n FBI helicopter was at the marina, and Paul was on his way to it when he made a call to the Bell Harbor Police Department. He also got Lieutenant Caruso.

Paul identified himself, and before he could draw a breath, Caruso said, "I recognize your name from the TV reports. You were with Sloan in—"

"Stop talking and start listening," Paul snapped. "She's in danger. Someone is going to try to get to her, probably at her house—"

"I'll bet you mean that broad who just called here. I figured she was a crank, but just to be on the safe side, I paged Sloan and left a message on her answering machine at home."

"Did she answer your page?"

"Nah, not yet, but—"

Mentally Paul riffled through the officers he'd met with Sloan the night of the barbecue. One of them stood out; he'd been sharp enough to be suspicious of Paul that night and to question Sloan's story about firecrackers that sounded like gunshots. "Where's Jessup?"

"He's off duty too. Who else do you want—"

"Listen to me, you ignorant bastard, and I'll tell you what I want. Get off your ass and find him; then have him call me at this number!"

Days were short in March, and the sun was already going down when the Bell Harbor exit off the interstate came into view. Paris needed directions to Sloan's house, but each time she called Kimberly's number at home, she got an answering machine.

Kimberly was probably still at work, Paris thought frantically. She told herself to stay calm, to think of other ways. She suddenly remembered that Kimberly worked in a boutique, and Sloan had talked about the owner. The owner had an old-fashioned woman's name, and the boutique was named after her. Paris had been especially interested in the kinds of designer merchandise that… that… LYDIA carried.

She grabbed the car phone and asked for the number of Lydia's Boutique. She was so relieved that she almost laughed when Lydia grumbled about a personal phone call for Kimberly.

"This is Kimberly Reynolds," the soft voice said, sounding understandably curious about the identity of her caller.

"This is Paris, Mrs. Reyn… Mother."

"Oh, my God. Oh, thank God." She was squeezing the telephone receiver so hard that Paris could hear the sound in her own phone.

Paris flipped on her lights and slowed to an exit speed that wouldn't hurtle her into the traffic backed up at the stoplight near the end of the exit ramp. "I'm in Bell Harbor. I have a problem. I need to find Sloan right away."

"She should be at home. It's after five, and she was working an early shift, but if she's working on a case, she often works later."

"I'm just exiting off the interstate. Could you give me directions to her house from…" Paris paused to read the street sign. "… From Harbor Point Boulevard and the interstate."

Kimberly complied with a gentle eagerness that touched Paris's heart even though it was pounding with anxiety. "Sloan keeps a spare key in a place you'd never think to look," she added, and told Paris where to find it "If she isn't home yet, you could go inside and wait for her," she added.

"Thank you very much." Paris was already making a left turn in accordance with Kimberly's directions. She suddenly realized she didn't want to end this first conversation with her mother yet. Holding her breath with uncertainty she said, "Do you think I could come over and see you later?"

A teary laugh escaped her mother. "I've been waiting for thirty years to hear you say that. You… you won't forget?"

"I promise I won't."

Minutes later, Paris found Sloan's house. A light was on inside, and a plain white, late-model car with an unusual license plate that read BHPD031 was parked in the driveway.

Certain that BHPD stood for Bell Harbor Police Department, Paris found a parking spot on the street in front of the house, grabbed up her purse, and got out of her car. The wind had picked up, and a few raindrops spattered the driveway. Although night had fallen, the street seemed safe and well-lit. Her plan was to knock on the door, tell Sloan what was going to happen, and then drag her out of that house immediately. Paul could take care of the rest.

The plan seemed perfectly sensible and easy to accomplish, yet the closer she got to the front door the more uneasy she felt. She stepped onto the porch and lifted her hand to knock; then she hesitated for another look around. Across the street on her right, the beach was partially lit by large mercury-vapor lights on tall posts, and the light was bright enough to illuminate a female figure walking quickly along the sand in the distance and then breaking into a run. Paris recognized her and was so relieved and happy that she called out to her without thinking about the noise of the wind and surf.

"Sloan—" Her greeting turned into a muffled scream as the door suddenly opened, a hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged inside.