been given. He'd pored over the forensic reports, then had gone back

again and again to comb through Darren's room.

More than two weeks after the murder, and Lou had absolutely nothing.

For amateurs, they certainly covered their tracks, he thought. And they

had been amateurs, he was certain. Professionals didn't end up

smothering a child that might have been worth a million in ransom,

nor would they made such a poor attempt to give the illusion of a

break-in.

They had been in the house. They had walked right through the front

door. That was something else Lou was sure of. That didn't mean their

names were on the list Page had managed to compile. Half of Southern

California could have walked into the house that nightand been given a

drink or a joint or whatever party drugs had been available.

There hadn't been any fingerprints in the boy's room, not even on the

hypodermic needle. There were only fingerprints of the McAvoys and

their nanny. It seemed that Beverly McAvoy was an excellent

housekeeper. The first floor had shown the disorder expected in the

aftermath of a party, but the second floor, the family floor, had been

clean and ordered. Marge would have approved, he thought as he imagined

the rooms. No fingerprints, no dust, no signs of struggle.

But there had been a struggle, a life-and-death struggle. Sometime

during it a hand had clamped over Darren McAvoy's mouth and, perhaps

inadvertently, his nose.

That struggle had occurred sometime between the time Emma had heard her

brother cry-if indeed she had-and when Beverly McAvoy had gone up to

check on her son.

How long had it taken? Five minutes, ten. Certainly no longer.

According to the coroner, Daffen McAvoy had died between two and

two-thirty A.M. The ambulance call for Emma had been logged in at

two-seventeen.

It didn't help, Lou thought now. It didn't help to have the times

correlated, to have reams of notes and neatly labeled file folders. He

needed to find just one thing out of place, one name that didn't fit,

one story that didn't jibe.

He needed to find Darren McAvoy's killers. If he didn't, he knew he

would forever be haunted by the boy's face, and his young sister's

tearful question.

Was it my fault?

"Dad?"

Lou jolted, then turned to see his son standing behind him, tossing a

football from hand to hand.

"Michael, don't sneak up on me like that."

"I didn't." Michael rolled his eyes when his father turned around again.

If he slammed doors and walked through the house like a normal person,

he was being too noisy. If he tried to be quiet, he was sneaking. A

guy couldn't win.

"Dad," he said again.

"Hmmm?"

"You said you'd pa.s.s me a few this afternoon."

"When I'm finished, Michael."