“Touch her arm, shoulder, anything?”

“Oh yeah! When he first came up. He put his hand on her arm. And he escorted her to his car, you know. Got the door for her. A girl like her probably has a thing about manners.” The kid nodded, then sighed morosely. At his age, he probably understood how life worked, and that guys like him never won a girl like Meg.

“Was he still holding her arm when he got the car door?” Griffin pressed.

“Well, now that you mention it. He had his left hand on her arm, and he got the door with his right.”

“He never let go of her?”

“I guess not.”

Griffin and Fitz exchanged new glances. This did not sound good. Griffin glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-six A.M. Shit, they were never going to make Price's twelve o'clock deadline.

“What time did she pull up?” Fitz's gaze had followed Griffin's to the watch, and his tone held fresh urgency.

“Oh, a while ago. Wait-a big Suburban had just filled up both tanks. That was a couple of pennies. Let me check the receipts.”

The kid opened his register and started slowly turning over pieces of paper. Griffin and Fitz began shifting restlessly. The clock was ticking, ticking, ticking. The kid idly turned over one receipt, said “Huh,” then moved methodically to another. Then another. Then another. Just when Griffin thought he couldn't take it anymore, Fitz snapped.

The detective snaked his arm across the counter and grabbed the kid's wrist. “Listen, just estimate. Eight, nine, ten A.M., what?”

“Uh.” The kid looked down at the detective's whitened knuckles. “Nine A.M., sir!”

“Fine, thanks. You've been great.” Fitz was motioning at Griffin furiously. He said to the kid, “A uniform is going to come by shortly to take your statement. I want you to tell him everything you've told us, plus anything more you remember. Can you do that?”

“Um, yes, sir.”

“This is important. We appreciate your help. Okay?”

“Okay, sir!”

“Good man. We'll be in touch.” Fitz headed out the door, working to catch up with Griffin, who was already on his hands and knees beside Meg's car. Ten seconds later, Griffin spotted a silver flash and fished out a key ring from beneath the vehicle.

He and Fitz stared at the mass of keys, complete with a green plastic parrot from a Jimmy Buffet concert.

“She probably still had them in her hand,” Griffin mused. “Then when the guy grabbed her arm…” He released his hold, and the keys dropped just about where he'd found them.

“I don't think she met a friend,” Fitz said quietly.

“No.”

“Why do you think he grabbed her now?”

“Because nobody can crack a case in two hours and David Price knows it.” Griffin reached down to recover the keys, then glanced up at Fitz. “Price is betting he's going to get his little hardship leave at six P.M. And when he makes his break for it, he doesn't want to be alone.”

“Poor Meg,” Fitz murmured. “Poor Molly.”

Griffin glanced at his watch. Five minutes before noon. He said, “If David Price gets out of prison, poor all of us. Let's go.”

Griffin and Fitz had no sooner gotten back into the car than Griffin's cell phone chirped. It was Waters.

“My two hours are up. Sorry, Griff, I have nothing.”

“How many bars?”

“We've hit two dozen and counting. You know, this entire city is nothing but one giant tavern. Several places reported knowing Tawnya, but they mostly recognized her picture from the five o'clock news. One place said she used to come in, but that was before she got pregnant.”

“Get more uniforms and keep trying. Someone had to see something.”

“Will do.”

“Mike… Meg Pesaturo is missing. She was last seen being led into a car by a strange man. Whatever's going down, it's already started. We have to catch up, Mike, and we have to do it now.”

“Griffin, it's already twelve-”

“I'll take care of Price's deadline. You just keep on looking for information on Tawnya Clemente. Got it?”

Griffin hit end, then started punching a fresh round of numbers.

“Calling God for a miracle?” Fitz asked glumly.

“Nah, even better. Corporal Charpentier.”

Griffin got Charpentier's pager, punched in his number followed by one for urgent, and in thirty seconds had Charpentier ringing back.

“Where are you?” Griffin asked. He could hear lots of noise in the background.

“Parking lot of Max. Maureen Haverill of Channel Ten just finished up with David Price's lawyer. Now she's demanding to speak with Price. Visiting hours for his cell block officially start at noon. Sergeant, I think the jig is up.”

“Got my lists?”

“Detective James is downloading names as we speak. We're talking nearly a hundred men, though. I don't see how it's going to help.”

“I have a new theory. Cull out names of people David Price met when he was still at Intake, before he got sentenced. And of those names, guys that didn't end up going to jail. Maybe they were found innocent, or got off on a technicality, anything.”

“Why those guys?”

“Because after the first rape happened, Detective Fitz says they rattled the sex-offender tree and nothing fell out. So maybe the real rapist isn't a convicted sex offender. He was arrested but not convicted.”

“Meaning his DNA is in the system,” Corporal Charpentier filled in slowly, “taken at the time of his arrest. The rapist himself, however, is still a free man.”

“A free man in need of a new way to do things,” Griffin said.

“Which David Price helped him find,” Charpentier concluded. “Why not? As long as you're in jail, why not pick the brain of a master?”

There was more noise in the background. Charpentier's voice grew muffled, as if he was covering his mouth with his hand. “Sergeant, I can get you the list, but it will probably be another hour and it looks like this media circus is about to begin. The director of the department of corrections wants to examine the cameraman's equipment, but he can't keep the press out. It's visiting hours, Price's lawyer has sanctioned the interview… We're screwed.”

“How long will examining the equipment take?”

“Fifteen minutes at most. We might stretch it to twenty.”

Griffin glanced at his watch. They were almost at the Como residence, but fifteen minutes would never be enough time to break Tawnya Clemente. And once Maureen stuck her microphone in front of Price and he began his pathetic spiel…

“Code,” Griffin said suddenly.

“Code?”

“Yeah. Code Blue or Code White, I'll settle for any color. If there's a code, they have to shut down the whole prison, right? Clear everyone out, even lawyers and aspiring news anchors?”

“That's right,” Charpentier said, his voice picking up.

“And it could take a while to sort it all out and let everyone back in, right? Prisoners have to be searched and escorted back to the visiting areas. Maureen and Jimmy would have to go back through security…”

“It could take a while,” Charpentier agreed happily. Then he hesitated. Griffin understood. A Code Blue only happened if there was a major disturbance, a guard down, a fight between two inmates. A Code White, on the other hand, was sounded in case of a medical emergency. Either way, something had to happen in the prison first. “The director isn't wild about a news team entering the prison,” Charpentier said finally. “I could talk to him. Maybe now would be a good time for a drill. You know, as a favor to the state police.”

“We would appreciate that favor,” Griffin said.

“Hang on a sec.” There was a pause, the muffled sound of footsteps, then some definitely muffled talking. Moments later, Charpentier was back. “You know what? It turns out Max hasn't had a drill in quite some time. The real thing, sure, but not a drill. And you know how it goes, if you don't practice every now and then…”

“You're golden, Corporal, and tell the director we always approve of good practice. One more thing-”