushions and a surprising number of glossy green houseplants that hadn’t been there a year ago.

He stuffed his hat into his pocket and hung his parka on her coatrack. “Where’s Debba?” he asked.

She pointed to the swinging doors that led to the living room. “What are you looking for, Russ? Why do you need to question her?”

“You’ve been talking with her for an hour or so. I figure you probably have a better idea than I do.”

She shook her head. “She hasn’t told me anything”-she paused to choose her words carefully-“of a criminal nature.”

“Good. I hope she doesn’t have anything of a criminal nature to tell me, either.” He pushed through the doors into the living room. This, at least, was exactly the same as it had been last winter. A few more books in the bookcases flanking the fireplace, a few more pillows on the overstuffed couch and chairs. A few more pictures standing on the wooden console and a few less bottles on the drinks table in front of the window. Where Debba Clow sat, perched on one of a pair of tiny caned chairs.

She looked at him warily, and nodded.

“Ms. Clow,” he said. “I have a few questions I need to ask you. Mind if we sit in front of the fireplace? I’m afraid I’d break one of those chairs if I tried to sit down on it.”

He matched his actions to his words, sinking into one of the armchairs, consciously relaxing himself into a friendly, unthreatening posture. He waited while she detached herself from her chair and walked reluctantly to the sofa. She sat as far away from him as she could.

“Nice fire,” he said to Clare, who stood behind the sofa table, her arms crossed over her chest. “Takes the edge off of this cold.” He turned to Debba Clow. “It must have been pretty urgent business for you to leave your kids at home and come see Reverend Fergusson this late.”

She glanced up at Clare.

“You can tell Chief Van Alstyne whatever you feel comfortable with,” Clare said. “I’ve already told you, I won’t talk to him about anything you’ve said to me.” Her glance flickered away from Debba, toward Russ. “However, it’s been my experience that he’s a fair-minded man. And a good listener.”

He dropped his eyes to his lap so he could concentrate on not smiling. When he had his cop face on again, he said, “How ’bout it, Debba? Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

She glanced up at Clare again, then at him. “Nothing. I’m just… going though a hard time emotionally with this… with everything going on right now. I wanted to try to sort things out with Clare’s help, instead of dumping on my mother.”

Time to play one of his cards. “How about seeing Dr. Rouse today? Was that hard, emotionally?”

Her eyes went wide, showing white like a spooked calf’s. For a moment, all she did was blink at him. He held her gaze. “He was the one who called me,” she said, her voice loud. “He wanted to see me, not the other way around. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go near him. I told him so.”

He half closed his eyes to shield his satisfaction. “So why did you agree to get together?”

She sat up, away from the sheltering corner of the couch. “Because he said he had some important information about the vaccinations. I asked him to just tell me over the phone, I did! He was the one who insisted he had to show me in person.”