"Hey." His grin tilted inffconfusion. Jeff stared blankly at Finn, then at Jenner. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"Mr. Hyatt." Jenner stepped neatly between the two men. "I need to ask you some questions."

"Okay." Jeff rubbed his fingertips against his temple. "No problem. Do you want to come in?"

"Thank you. Mr. Hyatt," Jenner began, "did you relay a message to Miss Reynolds at approximately three o'clock this afternoon?"

"Yeah. Why?" Wincing, Jeff continued to massage his temple. "Jesus. Can we sit down? I've got this monster headache." He turned into the living area. The furnishings were straight out of a catalogue. Matching tables, matching chairs, twin lamps, a soulless, practical suite favored by uninspired bachelors or newlyweds on a strict budget. Only Jeff sat.

"You told her I called?"

"Sure I did." Jeff's smile was cautious. His eyes were wary. "Your assistant said to tell Dee you had this meeting and were planning on getting home early."

"You didn't talk to Mr. Riley?" Jenner demanded.

"No. I thought it was kind of weird that the call came through my office, but when I went to tell Dee, I saw that she and Cassie were all involved. Dee was getting her wedding dress fitted. She looked incredible."

"Why did you leave the office early?" "This headache. I haven't been able to ditch it all day. It makes it hard to concentrate. Listen." He stood again, obviously impatient and bewildered. "What's this all about? Is it some kind of crime to deliver a phone message?"

"What time did you leave the office?" "Right after I talked to Dee. I came home — well, I went to the store first, picked up some more heavy-duty aspirin. I thought if I laid down awhile…" His voice trailed off. "Something's happened to Dee." As if his legs wouldn't support him, he lowered slowly to the couch again. "Oh my God. Is she hurt?"

"She hasn't been seen since she left the office," Jenner told him.

"Oh God. Jesus. Have you talked to Tim? Didn't he drive her home?"

"We're unable to locate Mr. O'Malley."

On a shaking breath, Jeff rubbed his hands over his face. "It wasn't a message from your assistant, was it, Finn? I didn't ask any questions. I wasn't paying attention." His jaw quivered when he dropped his hands again. His eyes were dark with an emotion disguising itself as fear. "All I could think about was getting home and going to bed. I just said, sure, I'll tell her. And I did."

"I don't believe you." Finn didn't move a muscle, but the words cracked toward Jeff like a slap. "You're a meticulous man, Jeff. That's how Deanna describes you." And the minutes were ticking away. "Why would you, with everything that's been going on, pass along a half-baked message like that?"

"It was supposed to be from you," Jeff shot back. The way Finn studied him, as if he could see all the secrets swimming in his brain, put Jeff on edge. "Why wouldn't I pass it along?"

"Then you won't mind if we go through the house." Finn turned to Jenner. "Through every inch of it."

"You think I—" Jeff snapped his mouth shut, pushed himself from the couch. "Go ahead," he said to both men. "Search it. Go through every room. I want you to."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Hyatt. It would be best if you came with us while we do."

"Fine." Jeff stood for a moment, staring at Finn. "I know how you feel about her, and I guess I can't really blame you for this."

They went through every room, searching through closets, cupboards, through the garage, where Jeff's undistinguished sedan was parked. It took less than twenty minutes.

Finn noted the tidy, practical furnishings, the well-pressed, practical clothes. As a director for a number-one show, he'd be well compensated financially. And Finn could see that he sure as hell wasn't spending any money on himself.

Just what, he wondered, was Jeff Hyatt saving his pennies for? "I wish she was here." Jeff felt a quick, gleeful surge as they walked past the bookcase. "At least she'd be safe. I want to help. I want to do something. We can start with the press. We can get national coverage. By morning we'll have everyone in the country looking for her. Everybody knows her face." He looked beseechingly at Finn. "Someone will see her. He can't keep her locked in a tower somewhere."

"Wherever he has her" — Finn never took his eyes off Jeff's—"I'll find her."

Without a backward glance, Finn strode out of the house. Seconds later, the sound of his engine roared.

"I can't blame him," Jeff muttered. He looked toward Jenner. "No one could."

He locked up carefully behind the policeman. His smile grew wider, wider, wider as he climbed the stairs. They might come back. A small, grinning part of him hoped they would. Because he would lead them right through the house, right by the hidden room where his princess slept.

They would never find her. And eventually they would go away. He and Deanna would be alone. Always.

He turned on the television in his room. The evening news didn't interest him. He flipped a switch on the splitter behind the set and settled down to watch Deanna.

She slept on, still as a doll behind the glass of the screen. The tears he wept now were of simple joy.


Jenner caught up with Finn at home. He made no mention of the speed limits Finn had ignored. "We'll be checking out Hyatt and O'Malley thoroughly. Why don't you be a reporter and get the story on the air?"

"It'll be on the air." Standing in the chill December wind, Finn struggled to stave off panic. "Hyatt looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did." Jenner blew out a smoky breath. Three days until Christmas, he thought. He would do everything in his power to be certain it was a day of celebration.

"I had some trouble with that house," Finn said after a moment.

"What kind?"

"Nothing out of place. Not a crooked picture, not a dustball. Books and magazines lined up like soldiers, furniture all but geometrically arranged. Everything centered, squared and bandbox clean."

"I noticed. Obsessive."

"That's how it strikes me. He fits the pattern."

Jenner acknowledged that with a slight nod. "A man can be obsessively neat without being obsessively homicidal."

"Where was the Christmas tree?" Finn muttered.

"The Christmas tree?"

"He's got the wreath, he's got the lights. But no tree. You'd think he'd have a tree somewhere."

"Maybe he's one of those traditionalists who don't put it up until Christmas Eve." But the omission was interesting.

"One more thing, Lieutenant. He claims he came home early to lie down. The bed in his room was the only thing mussed up. Pillow scrunched a bit, bedspread wrinkled. We got him up from his nap."

"So he says."

"Why did he have his shoes on?" Finn's eyes gleamed in the lowering light. "The laces were tied in double knots. Someone that neat doesn't lie down on his bed with his shoes on."

He'd missed that clue, damn it, Jenner thought. "I believe I mentioned this before, Mr. Riley, you have a good eye."


He couldn't stay at home. Not without her. Finn did the only thing that seemed possible. He went back to the station, avoiding the newsroom. He couldn't bear to answer questions, to be asked questions. He went to his office, brewed a pot of strong coffee. He added a healthy dose of whiskey to the first cup.

He booted up his computer.

"Finn." Fran stood in the doorway, her face splotchy, her eyes swollen and red. Before he'd risen completely, she took a stumbling step forward. "Oh God, Finn."

He stroked her shaking shoulders, though he felt no well of comfort that he could offer. It was just the routine, the show of comfort that meant nothing to anyone.

"I had to take Kelsey to the pediatrician for her checkup. I wasn't here. I wasn't even here."

"You couldn't have changed anything." "I might have." She shoved away, eyes fierce now. "How did he get to her? I've heard a dozen different stories."

"This is the place for them. Truth or accuracy, which do you want?"

"Both."

"One's not the same as the other, Fran. You've been in the game long enough. Accurately, we don't know. She left early, went out to the lot where her car and driver were supposed to be waiting. Now she's gone. Her driver seems to have vanished into thin air."

She didn't like the cool control of his voice or the workaday hum of his computer. "Then what's the truth, Finn? Why don't you tell me what the truth is?"

"The truth is that whoever has been sending her those notes, whoever killed Lew Mcationeil, Angela and Pike, has Deanna. They've got an APB out on her, and one on O'Malley and the car."

"Tim wouldn't. He couldn't."

"Why?" The single word was like a bullet. "Because you know him? Because he's part of Deanna's extended family? Fuck that. He could have." Finn sat down, drained half his coffee. The shock of caffeine and whiskey spread through him like velvet lightning. "But I don't think he did. I can't be sure until he turns up. If he turns up."

"Why wouldn't he?" Fran demanded. "He's worked for Dee for two years. He's never missed a single day."

"He's never been dead before, has he?" He swore at her, at himself when her color faded to paste. Rising, he poured her whiskey, straight. "I'm sorry, Fran. I'm half out of my mind."

"How can you sit in here and say things like that? How can you work, think about work, when Dee's out there somewhere? This isn't some international disaster you're covering, goddamn it, where you're the steady, unflappable journalist. This is Dee."

He jammed useless hands in his pockets. "When something's important, vital, when the answer means everything, you sit, you work, you think it through, you take all the facts and create a scenario that plays. Something that's accurate. I think Jeff's got her."

"Jeff." Fran choked on whiskey. "You're crazy. Jeff's devoted to Dee, and he's harmless as a baby. He'd never hurt her."

"I'm counting on that," he said dully. "I'm betting my life on it. I need everything you've got on him, Fran. Personnel records, memos, files. I need your impressions, your observations. I need you to help me."

She said nothing, only studied his face. No, his eyes weren't cold, she realized. They were burning up. And there was terror behind them. "Give me ten minutes," she said, and left him alone.

She came back in less than her allotted time with a stack of files and a box of computer disks. "His employment record, resume, application for employment. Tax info." Fran smiled weakly. "I lifted his desk calendars. He keeps them from year to year. They were all filed."

Meticulous. Obsessive. Though his blood iced, Finn accessed the first disk.

"That's his personnel file from CBC. I hope you don't mind breaking the law."

"Not a bit. This application is from April eighty-nine. When did Dee go on air at CBC?"

"About a month before that." Fran reached for the whiskey to unclog her throat. "It doesn't prove anything."

"No, but it's a fact." The first he could build on. "Same address he's got now. How'd he afford a house like that when he'd been working as a radio gofer?"

"He inherited it. His uncle left it to him. Finn, I had to call Dee's family." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "They're getting the first flight out in the morning."

"I'm sorry." He stared hard at the screen. Families. He'd never had one to worry about before. "I should have done it."

"No, I didn't mean that. I just — I don't know what to say to them."

"Tell them we're going to get her back. That's the truth. Fran, see if you can find the date in his calendar when Lew Mcationeil was killed. It was February ninety-two."

"Yeah, I remember." She opened the book, flipped through the pages, skimming Jeff's neat, precise notations. "We had a show that day. Jeff was directing. I remember because we had snow and everybody was worried that the audience would be thin."

"Do you remember if he came in?" "Sure, he was here. He never missed. Looks like he had a ten o'clock meeting with Simon."

"He'd have had time," Finn murmured. "Christ Almighty, do you really think he could have gone to New York, shot Lew, come back and waltzed into the studio to direct a show, all before lunch?"

Yes, Finn thought coldly. Oh yes, he did. "Fact: Lew was killed about seven — that's Central time. There's an hour's time difference between Chicago and New York. Speculation: He flies in and out, maybe he charters a plane. I need his receipts."