Better to scope out RanchHaven, talk to the guard service, ask long-overdue questions. While she was there, she could drop in on Ramsey again, slip in some hints about Flores, see how he reacted.

Wil Fournier appeared in the squad room door, beckoning her with a wiggling finger. He looked angry. Something to do with the boy? She hurried over.

“What's up?”

“Got some people can't wait to meet you.” He angled his head down the hall. Petra looked out and saw a couple in their fifties standing at the far end. Well dressed, backs to each other.

“The parents?”

“None other,” said Fournier. “Schoelkopf snagged me as I came in, said they wanted a firsthand report from all three of us. Where's Ken?”

“Don't know.” Her tone made him stare. “What exactly do they want?”

“Info. Got any?”

“Nope, how about you?”

“Talked to a few shelters, churches, some of our Juvey people. No one knows the kid; a couple of social workers thought they might've seen him around, but he hasn't checked in anywhere.”

“Outdoor kid,” said Petra. Thinking what guts it took for an eleven-year-old to go it alone in the park.

“Let's go do some hand-holding,” said Fournier. “Female D and a coal-colored one. These people look like the type who still think lawn jockeys are funny.”

Mrs. Boehlinger was everything Petra expected- petite, perfectly groomed, handsome; long-suffering Pat Nixon handsomeness. A puff of cold-waved hair the color of dry champagne crowned a roundish face. Contoured eyebrows. Trim figure in a conservatively cut black St. John's Knits suit. Black suede pumps and purse. Red eyes.

Her husband defeated expectation. Petra had pictured a big man, hearty, someone like Ramsey. Dr. John Everett Boehlinger was five-five, 140 pounds tops, with narrow shoulders and a homely face full of homely features: fat nose, small dark eyes, rubber-mask looseness around the jowls. Bald on top, thin fringe of gray at the sides. A clipped stainless steel goatee- he could have played Freud in the country club Halloween bash.

He wore a black vested suit, white shirt, gray tie printed with tiny black dots. White silk hankie in the breast pocket. Onyx cuff links. Cap-tip shoes were polished shiny as motor oil.

Two small people in funeral garb. Mrs. Boehlinger remained focused on the wall in front of her, clenching and unclenching one hand. The other gripped her purse. Her french nails were glossy but chipped. She still had her back to her husband, didn't look up as Petra and Fournier approached.

Dr. Boehlinger had focused on them immediately, body canted forward, as if ready to spar. When they were ten feet away, he said to Petra, “You're the one I spoke to on the phone.”

“Yes, sir. Detective Connor.” She extended her hand, and he submitted to a half second of skin contact before withdrawing. Wiping his hand on his suit- oh, for God's sake.

The she reminded herself: The poor man's lost his child. Nothing worse than that.

Nothing.

He said, “Vivian?” and his wife turned slowly. Ravaged eyes, the corneas a scramble of ruptured capillaries. The irises bright blue- like Lisa's. There was more than a suggestion of Lisa in the fine facial structure. Would Lisa have ended up like this- a fashionable matron, buttoned to the neck, all propriety?

“Detective Connor, Vivian,” the doctor singsonged scoldingly.

Vivian Boehlinger's expression said, So what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

She said, “Pleased to meet you,” and profferred an icy hand.

Petra smiled. “And this is Detective Fournier-”

“We've already met Detective Fournier,” said Dr. Boehlinger. “Where's the third one- Bishop?”

“Out in the field,” said Petra.

“Out in the field- sounds like he's planting vegetables.”

“Actually, sir,” said Fournier, “it's kind of like that. We cultivate leads-”

“Wonderful,” said Boehlinger. “You know what a metaphor is. Now eliminate the chatter and tell us what you've cultivated about Ramsey.”

Mrs. Boehlinger stared, turned, showed him her back once more. He didn't notice. “Well?”

A detective named Bernstein stepped into the hall, coffee cup in hand, started forward, returned to the squad room.

“Let's talk somewhere private,” said Petra.

All three interrogation rooms were horrible- smaller than jail cells, no windows, the obvious wall of one-way mirror that most of the idiots brought in for questioning took early note of, then promptly forgot.

Bad smell in all three: sweat, pomade, cheap perfume, tobacco, hormones.

She chose Interrogation One because it had three chairs instead of two. Fournier fetched a fourth and they crowded around a tiny metal table. Forced intimacy. Mrs. Boehlinger kept looking at her nails, her knees, her shoes, anywhere but at another human being. The surgeon looked ready to slice flesh.

Petra shut the door and let in some claustrophobia. Mrs. B. was picking at her knit skirt. Boehlinger was trying to stare down Fournier.

Trying to dominate. To what end? Force of habit?

She remembered what Ramsey had told her about both parents trying to run Lisa's life. “Let me start by saying how sorry we are for your loss. We're doing everything in our power to find Lisa's killer-”

Mention of her daughter made Mrs. B. weep. The doctor made no effort to comfort her. “We know who the killer is.”

“If there's anything you can tell us to substantiate that, sir-”

“He beat her up, she left him. What more do you need?”

“Unfortunately-”

“This boy, the potential witness,” said Boehlinger. “I'm sure there've been responses to our reward.”

“A few calls have come in,” said Petra.

“And?”

“We haven't gotten to them yet, sir. Been following up other leads.”

“For Christ's sake!” Boehlinger's hand slammed the table. His wife jumped, but she didn't look at him. “I dip into my own damn pocket, do your job for you, and you don't have the decency to follow up-”

“We will, sir,” said Petra. “Soon as we're free to do so.”

“Why aren't you free?”

“We're here, sir,” said Fournier.

Boehlinger's hand rose again, and for a second Petra thought he'd try to strike Wil. But the fist froze in midair. Slight tremor. Surgeon past his prime, or the stress?

“We're delaying you? We're the problem-”

“No, sir,” said Fournier. “We appreciate all your-”

The hand slammed again. “You,” he said very softly, “are a very rude man. You're both rude.”

“John!”

“Typical,” said Boehlinger, glaring at Petra and Fournier in turn. “Civil servants. So you know nothing about this boy. Priceless, just priceless. Affirmative action at its finest- I believe we're going to have to take this one step further, Vivian. Hire our own-”

“Stop it, John. Please.”

Boehlinger laughed derisively. “We will most definitely hire our own investigator, because these two obviously aren't-”

“Shut up, John!”

The shriek filled the room. Boehlinger turned white and clawed the tabletop. His fingers failed to find purchase and his hands flattened. Without facing his wife, he said, “Vivian, I'd appreciate it if you-”

“Just shut up, John! Shutup shutup shut up!”

Now it was her turn to raise a hand. It sailed through the air like a flesh airplane, landed on her bosom, over her heart. She ran out of the room, swinging the door open, not bothering to close it.

Fournier's eyes begged for Petra to follow. Even Dr. Bile was preferable to a grieving mother.

Petra caught up with her at the end of the hall, in the stairwell, sitting on the top step, forehead to the wall, the champagne puff bobbing with each sob.

“Ma'am-”

“I'm sorry!”

“No need to apologize, ma'am.”