Four P.M. Griffin, Fitz and Waters finally found the Korporate Klean world headquarters. In other words, a decrepit old warehouse in south Providence, amid a bunch of even more decrepit old buildings. Apparently cleaning companies didn't make as much money as, say, sperm banks.

The front doors were locked. Griffin started punching buttons on the mounted intercom system while Waters gazed up at the security camera. It took four or five rings before a scratchy female voice crackled through the box.

“What?”

“We're looking for Korporate Klean,” Griffin said.

“Why?”

“We're dirty and we need a good scrubbing, why do you think?”

“You cops?”

“Worse,” Griffin announced. “We're IRS.”

That did the trick. The doors instantly buzzed open. A bunch of ex-cons would have nothing but disdain for law enforcement. Everyone, on the other hand, fears the IRS.

Up on the fifth floor, the office “suite” of Korporate Klean was a pleasant surprise compared to the rest of the building. Sure, the gray carpet was threadbare, the bone-colored walls boring, but the place was spic-and-span. Even smelled like ammonia and Pine-Sol. This must be where the recruits practiced their new trade.

The three detectives came to an empty front desk in the tiny entryway, gazed down a long narrow hallway behind it and waited impatiently for someone to appear. Griffin's leg was starting to jiggle again. He clasped his hands behind his back so no one would see them shake. When he glanced back up, Waters was staring at him, so maybe he wasn't fooling anyone after all.

Four-oh-three P.M. Not much time. Christ…

A door down the hall finally opened. A girl with jet-black hair walked out, wearing way too many piercings and not nearly enough clothes.

“May I help you?” she asked, and gave them a very direct glance for someone half-naked in front of three men.

“We're looking for the owner of Korporate Klean.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“Taxes.”

“IRS agents don't make house calls.”

“How would you know?” Griffin gave up on the staring contest. He flashed his ID. “This is official business. Find the owner. Now.”

The girl raised a silver-studded brow, gave them a dismissive look just so they'd know that they hadn't scared her, and then retreated down the hall.

Griffin's other leg got a tremor. He paced around the room while Waters and Fitz watched.

Another minute, a long, interminable minute. One of so many minutes, ticking, ticking, ticking. Didn't anyone understand the urgency of time?

The girl finally returned. Mr. Sal Green would see them now. The last doorway on the left. Try not to break anything on their way there.

Too late. They stormed down the hall, stormed into the room and arrived as a definite physical presence.

“Officers.” An older, trimly built man in faded jeans and a graying ponytail greeted them as they burst into the office. He belatedly rose to his feet, then waved his hand vaguely at the two empty chairs.

“Sergeant,” Griffin corrected him sharply.

Green wasn't impressed. He shrugged, then commented, “I'd say I'm surprised by your visit, but of course I'm not. What happened this time, gentlemen? A paper clip is missing from someone's lobby, and you're here to follow up with your favorite scapegoats?”

“The state police doesn't get involved in missing paper clips.”

“Oh, you're right, you're right. So one of my crews was speeding instead. You know, it really is safe to hand them the ticket. Not all ex-cons bite.”

Griffin's blood pressure jumped another fifty points. He turned to Waters, who got the hint.

“We need a name,” Waters said.

“No kidding.”

“We need to know who works the sperm bank up in Pawtucket and we need a record of their date-of-hire.”

“Then I would need a subpoena.”

“Then you're going to need a cast,” Griffin growled.

“Oooh, good cop, bad cop.” Green turned to Fitz. “What are you, the comedic sidekick?”

Fitz said, “I'm the corroborative witness who'll testify that the first two didn't really hurt you.”

“Oh spare me.” Green sat back down behind his desk. “Look, I run a good company, with good guys. You people run screaming through my personnel records once a month, and you haven't found anything yet. Whatever it is this time, get a subpoena. If you finally have proof someone in my employ has done bad, then you shouldn't have any trouble getting a judge to agree.”

“We don't have time,” Waters said tightly.

“And I don't have a million dollars. Welcome to life.”

Griffin had had enough. He planted his hands on the desk, leaned in until his face was inches from Green's and held the man's stare. “It involves the College Hill Rapist, got it? Have you been watching the news? Do you understand what we're talking about?”

Green finally paused. He looked away from Griffin, then frowned. “My guys work at night-”

“Not every night.”

“I vet them myself. We have no one with a history of sex crimes. The women on my crews would object-or hurt him.”

“This guy was never convicted.”

“Then how do you know he's one of mine? Look, Sergeant, I'm just a beleaguered small-business owner, and you're not making a very good case.”

“We have our reasons. We have compelling reasons-”

“Then tell them to a judge,” Green interrupted firmly. He picked up his phone, as if to signal that he was done.

Griffin slammed the phone back down. “If another girl is hurt-”

“Then you know where to find me, don't you, Sergeant?”

“You son of a bitch,” Fitz snarled.

Green shot him a look, too. He was angry now and it showed in his face. “Gentlemen, it's called due process. You're the police, you ought to know about it. Now if I were you, I'd find a judge. Because it's getting late, and frankly I plan on going home at five.”

Griffin almost went for him then. Blood pressure so high. Ringing so loud in his ears. Waters touched his arm. He reined himself back in. Breathe deep, count to ten. Count to twenty. Man was an asshole. The world was filled with them.

“We'll be back,” Griffin said.

“You and Schwarzenegger,” Mr. Green said dryly and picked up his phone.

They exited the building fast. Four thirty-two and counting. “We need a judge, a friendly judge,” Griffin growled. “I'm out of the loop.”

“I know one,” Waters said immediately.

“Okay, you and I will get the warrant. You”-Griffin turned to Fitz-“watch the building. I don't want to come all the way back with paper just to find Mr. Bleeding Heart gone.”

“Oooh, me and all the ex-cons. I can hardly wait.”

“Neither can they. Come on, Waters. Let's roll.”

Fitz went back inside the building. Waters and Griffin climbed into Waters's car. The sky was still light, dusk three hours away. But it would come, and it would come quick, and Price would be out of prison, walking toward his five-year-old daughter. While some young college student walked out of the student union, headed for her apartment.

And Meg? And Jillian? And Carol?

Griffin had failed his wife once. He had failed ten helpless children. He had failed himself. He was supposedly older and wiser now. He didn't want to fail again.

“Are you going to make it?” Waters asked tightly.

“I'm holding it together.”

“Just barely.”

“See?” Griffin said lightly. “I've made progress.”

Four forty-six.

A corrections officer stopped outside the solitary-confinement cell where David Price had been temporarily placed.

“Hands,” the guard said.

“You're going to shackle me already? Wow, you guys really aren't leaving anything to chance.”