“Yeah, that’s about right,” I said.

“Okay,” said Sam. “Can you give me any more than a name? D.O.B.?”

“April 15, 1975.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Not really. Born in Rochester. I think her parents left there when she was just a kid.”

“I’ll call you if I get anything.”

“Thanks, Sam. I owe you.”

“No shit,” she said. “If we had any journalistic ethics around here, I might be troubled by this.”

“One more thing,” I said. “The story about Sebastian and Reeves I’ve been working on?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s yours. I’ve got something that’ll finally break this story wide open. A list of payouts to various councilors.”

“What?”

“I can’t sit on this. I don’t know when I’m coming back. This story needs to be told ASAP. You should do it. I’ll hang on to this list, give it to you next time I see you, see if you can find a way to confirm the numbers.”

“Where’d you get this list?”

“I can fill you in later, okay? I’ve got to go.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I really appreciate this. I’ll nail this thing for you.”

“Right on,” I said and hung up.

Dad was back within the hour. He dragged in his toolbox, a table saw, some scraps of baseboarding he must have been keeping in his garage since God invented trees, and went upstairs. It wasn’t long before I heard him banging around.

I took Mom’s laptop, got it up and running, and started with the online phone directories. There weren’t all that many people with that name in the U.S.-about three dozen-and only five listings for an “M. Tattinger.” They were in Buffalo, Boise, Catalina, Pittsburgh, and Tampa.

I started dialing.

People answered at the Buffalo and Boise numbers. Not necessarily the actual people who had the phone listing, but the Buffalo Tattinger was a Mark, and the Boise Tattinger was a Miles.

I was looking for a Martin.

In both cases, I asked if they knew of a Martin Tattinger, who, with a woman named Thelma, had a daughter named Constance.

No, and no.

No one answered at the Catalina and Pittsburgh numbers, and the Tampa listing had been disconnected.

I figured I might be able to raise someone later in the day at the other numbers, once people were home from work. In the meantime, I tried to figure out what school Jan Richler and Constance Tattinger might have attended-they must not have gotten any further than kindergarten or first grade together. I studied a Google map of where the Richlers lived, found the names of nearby elementary schools and scribbled down their numbers.

As I began dialing, I realized it was August. The schools would be empty for a few more weeks. But I also knew, from friends who were teachers, that staff were often there in the month leading up to that first day, preparing.

At the first school, I reached a vice principal, but her school, she explained, didn’t even exist in the 1980s. It had been built in the mid-’90s.

While I waited for someone to pick up at the next school, I tried to replay in my head the conversation I’d had with the Richlers when I was in their house. Gretchen had been talking about how devastated everyone had been by their daughter’s death, including her kindergarten teacher.

She’d mentioned a name. Stevenson? Something like that.

An older woman picked up. “Diane Johnson, secretary’s office.”

I told her, first, that I was relieved to find someone at the school, then launched into my story about looking for information about a Constance Tattinger who had attended the school-briefly-back in 1980.

“Who’s calling?” she asked.

I was reluctant to say, considering that even CNN had carried an item on Jan’s disappearance, and my face and name had been plastered across the tube. But my name and number were very likely displayed on Diane Johnson’s phone.

“David Harwood,” I said. “I didn’t go to school in the Rochester area, but I’m trying to track down Constance, or her parents, because of a family emergency.” I put a special emphasis on the last two words, hoping they sounded grave enough that Diane Johnson would help me, and not ask a lot of questions.

She said, “Well, that was the year before I started here, so I can’t honestly say I remember the name.”

“I think she only attended kindergarten there,” I said. “Her parents took her out of school and moved away. She was friends with a girl named Jan Richler.”

“Oh now, hang on,” said Diane Johnson. “That name I know. We have a plaque dedicated to her memory in the hall right outside the office. She was the child who got run over by a car.”

“That’s right.”

“It was her father driving. I think he was backing out of the driveway.”

“Yes, you’ve got it.”

“What a terrible thing. Even though I wasn’t here yet, I remember a bit about that. There was talk that she got pushed into the car’s path.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s the girl I’m calling about. Constance Tattinger.”

“Oh my, that was so long ago.”

“As you can guess, it can be hard to find someone when you lose track of someone that far back.”

“I don’t really know how I can help you.”

“Would you have any school records? That might have any information about Constance? Where she might have moved to?”

A bell rang in the background for several seconds. When it finished, Diane Johnson said, “They’re just trying them out today.” Then, “We don’t have records that old here. They might be with the central office, but I’m not sure they’d release them to you.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Do you remember her teacher’s name?”

I struggled. “I want to say Stevenson.”

“Oh. Could it have been Stephens? With a P-H?”

“That’s possible.”

“Tina Stephens was the kindergarten teacher here when I arrived. She was here for a couple of years and then transferred to another school.”

“Do you have the name of that school?”

“I don’t remember offhand, but there’s a good chance she’s taught in half a dozen places since then. Teachers move around a lot.”

“Maybe if I called your central office.”

“I can tell you this. She got married. Let me think… she met the nicest man. He worked for Kodak, I think. But then, who hasn’t at some time or other?”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Hang on a minute, there’s someone else in the office here who might know.” I heard her put down the receiver. I clung to the phone, kept it pressed to my year, while Dad hammered and sawed upstairs.

Diane Johnson got back on and said, “Pirelli.” She spelled it for me. “Like the tires? I never heard of tires called that. The only kind of tires I’ve ever heard of are Goodyear, but that’s what they said it’s like. Frank Pirelli.”

I wrote it down. “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

I quickly found a listing for an “F. Pirelli” in Rochester and dialed. The phone rang three times before it went to message: “Hi. You’ve reached the voicemail of Frank and Tina Pirelli. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message.”

I didn’t leave one. I was starting to feel like I was spinning my wheels.

The day dragged on.

At one point, Dad said he needed something to eat, so he went out and bought us a couple of submarine sandwiches stuffed with meatballs and provolone. We took a break and ate them sitting at the kitchen table.

I said, “Thanks.”

“No big deal,” Dad said. “Just a couple of sandwiches.”

“I’m not talking about the sandwiches.”

Dad looked embarrassed and opened the fridge to see whether there was any more beer.

Late afternoon, not long after I’d tried the Catalina listing a second time with no luck, the phone rang. Mom said, “Ethan wants to talk to you.” Some receiver fumbling, then, “Dad?”

“Hey, sport, how’s it going?”

“I wanna come home.”

“Soon,” I said.

“Nana says I have to stay here all day.”

“That’s right.”