For a moment, Gwen debated how much to tell him. She settled on the truth-or at least, what she suspected was true. "I'm sorry, Dr. Meekins, but your daughter is dead."

He nodded, accepting validation of an opinion he'd held for a long time. "I suppose you have your reasons for asking about her, and I trust you won't mind if I don't care to listen to them. Vivian has been dead to me for a very long time."

The professor c.o.c.ked his head as if listening to the echo of his own words. "I know how that must sound to you. You must think me sadly lacking in family feeling."

"Not really," Gwen said slowly. "I'm starting to understand just how complicated family ties can be."

Kate Myers's car was parked right outside the narrow two-story building. Gwen knew the gleaming black Pa.s.sat was Kate's the minute she touched it-the mental image of Kate behind the wheel was so real that she could almost smell the woman's perfume.

She walked up the stairs to the screened-in porch and tried the doorbell. The deep, sonorous tolling was clearly audible, but it didn't raise a response. Gwen tried the door. It was securely locked.

No problem. She took her key-and-pick combo from her pocket and slipped it into the lock on the doork.n.o.b. The lock popped in about five seconds. The door bowed out a little when Gwen tugged on the handle, but it held secure. There was no other lock on the outside, so she figured it had a dead bolt, one that could only be locked from the inside. A little paranoid, maybe, but effective.

Gwen circled around the house. A pile of garden mulch was heaped against the foundation. It smelled a bit odd, so she crouched down for a closer look.

The shredded wood was sodden, even though the last rain had been four days ago. Some of the chips appeared to be blackened. She picked up one and sniffed. There was a faint smell of lighter fluid.

She rocked back on her heels and stood, her gaze sweeping the backyard. There was a flower bed with a few May-flowering tulips and a row of spent daffodils. A clump of lilac bushes, the purple buds still tight, grew by the back stairs. The yard was dominated by a single large tree. It grew close to the back fence, but its branches spanned half the yard and shaded the neighboring property, as well.Gwen checked the back door. Someone had kicked it in, splintering the old wood around the various locks. Gwen glanced at the ruined door. A lock in the doork.n.o.b, two dead bolts, one with a chain. Kate was definitely security conscious. Much good it had done her. If someone was determined enough, no locks could provide much of a deterrent.

Gwen moved cautiously into the kitchen, called Kate's name. There was no response, but she hadn't gone more than a few steps when it hit her-the sickly sweet, coppery smell of death.

Two doors led out of the kitchen, one into a small dining room, the other into a central hall. Gwen headed down the hall. The front door drew her eye, though for no reason she could ascertain. She laid her palm against the door and was immediately flooded by sensations of mute terror and agonizing pain, and behind it, a simple, alien mind numbed with the astonishment of betrayal.

Gwen s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away and rubbed it on the leg of her jeans, as if doing so could erase the odd vision. She peered at the door but could see nothing to explain her reaction, other than a slight tackiness that felt like the residual gumminess a price sticker left on a hard surface.

The smell was stronger now, and definitely coming from upstairs. She climbed the stairs and stood at the bedroom door only long enough to identify the body.

The woman had been shot several times. One bullet had gone into the back of her head at close range, blowing off most of her face. Her hair was so thickly matted with dried black blood that it was impossible to tell what color it once had been. But it was Kate, all right-or at least, someone wearing the clothes she'd worn for their Monday-night workout.

Gwen headed outside and took several long, cleansing breaths before pulling her cell phone from her pocket. Quaid would be p.i.s.sed at her for not calling him first, but the farther he stayed away from this case, the better off he'd be.

She dialed the station and asked for homicide. After pa.s.sing along the basic details, she sat down on the front step to wait for the detective.

Her first instinct had been to make an anonymous call, but that struck her as too risky. Judging from Kate's clothing and the state of her body, she'd been dead since Monday night. That meant Gwen was one of the last people who'd seen her alive. If she was going to get pulled into this, there could be no question about where she stood.

Unfortunately, the responding officers were not inclined to think the best of her. Ben Cerulo and Kimberly Jackson had been partners for years, reaching back into the time before Frank's retirement.

The four of them had gone out for a beer from time to time, or to shoot a game of pool... but Tom Yoland had been Kimberly's cousin, and she'd taken his death hard-and blamed Gwen for the mess that had caused it.

Her plain, much-freckled face was hard as she regarded her former colleague. "Let's hear your report,"

she said curtly.

Gwen went through the basic details, leaving out only her lock-picking activities and the strange, painful memories haunting the front door.

"The back door was open when you got here," Kimberly repeated.

"It was unlocked and slightly ajar," she confirmed. "That, plus that fact that Kate's car was here, seemed sufficient reason to check things out.""Probable cause, yes, but that doesn't apply if you're not a cop."

"Like I told you, Kate and I started running together last week. She hasn't been answering her phone, she didn't show up for work. I came over to see if she was okay. That's what friends do."

"And you and Kate Myers were friends."

"Heading in that direction, yeah."

Kimberly sniffed. "Seems like you've been losing a lot of friends recently."

The snide, hateful tone in her voice snapped Gwen's patience. She rose and took one step forward, looking the taller woman hard in the eye. "True enough, but apparently not all of them were worth keeping."

A hand settled on her shoulder. Gwen spun toward Kimberly's partner, a ready snarl on her lips, and was stunned by what she saw in his eyes.

Compa.s.sion.

Ben Cerulo squeezed her shoulder and then released her. "You've had a tough time of it, Gellman. Go home, pour yourself a drink. We might have more questions later on, so stay in town, okay?"

Gwen nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Kimberly's hostility she could take and return in kind, but Ben's kindness simply undid her.

Sadly, she was cynical enough to wonder if he'd known it would, and had chosen his weapons accordingly.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Shortly before closing time, Gwen walked into a pediatrician's office in East Greenwich, the pretty, rural, and mostly upscale community where Kyle Radcliff had lived with his family.

She went to the counter window and handed the receptionist a form letter Kyle had signed, requesting a copy of his son's medical records.

The woman glanced at it. "Where do you want these records sent?"

"Could I, like, wait for it? My dad wants a copy." Gwen rolled her eyes in silent commentary on incomprehensible adult demands.

The nurse smiled. "Usually Friday is our busiest day, but things are a little slow. Let me see what I can find for you."

She turned her chair to face the computer keyboard, and her fingers clicked busily for several moments.

Her eyebrows drew together in a puzzled V.

"Are you sure you're in the right place, honey? We don't have any patient by the name of Patrick Radcliff."

Well, if Erin Westland went by more than one name, it was possible her kid had an alias or two. Gwenshowed her the picture of Erin and Patrick.

"This is my brother. Maybe there's a problem with his records?" she suggested. "You're sure you haven't seen him here?"

A younger woman, a ponytailed nurse wearing a lavender smock covered with s...o...b..-Doo cartoons, noted the photo in the receptionist's hands and bent down for a closer look.

"I don't recognize the little boy, but the girl looks familiar. I'll get Jen-she'll know. She's been here forever."

Jen, it turned out, was an older woman with deep, parenthetical frown lines framing her mouth. These lines deepened when she glanced at the picture. She shoved it back across the counter at Gwen, her face stony.

"Wait, now I remember her," announced s...o...b... "She was an office temp, but I don't think she lasted more than a day or two."

The reception's eyes widened. "Oh, she's the one who-"

She broke off abruptly and exchanged glances with the nurse. Jen marched off, her jaw set and shoulders rigid.

As Gwen reclaimed the photo, her mind was flooded by a sudden image of a short, balding man in a white medical coat, standing very close to the young woman seated on the examining table. The ring on his left hand was a match to the one Jen wore. His brown corduroy pants were in a puddle around his ankles, and a pair of slim, feminine legs wrapped around him.

Oops. That was more info on Erin Westland than Gwen wanted.

Gwen made a hasty retreat, leaving Nurse s...o...b.. to deal with the metaphorical pile of s.h.i.t she'd inadvertently stepped in.

Friday afternoon was a lousy time to be on I-95, but for once Gwen didn't mind the traffic. She had plenty to think about, starting with the question of who had died in Clyde Tremaine's car, all those years ago.

Had it really been Helene Tremaine, or did people see the mangled female body in her brother's car and make the logical a.s.sumption?

And what about Vivian Meekins? Her personality transformation had occurred right around the time of Helene's death.

Was it possible that Helene and Vivian had switched places when they were seventeen? Was the dead teenager in the car wreck Vivian, and did Helene take her place? Surely the Meekinses would have noticed if a different girl was living under their roof. Gwen could buy the theory of two teenaged girls who looked enough alike that a body, post car crash, could muddy the waters, but the girls would have to be d.a.m.n near identical for Helene/Vivian to pull off a switch.

Or would they?

Two people had identified Erin Westland's picture as Helene Tremaine: Helene's brother and the stylist at Esprit. Clyde Tremaine said the picture looked like Helene had when she died, but the hairdresserthought that Helene was considerably older than seventeen. But Kyle Radcliff said the photo was recent.

Comparing the perspectives of Kyle and Clyde, Erin/Helene looked exactly the same today as she had fifty years ago. According to Lisa the stylist, Helene was an older version of Erin.

There were two logical conclusions: either Erin and Helene were two different people, or they were two names for one person who could alter her appearance.

Well, make that one logical conclusion, and one conclusion that, though illogical, might be compatible with Gwen's broadening definition of reality.

If her theory was correct, the girl who died in the crash was in fact the real Helene, the daughter born to the Tremaines, switched in the hospital, and adopted by the Meekinses. The changeling child, a child of unknown heritage, grew up as Clyde's sister, and was now Kyle Radcliff's wife.

His runaway wife. It looked as if "Erin Westland" was well on her way to yet another ident.i.ty. At least this time, no one had died to help smooth her path.

Was this common practice with the Elder Races? Did they routinely change their ident.i.ties by arranging the death of a subst.i.tute? It appeared that they did, and in incredibly cold-blooded fashion. The amount of planning it would take to pull off the double switch-first as infants, then as teenagers-was mind-boggling.

The next question was whether or not Erin partic.i.p.ated in Vivian's death, and to what extent. These questions were of more than academic interest to Gwen. It was always good to know whether you were tracking a scared rabbit or a cornered wolf.

Erin was no innocent. The visit to the pediatrician had proven that. Kyle's meticulous financial records showed a number of bills for Patrick's routine checkups, but the pediatrician had no record of the child.

The only explanation was that Erin had finagled her way into the office as a temp and stayed long enough to steal a stack of blank bills.

That was definitely thinking ahead. It covered Erin's a.s.s in case Kyle wondered about medical care for his kid, while neatly avoiding the possibility that a doctor might find some medical anomaly. And most likely, it wasn't as if the kid needed medical treatment. If he was anything like Gwen, he'd never been sick a day in his life, and any type of medicine would work its way out of his system fast enough to render inoculations a waste of time.

When Gwen got back to her office, she pulled up Kyle's file and studied the electronic copies. As she clicked her way through them, her eye fell on the numbers on the upper right corner. The invoice numbers didn't seem to be in any particular sequence, but the numbers were within a fairly limited range.

Curious, she printed out the receipts and arranged the bills according to number. The pattern that emerged brought a wry, almost admiring smile to her face.

When the receipts from Patrick's five years of checkups were put in numerical order, they were all sequential. Erin had put them out of order to make detection less likely.

Her own medical bills were more sporadic than her son's. She seemed to have a const.i.tution similar to Gwen's. Her only medical expenses dated back to her pregnancy, and there weren't many of those, either. Apparently she'd opted for a midwife and a home birth.

Gwen glanced at the clock. It was well past seven. She'd have to wait until Monday morning to start checking out Erin's medical situation, which was fine with her. If Erin was willing to boink a baldingpediatrician just to get her hands on a stack of blank invoices, G.o.d only knew what she'd do for a copy of her ultrasound.

Gwen trudged up the stairs to her apartment. Her bedroom door stood open, and the covers from her bed were still heaped on the floor after last night's marathon. She paused at the door and debated whether to remake the bed or just flop facedown on the mattress.

"Don't let me stop you," announced an amused male voice. "In fact, I may allow myself to be persuaded to join you."

Gwen jumped and whirled toward the sound. Ian Forest, d.a.m.n his pointy little ears, was lounging on her sofa.

"Christ on stilts! Don't do that," she snapped. "What the f.u.c.k are you doing here? And come to think of it, why are your ears pointy all of a sudden?"

He came to his feet in a graceful, fluid movement. "Your perceptions have changed, that's all. People seldom notice ear shape unless the differences are extreme. A slight point toward the back of the ear is easily concealed and likely to go unnoticed. Only the jug-eared tend to draw attention."

"Like Ross Perot," she noted. "Or better yet, Prince Charles. That man could hang glide over half of Wales without equipment."

Ian's blue eyes widened in surprise, and he burst into genuine laughter.

It was, in Gwen's opinion, a big improvement from his superior, smirking humor. Against her better judgment, she felt pleased and even a little charmed.

She reminded herself that this was his gift-the ability to manipulate emotions. She remembered the too-young girls who danced at the club he managed. She reminded herself of the elaborate scheme he'd created to maneuver Edmonson out of power, using her as an unwitting tool. And finally, the reason why he was here. Ian Forost was a manipulator, a blackmailer, and quite possibly a murderer.

"Kate Myers and Jackie Teal," she said coldly. "Do you know anything about them?"

The amus.e.m.e.nt faded from his eyes. "The first name is familiar to me, but only because you two have been together several times of late. Why do you ask?"

"Kate is dead and Jackie's missing. She used to be one of Tiger Leone's girls. Lately she danced at the Extreme."

"I see," Ian mused. "That's one of Edmonson's establishments. I a.s.sume Kate Myers also had some connection with the earl?"

"He paid her way through college. I'm guessing she covered for him every now and then by fudging autopsy results."

Ian studied her. "You think those photos were a threat to frame you for murder. Edmonson's, perhaps even this Kate's."

"Wouldn't put it past you. Where's the gun?"

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and drew out the small silver weapon. He placed it on the coffee table, which was still littered with the remnants of last evening's takeout."I know this is difficult for you, Gwen," he said softly. "Your friend's honor is important to you, and that's as it should be. But you must understand that your first loyalty is to your own kind. Looking too closely into Frank Cross's death would draw too much attention to us. We can ill afford that kind of scrutiny."

"You have my oath," she snapped. "Now let me hear you say that you had nothing to do with Kate's death and Jackie's disappearance."

"Easily done. I brought no harm to either of these women. This I swear."

Gwen felt some of the tension between her shoulders seep away. "Since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful and answer a few questions. You said I have two Qualities-"

"Three, actually. The ability to remember things you haven't seen, an affinity for rain, and one that is as yet undiscovered."