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Dammit, Leah, what have you done this time? Who’s rescuing you from whatever mess you’ve created now that I’m not there to do it?

And whose gown did you buy?

It was almost one in the afternoon. The paper had gone to press before six that morning. Perhaps Leah had been found by now.

Yeah, that was it. Tricia folded the paper, putting it on top of her purse in the metal child-seat in the front of the basket. Tomorrow she’d read all about it. The harebrained scheme. The embarrassment. Leah safe and sound and laughing it all off in such a way that everyone would eventually laugh along with her.

Taking a deep breath, hooking the hair that had fallen over the shoulder of her T-shirt back behind her ear, she pushed her basket closer to the moving conveyer belt, unloading a head of cauliflower, broccoli florets and peeled baby carrots.

The San Diego daily paper was there at the checkout—without any mention of Leah on the front page. Somehow that was comforting.

“Paper or plastic?” the older man who bagged groceries asked.

His question startled her. Brought her back to the present moment—the only moment she had to worry about right now.

“Plastic, please.” She pushed her empty basket through to the end of the aisle.

“Where’s your little one this afternoon?” asked Gabriella, the young, slightly plump and quite beautiful Hispanic cashier.

“Home napping with his dad.” She’d snatched the opportunity to get out alone to grab the paper. Away from the house, she could freely study news from the town where she’d grown up and dispose of the evidence with no one but her eighteen-month-old son the wiser.

Only occasionally during Scott’s four-day rotations on would she spoil herself, bringing the paper home to enjoy over a cup of coffee as she had the day before.

“You are one lucky woman!” Gabriella was saying, her fingers flying over the number keys of the computerized register, typing in prices for the fresh vegetables. “Most of us just fantasize about being with a gorgeous fireman. You not only got one, but he’s a good dad, too.”

“And he cooks!” Tricia smiled at the girl she’d come to know. She and Taylor made at least three trips a week to the neighborhood grocer.

“’Course, you ain’t nothing to sneeze at,” Gabriella continued. “I’d give a year’s worth of paydays to have your long legs.”

“And I’d give the same to have your beautiful black hair.” Tricia pulled cash out of the black leather bag she’d sewn from the bolt Scott had given her for Christmas the year before, after he’d seen her fingering it in a department store.

“You really should get one of them cards,” Gabriella said, pointing to the debit machine by Tricia’s right arm. “It’s not safe, a woman like you carrying cash around. Not in this neighborhood.”

Yeah, well, it was a hell of a lot safer than leaving any kind of paper trail that could be traced.

Picking up the plastic bag, she nodded. “I know. I’ll get around to it.”

It was the same reply she’d given the first time Gabriella had warned her about the neighborhood. That had been a couple of months before Taylor was born.

“Where were you Monday afternoon and evening?”

Senator Thomas Whitehead, impeccably dressed in a navy suit, cream shirt and red tie, his always freshly polished black Italian leather shoes shining, didn’t immediately spit out an answer to the San Francisco detective’s question. He’d come to the station voluntarily and without counsel.

He had nothing to hide. And everything to gain by carefully thought-out, honest responses.

“I was at my office until close to seven. I stopped on the way home for a steak at McGruber’s, dropped a novel off at my mother’s after she called to say she was having trouble sleeping. I visited with her until shortly before midnight and then went home.”

Detectives Gregory and Stanton, the same team who’d interrogated him after Kate’s disappearance, were seated across from him in the small room. Dirty white cement walls, gray tile floor, a single table with two chairs on either side. Their faces were grim. Gregory was the younger of the two, in his midthirties, tall, dark curly hair with a pockmarked face. Poor guy must’ve had it rough in high school with all the acne it would’ve taken to leave those scars.

“Is there anyone at your office who can verify that?” Gregory asked, head tilted to the left and slightly lowered at the same time. He was still assessing, Thomas surmised. Not yet convinced of Thomas’s innocence, but not thinking him guilty, either. Thomas took an easier breath.

“Yes. My secretary was there, as were Senators Logenstein and Bryer. We’re working on legislation to provide stiffer penalties for anyone bringing drugs within the state’s current safe-school perimeter.”

So much rested on the positive outcome of this voluntary and informal questioning by the police. His mother’s health, certainly. His own emotional health. Particularly if—as it appeared—he’d just lost his wife’s best friend only two years after Kate’s disappearance.

His schedule and convenience were also factors. He was a very busy man who didn’t have time to be hauled into a long drawn-out court case but he’d do what needed to be done. He always did.

And for his constituents, he needed to clear his name as quickly as possible. They trusted him. Depended on him. He’d been told by many of them that they slept better at night knowing he was there taking care of the big decisions for them.

Stanton, proverbial pen in hand, nodded. “Amanda Livingston still your secretary?” Shorter than Gregory, and thirty pounds heavier, too, the older detective was the one Thomas respected most.

“Yes.” The fifty-year-old grandmother was perfect for him. Sharp. Reliable. Mature enough not to get emotional on him. And a great asset in his quest to win voters’ trust. “She’s been with me since I graduated from law school.”

“And that was when, fifteen years ago?” Stanton asked. The man really needed to run a comb through that grey hair once in a while. And iron his cheap suit while he was at it.

“Sixteen. I earned my Juris Doctorate at twenty-four.”

“When was the last time you were in contact with Leah Montgomery?” Gregory didn’t seem to think Thomas’s education pertinent.

He allowed some of the sadness he’d been fighting for the last two days to show on his face. He’d been genuinely fond of Leah. Found her spontaneity engaging. “I spoke with her Monday afternoon.”

“What time?”

“Around four.” Four-eleven, to be precise. His cell phone logged all calls, received or made. As his father had taught him to do with everything in life, he’d come to this meeting prepared.

“You called her?”

“She called me.”

Gregory leaned forward, practically drooling. His instinctive alertness reminded Thomas of a hunting dog. “Why?”

“To say that she wasn’t feeling well.” Thomas slowly, calmly lifted his folded hands to the table. “I’d agreed to escort her to a children’s fund-raiser that evening and she was calling to cancel.”

All he had to do was tell the truth. The rest would take care of itself.

“What was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Montgomery?” Gregory didn’t quite sneer, but the tight set of his lips was enough to put Thomas on edge. And to make his smile that much more congenial.

“We know each other quite well. She was my wife’s best friend. Leah and Kate grew up together, and even after Kate and I were married the two of them spent a lot of time together.”

“And you had a problem with that.”

Gregory’s words were more of an assumption than a question. “No, I did not. I’m a very busy man. I was glad my wife had her for company.”

“And now?”

“Leah and I grew closer after Kate’s disappearance, understandably so,” Thomas said, the ever-present pang of grief and anger brought on by Kate’s disappearance stabbing once more. “My wife was a dynamic woman, and her absence left a real emptiness. Leah and I have spent some time together, trying to fill the gap where we could. Mostly in the social arena. Leah accompanies me to various public appearances. And I return the favor. That’s all.”

The older detective cleared his throat. “Where’ve you been for the past two days?” he asked, his tone friendlier than his partner’s.