Aaron said, “Good point.”

“I'm glad you see it that way, Mr. Fox. The police certainly didn't.”

“Fifteen months and they don't see it as a suspicious disappearance?”

“He doesn't,” said Frostig. “One detective, and obviously not very experienced. I haven't talked to him recently because what's the point?”

“When's the last time you did talk to him?”

“Eight months ago. It was obvious further contact with him wouldn't be useful. I phoned his superiors but those calls were never returned.”

“Frustrating.”

Frostig's look said, What else is new?

“What have you done personally to look for Caitlin?”

“I haven't hired any other detectives, if that's what you mean.”

“I mean anything.”

“The Web,” said Frostig. “I'm on it constantly. Plugging in Caitlin's name, checking missing persons sites. I've logged onto philosophy chat rooms, because Caitlin was interested in philosophy.”

“People talking about the meaning of life?”

“People will talk about anything, Mr. Fox. The computer grants permission.”

“To…?”

“Communicate.”

“Was Caitlin into cyberspace?”

“She didn't have her own computer,” said Frostig. “We share.”

Talk about lack of privacy. A voluntary rabbit was looking more and more feasible.

Aaron said, “What'd you guys do, divide up the time?”

“We guys,” said Frostig, frowning. “Caitlin used the computer for academic purposes.”

“Homework.”

“Term papers. But feel free to examine the computer. I was just offering an example of the lengths to which I go to find Caitlin.”

“What else can you tell me about Caitlin, sir?”

“About Caitlin,” said Frostig, as if redigesting the concept.

What an oddball. Half an hour in this place and Aaron felt ready to molt his skin. Voluntary rabbit was climbing toward Probability.

Maitland Frostig said, “She's a good girl with a good brain. She's neat and diligent and reliable.”

Sounded more like a Boy Scout than a daughter.

“I don't want to think,” said Frostig.

“About?”

“Where she could be after all this time.”

“What was the name of the police detective you spoke to?”

“The police,” said Frostig, “are utterly useless.”

“Even so, sir.”

“You're going to waste time going over old ground. On Mr. Dmitri's dollar.”

Aaron forced himself to smile. “Generous man, your boss.”

Frostig turned his back, headed to the living room. Walked through the room and positioned himself by the front door.

Aaron said, “Is there some reason you're uncomfortable with my taking on your daughter's case?”

“Because you're black? Absolutely not.”

Race hadn't entered Aaron's head. Frostig had seen nothing but the color of Aaron's skin.

“It's not you, Mr. Fox. I'm not hopeful, that's all. Fifteen months and no one's given me the time of day.”

“Now that's changed, Mr. Frostig.”

“I suppose it has.” Frostig's smile was unsettling. “I apologize if I've been rude. I certainly haven't intended any rudeness.”

“None observed.”

“Well that's polite of you, Mr. Fox. I'm sure you'll do your best.”

Aaron opened the door and let in a sliver of evening. He said, “The name of that police detective, sir.”

“Reed,” said Frostig. “Moses Reed. You're wasting your time.”

Aaron walked to his car, head spinning in a whole new direction.

The big detective room echoed.

Just Moe Reed at his desk and D- 3 Delano Hardy in a far corner, on the phone, talking to someone about a court appearance.

Hardy had as many years on the job as Sturgis-had partnered with Sturgis back when the lieutenant still did that. Moe, still feeling like a trainee, had made it his business to eavesdrop when the older detectives talked.

Delano 's case sounded like a gang shooting, bad guy nabbed early, easy confession. Routine, nothing to learn. Moe was just about to pay attention to his own work when tension snaked into Hardy's voice and his volume rose.

Turned out this bad guy was a fifteen-year-old girl and her lawyers were pushing a child abuse/diminished capacity defense. On top of that, she was Hispanic and Hardy was black, so the race card was going to be used to sully the confession.

Hardy grunted, drank coffee, grunted.

Sturgis made those same sounds when he was pissed. Maybe that was the mark of decades on the job. Or getting old. Moe wondered if someday he'd end up sounding like a wounded steer.

He tasted his own coffee, long cold. Drinking out of one of those body-outline mugs from the coroner's gift shop. Present from Liz. Cute, but it didn't improve the taste of D-room swill.

Flipping through the Frostig file, he found Rory Stoltz's cell number, phoned, got voice mail. Rory sounding cheerful and confident. Whatever grief he'd mustered was long gone.

At the landline, Rory's mother answered and as Moe identified himself he searched the file for her name. Martha. Work number, the Peninsula in Beverly Hills where she was a room-service coordinator.

“Have you found Caitlin?” she said.

“Unfortunately not, ma'am. I'm trying to reach Rory.”

“Why?”

“Doing follow-up.”

“Rory's busy at school.”

“Any idea when he'll be free?”

“He's an adult,” said Martha Stoltz. “I don't keep tabs on him.”

“Does he still live at home?”

Silence. It's not a trick question.

“Ma'am-”

“I don't understand why you're calling, Detective Reed. You talked to Rory, what, three, four times? Asking the same questions over and over. It was very upsetting to Rory. He felt you were trying to trip him up.”

“I wasn't, ma'am,” Moe lied. “Sometimes we need to do that just to be thorough.”

“It really bothered him, that you could suspect him. Rory was so fond of Caitlin. No one was more upset when she disappeared.”

“I hear you, ma'am, but sometimes we need to reinterview.”

“Well, Rory's in plain sight, living his life.”

Before Moe could respond, she hung up.

Why all the anger? Maybe she'd had a bad day. Or she really was fed up with her only child being drawn into a murder investigation.

He called Pepperdine administration, tried to wangle Rory's class schedule out of a perky secretary, then her supervisor.

No go. Maybe someone with more experience could've pulled it off, maybe not.

At ten a.m. he took a walk, the way he'd seen Sturgis do, covering half a mile of the working-class residential neighborhood that surrounded the station.

No slam-bam insights. He phoned Liz. She answered, sounding groggy, but when she said, “It's you,” her voice lightened, and she appended, “Sweetie.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I'm just lying here with a monster headache and thinking about everything that's piled up while I was gone.”

“Poor baby.”

“What bugs me, Moses, is I know the physiology of jet lag, did everything I could to hydrate. But no matter how much water I pump, my eyes are gritty and my skin feels like crepe paper.”

Moe imagined that. Chocolate-brown paper, smoothing under his touch. “You'll be fine before you know it. How was the flight?”

“The usual delays and they ran out of beverages, except for booze, talk about dehydration.” She laughed. “The guy next to me was about a thousand pounds. He popped two Ambiens and snored like a choo-choo the entire flight. Try climbing Mount Fleshy to get to the john.”

Moe laughed along with her. “Well, now you're back and I'll take care of you.”

“Good, I could use some care, Moses. When do you want to hang?”

“Unless something breaks, I'll be free at four, five.”

“Caitlin?”

“Yup.”

“You transfer and they send it along,” said Liz. “Totally unjust.”

“It'll work itself out. You shutting in all day?”