“It doesn’t matter. Just let the phone ring until I answer it.” She tried a vague smile. “It was a horrible night, but I’m glad you were around.” She opened the door and left him quickly, walking briskly into the house without a backward glance.

It was near noon when Sanders stuck his head in the principal’s office and asked Annabel if he could talk to the people who would have taken the phone message for Amanda. She pointed him laconically in the direction of the general office with hardly a pause in the rhythm of her typing.

Neither of the hard-pressed occupants of that spot admitted to having taken the phone call, however. “I delivered the message when I got back in the office,” said Ruth, “but I didn’t take the phone call. I was off on a tour—showing a pair of prospective parents around the school,” she added, by way of explanation, “and it was sitting there along with a couple of others.” She looked over at Sylvia. “You were on late lunch, weren’t you? Who was on the phone? Annabel?”

“Don’t think so. She might know, though,” and Sylvia rapidly dialed through on the intercom. “Who was on the phones yesterday afternoon when everyone was off—was it you?” A pause. “Oh, of course. Thanks.” She put the receiver down. “That explains it. It was Joyce. We never take a call for a student telling her to get in touch with someone at once without some explanation. It interrupts classes if it isn’t really important, and if it is something truly serious—a death or something—we want some control over the situation. And, of course, boyfriends—and others—do try to reach the girls sometimes.”

“What do you mean ‘others’?”

“We have some girls here from fairly wealthy families, and we have to be careful about messages sending them off to a rendezvous—especially if we don’t recognize the caller’s voice. And it seems to me—yes, a couple of days ago, someone called, all full of politeness, you know, and wanted Amanda’s address. He said it was because she had lost a parcel at his restaurant and he wanted to mail it to her.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To mail it to the school—that we would be delighted to give it to her. And I thanked him ever so for being so thoughtful. It might have been genuine; you never know. But we don’t give out addresses.” She turned back to the pile of envelopes she was stuffing. “But Joyce is new—she’s the assistant in the infirmary; it was nice of her to help on the phones, but we wouldn’t have taken such a vague message and passed it on. And you can see why. Amanda’s the first girl we’ve actually had snatched from the school area that I can remember, and we’ve had quite a few vulnerable ones over the years.” She smiled competently at him. “If you want to talk to Joyce, I’ll get her on the phone.” She dialed again, assuming that he would, of course, want to talk to Joyce, if only to make her feel that she should think, the next time, and be more cautious.

Joyce had nothing to add but apologies; the message had been just what she had written down. The caller was male, and no, it had not occurred to her that it was odd that a man should be calling on behalf of Amanda’s aunt. Sanders hoped fervently but silently that she was a better nurse than she was a receptionist and hung up, no further ahead than he had been, except for the added knowledge that someone might have made more than one attempt to get at the girl.

Sanders glared with distaste at the corned beef sandwich and coffee sitting on his desk in front of him. They seemed to be looking back at him in much the same frame of mind. He pushed them aside and decided that there was no use in attempting to carry on; it was well past one o’clock and his mind had long since ceased to function. The door opened silently; Dubinsky glided in and tossed his coat down on a chair.

“I went out there myself. Absolutely nothing. I had picked up a warrant and we managed to get into his apartment without too much trouble. You should see it. Must cost him at least a thousand a month. And there’s several thousand just sitting there in equipment: the stereo, TV, VCR, with piles of porn tapes. Anyway, the super said that his parking space is empty, but that’s all he knows. He says he doesn’t bother tenants if they don’t bother him, and so on. We got hold of his sister; she says he drives a new Corvette, and no, she hasn’t the faintest idea how he paid for it. She assumed he bought it on time, like anyone else. Sure—on a beginning constable’s salary, it would only take him twenty years or so to pay for it.”

“Could you tell if clothes were missing? Has he packed up and left?”

“Who knows? There’s enough stuff in the closets to keep me in clothes for ten years. But there was probably room for some more. And there wasn’t any shaving stuff in the bathroom, so I guess he packed something before he went.”

“Get a description of the car from Motor Vehicles, and put it out along with his picture. Better cover the border posts, airport—not that he’ll still be around there. But it would be enlightening to discover that his car is in the lot at the airport. And contact the O.P.P. up north—he might have headed for cottage country. I want to talk to his partner; he should have had enough sleep by now. Tell him to drag his ass down here. He must have known about the goddamn Corvette—someone like that doesn’t keep all that stuff a secret. I want to know where that money came from—and why. And why we haven’t heard anything about it. And if anyone else around that division seems to have too much money as well. Christ! This is going to have to go upstairs before we get too far into it.” He slumped back in his chair and picked up his cold coffee. “And help yourself to the sandwich if you feel like it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to face food again.”

Gruber’s partner was as slight as recruiting regulations permit. Carruthers had an eager, anxious face, like a nervous kitten’s. He was somewhat older than the man he worked with, but the impression his light blue eyes and hesitant smile gave was of youth and naivety. He was sandy-haired, freckled, and homely in a pleasant sort of way, and obviously much taken with Gruber’s style.

“Yeah, I mean, we knew he had a pretty fancy car. He sort of said he got a real deal on it. I never asked him about it. He was a really nice guy, always got along with people—you know, great at handling complaints and making old ladies feel good, that sort of thing.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?” asked Sanders, his voice sharpening with dislike.

“I don’t think so. I mean, not a regular girlfriend. He went out with lots of girls all the time—I went along with him a couple of times—real knockouts.” Carruthers’ voice became wistful with nostalgia. “But I don’t think he had a steady girl.”

“It never occurred to you that he lived in a pretty extraordinary manner for someone with his salary? You must have known about how much he made.”

Carruthers squirmed slightly under Sanders’ gaze. “Well, I never really thought”—his glance slid past Sanders to the desk—“I mean, you can never tell if people have actually paid for things, you know. I mean, all that stuff could have been on credit cards and—”

“Only it wasn’t, was it? And you damn well knew about it, but you didn’t want to get him in any trouble, did you? Because you thought he was a really great guy, and he tossed you his leftover girlfriends and garbage like that.” Sanders stood up abruptly. “That’s all. This will all get passed upstairs. You might be sorry you thought he was such a great guy. But it’s not my baby—I’m just looking for Gruber, your dear friend, who kidnaps helpless fifteen-year-old girls and tries to kill them. I’m glad he wasn’t my friend, Carruthers.”

Sanders watched the shaken Carruthers walk out of the small interview room and threw his pen down on the untouched pad of paper in front of him. Let someone else sort through all this crap, he thought, and get the unlovely details down. He had lost interest as soon as Carruthers had admitted that he hadn’t the slightest idea where Gruber might be. Maybe California, he had said, Rick had always admired the California style. He dropped his head into his hands. As anger drained off, fatigue came washing in like a Fundy tide. He could have fallen asleep at that moment, sitting bolt upright at the utilitarian little desk, but the enormous shadow of his partner spread across the paper in front of him. “You get anything more?” he asked, yawning himself awake again.