With the window down and cold air streaming in, she scanned the village below, wondering if the chase was still on for the blue van and the tan Suburban. It enraged her that they’d copied her van. She could hear no sirens from below, could see no whirling red lights moving through the village on the dusky streets or above on the hills. Had Max’s officers already cornered them? The last she’d talked with Mabel-she’d called when she first got home, from the secure line-the department had a tip that the mural panels had been transferred to the SUV. It was against department regulations to communicate information on a chase, but Mabel was careful. She knew, from the way Charlie spoke, that she was on the secure line. She said Max wasn’t part of the chase, that he was down the coast where wreckers were pulling a car and body up the cliff. Was that the body from the plaza? And was that another part of whatever convoluted crime these Wicken people had set in motion?

C HARLIE WOULD NOT learn that Dallas had been shot until she arrived at the gallery and Sicily told her that the detective was, in Sicily’s words, “Just slightly hurt. He may be delayed, they’re taking out the bullet. Just a flesh wound.”

Flesh wound or not, the news sickened Charlie, made her wish someone had shot both the Wickens and that good-for-nothing Leroy Huffman. She spent the evening smiling and trying to be charming and answering hundreds of questions, while inside her worries about Dallas and about Ryan were eating her up, and she wanted only to be at the hospital with them.

S O, THAT WOMAN detective found the kid’s doll and the duffel. Must have found the clothes, too, the way the duffel bag was stuffed full. Standing in the shadows of a doorway half a block up, on the other side of the street, he’d watched her coming out of that used shop, heading for her police unit. That angered him, that she’d found the clothes, he thought he’d disposed of that stuff pretty well. Damn cops.

In a Dumpster, the kid’s pretty clothes would have stood right out. He’d figured they’d dive the Dumpsters. But what made them bring the kid to search the used shops? Sure as hell, no one else but her could spot that stuff, mixed in like it was with all the castoff pants and shirts-he really hadn’t thought they’d drag her around the shops, as puny and sick-looking as she was.

But what the hell? So they had her clothes. What were they going to find? Penney’s and Kmart labels. He hadn’t handled the clothes, except with gloves. This was just cops’ busywork and amounted to nothing.

Worse luck that she’d found that old doll-but why let the doll bother him? So it was handmade, so it might be traced. By the time they’d ID’d the body, if they ever did, or by the time anyone at the other end thought to look for father and child, he’d be long gone where they’d never find him.

Looked like that detective was headed back to her condo with the kid, just as he’d hoped she’d do when the day was done. Earlier in the day, he’d parked his vehicle two blocks from her place, had walked down around the PD and waited a while, hoping to spot her and the kid-then saw them coming out of the charity store. Now, moving fast to keep up with the squad car as she drove through the crowded streets, he paused in the gathering shadows of a doorway as she swung into the parking garage beneath her condo.

Standing under an overgrown lilac vine that climbed around the door of the closed shop, he could see across the street straight into the garage. She had pulled into her regular slot, near the entrance. He watched her help the kid out and head around to the front stairs.

Once she was inside, she wouldn’t be able to see him from her balcony or windows, not here beneath the thick vine. But he’d be able to see two sides of the condo, looking up between the lilac leaves. Behind him in the shop window was a fancy collection of women’s lingerie, some in pink, printed with purple rabbits, that he found particularly amusing.

He watched her draw the living-room draperies, and a light went on behind them, throwing a muted glow onto the terrace. Another light came on behind the bedroom shades. He couldn’t see the kitchen window, which was at the back. He wondered if they were in for the evening. It was plenty early, but kids went to bed early. He’d tried earlier to get into the apartment when they were out, but that cop had it buttoned up tight with double dead bolts and special window locks. He’d seen no alarm system, but with the PD just across the way, who knew what they’d worked out? Too easy to blow his cover on a clumsy break-in, give the whole thing away. Finding no easy access, and deciding it was too risky, he’d left, feeling frustrated. And even now, waiting to see what that cop would do next, he was still undecided about the kid.

He waited maybe forty-five minutes, and then both lights went out. Waited another ten minutes, and place remained dark. They didn’t come down the front stairs, didn’t appear in the parking garage.

The narrow back stair let into a fenced area of garbage cans, with a noisy gate, and he hadn’t heard the gate squawk and rattle, though he’d been listening hard in case she slipped out that way. Now, as he watched the condo, a dark cat appeared on the sidewalk, dropping down from some high perch; it stared at him for a minute, damned night prowler, then moved on out of sight. As early as it was, it looked to him like the cop had tucked up for the night. Maybe she was scheduled to double back for late watch. She was no spring chicken, she’d want her rest. And that frail kid, she’d drop off to sleep early.

But even when he was satisfied that they weren’t coming out, still Kuda waited awhile longer, to make sure. This was one night that, as long as that cop had the kid with her, he wanted the two of them tucked away safely asleep. This was probably the last time he’d have to worry about it, and he sure didn’t want to blow it.

H ALF A BLOCK in front of the killer, the tortoiseshell kit had dropped to the sidewalk and stood looking at him, sick at what she was seeing. Then she slipped behind a potted fern and into an alley. There she paused, still watching him, wondering what to do now.

He was just a smear of black there in the dark under the vine. A dark figure, still and waiting. She had to tell someone, tell them he was there watching the condo, tell someone quick. But she didn’t want to leave and lose sight of him. Not when he was so close to the little girl, not when he was watching for her to come out. Not now, when he might have decided to make sure she was silenced. Silenced before she could point him out, as clearly as she had found her doll.

She had to warn Juana, tell her the killer was just outside, tell her who he was. Had to tell her who he was. Had to find a phone, before Juana and the child left the condo or before he tried to break in.

Leaping up into a potted tree, she made a wild leap for the roof, heard the branch crack behind her. Scrambling up, nearly falling, she ran. Dulcie’s house was the closest. Fleeing across shingles and tiles, flying from peak to peak, she nearly outran the wind that scudded behind her. She reached Wilma’s panting and her heart pounding, scrambled backward down the nearest oak, and fled in through Dulcie’s cat door. The house was dark, as if Wilma had already left for Charlie’s party. She bolted through kitchen and dining room straight for the living-room phone. Pausing with one black-and-brown paw lifted, and then with the perfect recall that Joe Grey and Dulcie so admired, she punched in the number for Detective Davis’s cell phone.