moment he had mentioned the night her brother had died her eyes had gone

blank and her body had stiffened. Instinct told him she had seen or

heard something, but her memory of that night was already bluffed. It

was peopled with monsters and snarling shadows.

He didn't care to admit that breaking the case depended on a terrified

six-year-old whose memory of that night, according to the psychologists

he'd interviewed, might never return.

There was still the pizza man, Lou thought grimly. It had taken him two

days to locate the right shop and the clerk who'd been working the

graveyard shift. He'd remembered the order for fifty pizzas, and had

considered it a joke. But he'd also remembered the name of the person

who'd placed the order.

Tom Fletcher, a session musician who played both alto and tenor sax, had

had a yen for pizza that night. It had taken weeks to track him

down, and weeks more to put through the paperwork to bring the musician

back from his gig in Jamaica.

Lou preferred pinning his hopes there. Whoever had been in Darren's

room hadn't come back down the main stairs or climbed out of the window.

That left the kitchen stairs where Tom Fletcher had been trying to

convince the night clerk to deliver fifty pizzas with everything.

"Hey, Dad, that was the best." Michael dragged his feet on the sidewalk

to give himself a few more moments. He pulled open the door of his

father's '68 Chevelle, craning his neck to look at the upper windows of

the building at his back. "The guys are going to go nuts when I tell

them. It's okay to tell them now, right? Everybody knows you've got

the case."

"Yeah." Lou pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and

forefinger. He wasn't sure if the headache had been brought on by

tension or the furious pulse of music. "Everybody knows." He'd burrowed

his way through a trio of press conferences.

"How come they got all those security guards?" Michael wanted to kncrw.

"What guards?"

"Those." As his father settled into the driver's seat, Michael pointed

to the four dark-suited, broad-shouldered men near the entrance of the

building.

"How do you know they're guards?"

"Come on." Michael rolled his eyes. "You can always tell cops. Even

rent-a-cops."

Lou wasn't sure if he should wince or laugh. He wondered how his

captain would feel if he knew the average eleven-year-old could make an

undercover cop. "Th keep people from ha.s.sling them, maybe hurting them.

And the little girl," Lou added. "Someone might try to kidnap her."

"Jeez. You mean they've got to have guards all the time?"

"Yes."

"b.u.mmer," Michael murmured sincerely, no longer sure he wanted to pursue

the idea of becoming a rock star. "I'd hate to have people watching me

all the time. I mean, how could you have any secrets?"

"It's tough."

As his father pulled away from the curb, Michael cast one last look over

his shoulder. "Can we go to McDonald's?"