The little child beside Cora Lee stared up round-eyed at the bright, multicolored playhouse; it was a confection of brilliant colors, of closed and open spaces and ascending levels, and of wild cutouts for air and light, and all the surfaces were painted in amazing patterns. There were three ways to climb to the top-a knotted rope, a ladder, and a vertical bar with protruding rungs. Standing on the tumbling mats that were scattered underneath, to make the low work easier, the little girl stared up at the wonderful confection, her eyes wide, her mouth curving in the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Paint dry?” Cora Lee asked, keeping the dogs back, worrying that they would smear Lori’s careful work.

“It’s dry,” Lori said. Kneeling beside the front of the playhouse, she was nailing on freshly painted, bright persimmon trim. The younger girl had long, straight brown hair, light brown eyes that could look achingly hurt and needy-or could look as secretive and feisty as could Dillon’s impish glance. But Lori’s attention was on the little girl, clearly seeing the child’s shy fear. Lori put out her hand.

The little girl came to her slowly at first, but then with trust. This was not an adult bid for contact, this was child to child, as nonthreatening as the earlier, guileless greetings of Joe Grey and Kit, and then of the two dogs. Above them, Dillon remained still, her red hair catching a shaft of light through the garage windows, her cropped, flyaway locks gleaming like flame.

At the sound of a car pausing on the street, Davis stepped to the door, but then it moved on by, and she returned to watch the child explore the bottom part of the playhouse then scramble up the ladder. Forgetting the adults, the little girl disappeared into the three rooms and out again in a little dance across the various decks, so losing herself to wonder that Davis and Cora Lee beamed at each other-and Davis dared to think, now, that the child might find her voice, and be able to speak to her.

S O THIS WAS where they meant to hide the kid, at least part of the time. This, and that detective’s condo. What a laugh-those women had no clue that he knew all about this place. Kuda watched the woman cop lift the kid out of the car, and he smiled. The kid was a sitting duck.

He waited warily but with patience while they were in the house. Watched the second, lone uniform pull in. So the kid had two guards. Oh, this was too good. This was security?

And still he waited.

Kid hadn’t said a word, so far, he could bet on that. Hadn’t, or the cops wouldn’t be so relaxed. They were just normally watchful, but not sweating it. No, the kid hadn’t told anything she saw, and he didn’t think she would-and how much could they believe, from a kid? Kid was no kind of witness.

So why mess up a good thing? Kill her, and they’d be after him for sure. No, for now, let sleeping dogs lie. So far he was home free. Keep it that way. Body disposed of, and only some passing witness’s word there ever was a body. How far would the cops go to investigate hearsay? This was Christmas, the stores had to be full of enough shoplifters and petty thieves to keep the street patrol plenty busy.

No, he thought, leave the kid for now. Leave her, and he’d be able to slide right out of this berg, once he got what he came for. Disappear so the law would never find him.

He’d disposed of the clothes and duffels pretty well, scattering them in several places. He hadn’t wanted to leave stuff in the car that might be traced, even though he’d checked the labels. All were generic. Kmart. Penney’s. Wal-Mart.

He’d dumped the empty billfold, after wiping it down, in a bin out on the highway at the edge of the state park as he pedaled back toward the village in the predawn dark. Had left his own shoes there, too. Waffle soles, that had been foolish. Was afraid they’d left prints. Best place to dump them was the highway, where some homeless man walking that stretch might pick through, might put them on. And then, who’d ever find them?

He’d worried about the two duffels, even empty. Hadn’t wanted to leave them in the garage, and for some reason didn’t want to leave them in the car. He’d decided to bring them with him, tied on the back of the bike, riding along like a homeless person, himself.

He’d emptied some of the pants and shirts down into the bottom of the highway Dumpster, too, and pulled debris over them. Rolled the bigger, emptied duffel in mud and stuffed it down in there. But the kid’s stuff had worried him. Pretty little girl’s clothes, too new to throw away. That’d attract attention.

Coming into the village, he’d cruised the streets, passing three charity shops, all closed, of course, then circled back when he saw a car stop before one of them. And luck had smiled on him, big-time.

Woman got out, hauled out four big black plastic garbage bags, tucked them up against the shop’s door with a note pinned on. Got back in her car, all dressed up for work, sleek black suit and high heels, and took off.

It had taken him only a minute to tuck the kid’s clothes down inside. He used three of the bags, a few garments in each, the small cloth duffel rolled up and stuffed in, too, and that ragged doll-had to get rid of the doll. Sealed them up again with the twisties, swung on his bike, and took off, wanting to hide the bike or get rid of it. Thinking again that the cops weren’t going to spend a lot of time digging through charity shops-not this time of year, not with organized crime working the shoplifting rackets so they were more than just random events. How thin could that small department spread its uniforms? They only had two detectives, only two that he’d seen.

Going over his routine of last night, he watched the tall house, watched the kid come out with the two women, heading around the garage. He watched the lone uniform pull up and join them, and then he turned away, and headed on down into the village.

T HE THREE CATS crouched shivering on the roof of the Molena Point Little Theater, able only to listen to the music of The Nutcracker; on this cold night they could not enjoy the dancing and costumes and sets. Ordinarily, they would have slipped inside at the last minute behind the crowding audience, but with the icy wind blowing in through the open doors, those doors had been closed too quickly.

But even though they were shut out in the cold, the music filled their heads, dancing up through the roof. Kit’s fluffy tail twitched in delighted rhythm to the lilting cadences, to visions of Marie and Clara and the Nutcracker and the King of the Mice, to all the convoluted and interwoven scenes of the tale so sharply brought to life in the bright music. And now, as the theater let out, they peered down at the happy, departing crowd, looking for their friends.

Charlie Harper and Dorothy Street were the first of their party to emerge, presumably leaving their companions in the lobby lost in scattered conversations. As the two women headed up the street, the cats followed, padding across the icy roofs and across slippery oak branches and more roofs, making straight for the Patio Café. There the cats paused on the clay tiles looking down to the restaurant’s outdoor terrace as Charlie and Dorothy were seated. In the center of the terrace, a fire burned in the round brick fire pit, sending up welcome heat to warm their fur and paws and their cold noses. The patio, decorated with red swags along the eaves and huge pots of poinsettias, was crowded with late, cheerful diners, most of them talking about the ballet.

“Charlie had a ticket for Max,” Joe said. “I don’t think he’s into ballet, he opted out. Said because of the murder.”

“If not for the murder, he’d have gone,” Dulcie said shortly. “He’d go almost anywhere, to enjoy an evening out with Charlie.” She looked hard at Joe. “You like The Nutcracker, you just don’t want to admit it.” But then she turned her attention to Charlie and Dorothy.