He actually blew her a kiss before wading off into the crowd.

Shawna heaved a relieved sigh. "That was quick thinking, girl. It was something, the way you changed the way you talked, even the way you moved. I swear you dropped ten years just like that," she marveled, snapping her fingers for emphasis.

"More like twenty," Gwen said. "I'm glad you're impressed, but like anything else, it comes with practice."

Enough practice, she added silently, to suspect that any meeting Roy's secretary set up would only be canceled later on. The man seemed to be genuinely into Shawna, but Gwen was willing to bet he didn't have a lot of time for anyone else.

"I don't expect to get much information from this career-day shtick, but it will give me a chance to observe Roy for a couple of hours, pick up some impressions."

"Pick up impressions," Shawna echoed, her expression suddenly more guarded. "Damian said your instincts are very good."

"Don't worry-I always back everything up with completely unspooky data. I'll get you a report within, say, two weeks?"

"That will be fine. What do I owe you?"

"Work that out with your brother. He helped me on a recent case, so this is me paying him back."

Shawna's eyebrows flew up. "Keeping it off the books?"

"Oddly enough, that's the term he used.""I'm not surprised. Actually, I suppose I am a little surprised," she amended, "but that's because 'keeping it off the books' is what we call our in-family barter system."

"Oh."

Gwen couldn't think of anything to add to that. Family was a mystery to her. If she'd ventured onto O'Riley turf, it was entirely by accident.

After a moment Shawna glanced at her watch. "I've got to run, but I'll look forward to hearing from you."

"You go ahead." Gwen lifted her coffee cup. "I'm going to need a refill."

After her new client left, Gwen tossed back the cooling brew and went through line for a takeaway cup.

She walked a couple of blocks down a side street to where she'd parked her car. Thanks to the check Kyle Radcliff had written her last night, she'd been able to pick up her Toyota first thing this morning.

The rusting blue antique didn't look any better than it had, but at least it didn't break down between the coffee shop and Gwen's apartment. She parked it in the garage next to Sylvia's black Mercedes sedan, turned off the car, and chugged her second cup of coffee while she listened to the engine sputter and wheeze into silence. Thus fortified, she marched into the office.

It was time to face her computer.

Brushing the dust off the laptop took longer than it should have. So did powering it up. The infernal machine seemed to be sulking about its long period of neglect. After too d.a.m.n long, Gwen pulled up her list of bookmarked Web sites and got to work.

The information on Roy Williams's business card was enough to get her started. It didn't take long to find his home address, phone numbers, Social Security number, credit report, and over a dozen articles in local newspapers that mentioned his name. Apparently he sailed compet.i.tively, attended big-ticket charity events, and liked to hobn.o.b with local politicians. A quick phone call to one of the few Providence cops who still spoke to her confirmed that Roy had no police record, other than a ticket for speeding four years back.

In fact, she couldn't find a single thing wrong with this guy.

Yet.

She sat up and stretched, catlike. The buzzer on her intercom sounded while she was still in midstretch.

"It's Jason Cross," announced the disembodied voice. "I was driving back from a computer cla.s.s and got the impulse to stop by."

It occurred to Gwen that Jason had never been to her place. They'd gotten together several times since Frank's funeral, but she'd never invited him here. For that matter, she'd never told him where she lived.

No mystery there-no doubt he'd found her address among his father's things.

"Come on up. My office is in the garage at the end of the drive."

She buzzed him through and watched as he drove up. He'd ditched the rental in favor of a used two-seater, and the day was warm enough to warrant putting the top down. His new ride gave her a chance to study him. She'd done quite a bit of that over the past week, but he still puzzled her.

For one thing, Jason Cross didn't look a thing like his father. Frank had always reminded Gwen of aKodiak bear: big, blond, and powerful in a way that could be rea.s.suring or intimidating, depending on which side of the law you happened to be standing. Apparently Jason took after his mother, whom Frank had described as small and dark, with more than a little Narragansett ancestry. Frank's features had been bluff and broad, but Jason had high cheekbones and a slight convex curve to his nose. His best feature was his eyes, which were a warm chocolate brown. Gwen had always appreciated Frank's edgy energy, but there was something to be said for the calm, kind, centered look in the younger man's dark-eyed gaze.

The problem was, she couldn't get behind those eyes. Reading people was a survival skill, one Gwen had learned early. For some reason, she couldn't begin to figure out what made Jason Cross tick.

"Door's open," she called in response to his knock.

Jason came in and gave her one of his peaceful smiles. "You look busy. Should I come back later?"

She pushed away from the table. "No, I'm glad you stopped by. I've been hooked up to this d.a.m.n machine all morning. I can't believe yon pay to play around with computers."

"I've got the equipment, so why not learn to use it?"

Gwen propped her feet up on the table. "That's pretty much what Frank said when the department issued computers. He figured what the h.e.l.l-might as well do it right. Somewhere along the line he crossed over from hobby to obsession, but he had a good time with it."

"I can see why. The information on the Web is amazing. He bookmarked some really interesting stuff."

A wave of trepidation swept through Gwen. She'd carefully gone through Frank's files, deleting anything to do with his final case: the death of Gwen's parents and the key to her ident.i.ty. But the disc Damian had given her last night was proof that computers didn't forget easily. How did Damian put it? Deleted, but not gone.

She reminded herself that Jason was a beginner, probably a long way from peeling secrets off a hard drive. Plus, why would he think to look? And even if he did, it wasn't as if she could do anything about it.

Frank's stuff rightfully belonged to Jason.

An irrational surge of resentment followed that thought. Sure, Jason was Frank's kid, but he was a stranger. She'd been the only family Frank had had for fifteen years.

It occurred to her that the silence had stretched for too long, and that Jason was watching her intently.

"Long morning," she said shortly, by way of explanation.

"Anything I can do to help?"

She shrugged and tapped her laptop with one boot-dad toe. "Not much more to do here. I've pulled together some basic info, but these days I outsource most of my electronic footwork."

His face brightened with interest. "Oh yeah? Who does that kind of work?"

"I use a public-information broker to collect info that's in the public domain. He's not cheap, but my time is put to better use gathering information in person."

"What about info that's not public domain?"

He sounded curious but not judgmental. This guy was definitely a computer natural-after a couplesessions, he was already developing a hacker's mentality.

"I've got contacts who can find anything."

"Legally?"

Another question that didn't come with moral baggage, she noted. Interesting. Most people had a truckload of it, even the ones who didn't let their moral codes interfere with their own behavior.

Jason cleared his throat. "I wasn't implying that you were doing anything illegal. Well, maybe I was, but I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't," she a.s.sured him. "My mind was wandering, that's all. The contacts I mentioned strive to be legally bulletproof. Part of the job-they're reporters for a tabloid."

He let out a long, low whistle. "You don't strike me as someone who'd be a fan of the tabloid press."

"Who said I was? My friend Sister Tamar-she's a nun, which you probably figured out from the name-claims there's a special layer of h.e.l.l reserved for the people who publish that c.r.a.p. But you've got to admit they're d.a.m.ned good at what they do."

His eyes twinkled. "Like the saying goes, 'It wouldn't be prudent to worship the devil, but we should at least respect his talents.'"

"There you go," Gwen said approvingly. "Who said that?"

"Mark Twain, I think. Or Oscar Wilde. It's usually one or the other." He settled one hip on the edge of her desk. "Do you have time to get some lunch?"

"I wish," she grumbled. "I've got another hour or so of work to do on another case, then I'll be heading down to Tiverton to talk to some people."

"You have a lot of irons in the fire."

"Yeah, well. Life is full of unanswered questions. So is death, for that matter."

Even to Gwen's ears, her words sounded bitter. A long moment of silence stretched between them.

"Gwen, let it go," he said gently.

She didn't have to ask what he meant. It wasn't the first time Jason had urged her to let the official story about his father's death stand: Frank Cross, a recovering alcoholic, fell off the wagon and into the Narragansett Bay.

End of story.

In a way, Gwen couldn't blame Jason. He never knew his father, and all he had to go on was what people had told him. Frank had been drinking pretty hard all during their partnership, and Gwen was willing to bet that Jason's mother had harbored some resentment.

Or maybe Jason was keeping it light because he was more interested in her than in restoring his father's reputation?

Nah, that didn't play. Jason treated her like a buddy. In the week since they'd met, he hadn't shown any inclination toward getting naked and sweaty.And come to think of it, what was up with that? Just because a guy wanted to be friends with a woman, it didn't follow that he wasn't also interested in sleeping with her, if only just once. Since curiosity was one of Gwen's defining traits, this impulse had always struck her as not only natural but sensible.

"I've got to head down to Tiverton one of these days," Jason said. "Good place to get a kayak, I hear.

You ever try that?"

"No. I went out clamming with Frank from time to time, but his rowboat is pretty much the limits of my ability."

"I'm glad you've been using it."

Gwen's only response was a curt nod. Since the funeral, she'd taken Frank's rowboat out several times, hoping this familiar activity would jump-start her capricious "gift" into doing something useful. But she hadn't been able to pick up any images or impressions, no glimpses of how he had died. When it really mattered, her visions deserted her.

"I've been thinking of selling the bigger boat," Jason said hesitantly. "What would you think about that?"

"Why should what I think matter?"

He shrugged. "You were Frank's family."

Gwen averted her gaze, not wanting Jason to see her response to that central truth. She swung her feet off her desk and rose, turning aside as she stretched.

"Listen, why don't you drive down to Tiverton with me? You're not working until tonight, right? I could swing by your place around noon to pick you up."

"She can take a hint!" he said cheerfully. "And since I also have that ability, I'll be leaving now. Noon works for me. I'll make a couple of subs to eat on the way."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You should make one for yourself, too."

"I've never seen anyone your size who could chow down like you do."

"What can I say? It's a gift."

His chuckle wafted back to her as the door swung shut. She watched his car pull away, then got out the notes she'd taken last night during her meeting with Kyle Radcliff.

Gwen found a Web site for Erin's place of business, a little shop in Tiverton called The Green Man. But when she started digging, she found that the shop was jointly owned by Alice Powers-the business partner-and Kyle Radcliff. Kyle Radcliff, not Erin Westland.

So much for "her own little business." Gwen wasn't too surprised; Kyle had always been a controlling b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Come to think of it, he'd mentioned that Erin didn't have an income.

Nor did she have a.s.sets.

Her name wasn't on anything-not the mortgage on Kyle's house, not Kyle's bank accounts, not even the car she drove.How much of that was Kyle's choice, Gwen wondered, and how much of it was Erin's? Was it possible that Kyle's desire to dominate and control harmonized with Erin's need to be invisible?

According to Kyle, Erin had been born in Mystic, Connecticut. Her birthday was in late March, so she'd recently turned thirty-one. But there was no birth record for anyone by that name in or around Mystic.

No school records, no voter registration. A search for Social Security numbers yielded a few Erin Westlands, but none of them were from Connecticut. There wasn't much on Patrick, other than the SSI number. The kid wasn't in school yet, so he was too young to have left many electronic footprints.

Gwen shut down her computer and was on her way out the door when the phone rang. She lunged for it and hit the speaker b.u.t.ton before the machine could pick up.

"Changeling Detective Agency."

"You busy tonight?" inquired Damian without preamble.

Gwen glanced at her watch. "No, but I'm busy now. Talk fast."

"I set up a meet for tonight. The dealer is expecting me to bring a girl with me. You want in, or should I bring another cop?"

"Yes to both. I want in, but you should still bring backup. When and where do I meet you?"

He gave her the name of a little park on the East Side, a common meeting place for drug deals despite its proximity to the police department.

"I can do that," Gwen said. "But with one slight change."

In a few words, she blocked out an alternate scenario. Damian heard her out, then chuckled appreciatively.