I’m amazed, considering how lovely Rita had been treating me. As if firmly convinced of my guilt, and repulsed by my very existence. Makes me think that Arnie Dexel has steered me right, finding a defense attorney who can “explain the situation” and get the cops—or at least one cop—to cooperate. I start to babble something to that effect and Ms. Savalo cuts me off.

“Get down in the seat. Doubt any of these jackals know who I am yet, but you never can tell.”

I scrunch down, aware of the musty interior of the Honda, the coffee-stained upholstery. Never do see the TV vans congregated around the front of the station because Ms. Savalo has gotten directions that take her through an adjacent parking lot, and then onto a one-way street, avoiding the main access road altogether. A few minutes later she gives the all clear and I sit up, somewhat tentatively.

We’re on the street, in light traffic, and no one is paying us the least attention.

“If you’d wanted to speak to the press, I’d have helped you set it up, advised you on what not to say,” she says conversationally. “Then I would have arranged to get you other representation. Somebody you’ve seen on TV. Some glamour-puss like Roy Black or maybe even Alan Dershowitz. Both of them are terrific, by the way. It’s just not my scene.”

“Nor mine,” I confess, my voice shaky.

“Good, we’re on the same page. Lay low for a few days, they’ll be on to the next story.”

“You really think so?”

She nods. “It’s a game, Mrs. Bickford. An understanding between the hunter and the quarry. Once they get the message that we’re not playing the game, seeking the publicity to advance my career or yours, they’ll find another, more cooperative victim.”

We’ve merged onto a road that runs parallel to the highway, not far from the Bridgeport line. At the traffic circle Ms. Savalo checks the rearview mirror, appears satisfied, and then pulls in to an aging motel complex. She avoids the front office, which faces the traffic circle, and goes directly around to the rear parking lot, out of sight from the road or the traffic circle.

“Not exactly the Waldorf,” she says, shutting off the engine, “but it will have to do.”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“Good. Because you’ll need to save your money so you can afford my fee.”

We haven’t discussed that yet, nothing about cost or fees, but I know enough about what lawyers charge to assume her retainer will be enormous. I start to quiz her on the subject, thinking she wants to get into it now, and once again she cuts me off.

“Let’s get you out of sight first,” she says, grabbing a small suitcase from the trunk of the little Honda.

Given what she’s accomplished so far, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with her. Walking more quickly than I would have been able to on heels that high, she leads me up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Produces a tagged motel key from her bag and quickly opens the door.

“Here we are, Mrs. Bickford. Your home away from home.”

Standard American motel, of the era Edward Hopper made famous in his melancholy paintings. Therefore dated, if not timeless. Sealed window with the curtains drawn, paneled walls, a queen-size bed that looks a little splayed. Formica-laminated bureau, table and chairs, sink area in the far corner, a poorly vented, windowless shower stall. Battered TV on the bureau, looks like it might tune in Leave it To Beaver or I Dream of Jeannie, and I don’t mean on the TV Land channel.

Ms. Savalo tosses the suitcase on the bed, sets down her briefcase and rubs her hands together. “There,” she announces, “mission accomplished! I put a couple of outfits together,” she explains, indicating the suitcase. “Nothing fancy. Jeans, tops and underwear from Target. You won’t have access to your own clothes for a couple of days. Also an inexpensive handbag.”

I’m so grateful I feel like blubbering. But something tells me not to blubber in the presence of my new, very feisty attorney. So I sit in one of the chairs provided, and fold my hands and wait.

“Coffee? They’ve got one of those little machines.”

“Coffee would be great.”

She busies herself by the sink and soon produces two cups of lukewarm, coffee-flavored liquid. I gulp it greedily, and Ms. Savalo settles into the chair opposite.

“You’re wondering what happens next.”

I nod, clutching the plastic cup.

“We put together a formal agreement, you sign it. Right now you’re being billed at my usual five hundred per hour. That’s on the high side for hourly billing, but I’m worth it. If you’re indicted, God forbid, there will be an additional fee, somewhere in the range of fifty grand. That will cover me, a research attorney and whatever fees we pay to the investigators. Expenses extra. If it goes to trial, God really forbid, be ready to pony up another hundred K.” She pauses, waits for my reaction. “Are you shocked yet?”

“I’m beyond being shocked, Ms. Savalo. Finding the body of a friend in my freezer, that shocked me.”

“So you’re okay with the money?”

I shrug. “I don’t have that kind of cash. The five hundred thousand in that account was Tommy’s inheritance. It wiped me out. But there’s plenty of equity in my house. Some in the business, too. I’ll cover it, one way or another.”

“Good. Then I’ll be taking a lien against your property. Standard procedure, I’m afraid.”

I get the impression she’s expecting me to argue about the fees and the lien, and that she has her counterarguments ready to go. I’d like to skip past all of that, and say so.

“Fine with me. Most people get freaked about the money,” she explains.

“I’ll get freaked about it later, if you don’t mind. Right now I want you to tell me what to do about my son. Can you put me in contact with someone at the FBI? Maybe they already know about the man in the mask. I think he’s done this before.”

Ms. Savalo puts down her plastic cup, then places her briefcase on her knees and thumbs the lock open. “I took the liberty,” she says. “Put a call in to the local office in New Haven this morning, shortly after we first spoke. They haven’t got back to me yet, which is no surprise. I caution you not to expect much help from the feds.”

“Why is that?” I ask plaintively. “I just don’t get it. Terry Crebbin already told me they weren’t interested in helping me, but it doesn’t make sense. Isn’t that what the FBI does, handle abduction cases? Even if they think the police are right, and that I abducted my own son, wouldn’t they want to investigate?”

Ms. Savalo sighs. “Time was when they’d have been all over it. Pushing the locals out of the way, taking over. But they have other fish to fry now. Homeland security and all that. I’m not saying they won’t assign an agent or two, check it out, but like I say, don’t expect what you see on TV. This isn’t Without a Trace, or even Law & Order. Especially if the local cops are dumping on the idea, telling them it’s a custody case. Feds hate to waste manpower on custody abductions.”

I want to weep in frustration, but manage to contain my tears. Determined not to break down or show weakness in front of this implacable woman. The thing is, I’m not sure if I actually like her or not—would we lunch together, in other circumstances? But one thing is abundantly clear: I need her help. Desperately.

“What can I do?” I plead. “If the FBI won’t help, what do I do next? How do I go about finding my son?”

From out of the briefcase Ms. Savalo produces a business card. “This is your man,” she says, handing me the card. “He’s a bit eccentric—hell, he’s a lot eccentric. But he’s the best in the business.”

“What business is that?” I ask, studying the card. All it shows is a name and a telephone number. No office indicated, not even an e-mail address.

“He finds lost children,” she explains. “Abducted children. That’s his specialty. That’s what he lives for. Sometimes I think that’s all he lives for.”