The worst of it was Mike knew the boy’s reaction increased the likelihood that he had been molested. Unlike rapists, who committed sexual crimes out of anger or sadism, pedophiles typically had genuine feelings for their victims. Rather than forcing themselves, they tried to seduce their victims with presents and favors and promises of love. A boy like Tommy, who probably felt neglected by his own parents, was an easy mark. The pedophile had easily won his love and devotion, probably awakening erotic feelings in the boy for the first time. Tommy would be in therapy for a good long stretch, sorting out his confusion and guilt.

“Please don’t make me go home! Please!”

“I covered the apartment,” Mike said. “No sign of the kidnappers.”

Swift pulled out her walkie-talkie. “Sierra One. Do you have the perps in sight?”

“Negative. We have nothing.”

She tried all the other sniper stations. No one had seen anything.

“How can that be?” She gave the order to move in. Less than fifteen minutes later the FBI team had covered the entire building, most of which had already been evacuated. There were no traces of the criminals-or the ransom money. It was almost an hour before they located the inside door in the basement laundry room, which led to a subterranean passage from that basement to an adjacent one in the apartment complex on the opposite side of the block.

“Damn!” Swift said, banging her fist against the wall. “I can’t believe I let them get away!”

“It’s not your fault,” Mike said.

“The worst of it is, my perimeter snipers might’ve seen them leave an hour ago. But before we made our move, I pulled everyone in tight so they’d be sure to be caught after we flushed them out.”

“You did the best you could,” Mike said, trying to console her, when in truth he was just as disappointed as she was, if not more. He didn’t like to see anyone escape-but child snatchers? It made him sick to his stomach.

The parents had rushed to their boy, but Tommy didn’t want to be with them, and the Feds insisted on immediately beginning the painful process of debriefing him, trying to find out what little he remembered about his abductors and learning all the grisly details about his week in captivity. So far, Tommy was saying no physical abuse had occurred, but Mike knew the kid could just be keeping it all locked up inside. It might take several days, even weeks, before they learned the truth.

“Thanks for your help, Morelli,” Swift said, as she started toward her car. “Sorry it didn’t work out better.”

“It isn’t over yet,” he replied, and he meant it. He was not going to let these people roam free. Not in his town-not anywhere. He would not stop searching. He would hunt them relentlessly. He would follow every lead, every possibility. He would catch those miserable perverts no matter what it took.

2

Evanston, Illinois,

near the Phillips College campus

Fourteen miles north of Chicago

“Which one do you think is the cop?” Shelly asked.

Tony surveyed the entire bar-stools, tables, dance floor, TV monitors, pool tables. “Hard to say. What do you think?”

Shelly tilted her head. “See the guy at Table Two? I think it’s him.”

“Why him? I see several new faces in the bar tonight. The woman with the black leather fixation. The two nerds dancing the Batusi.”

She shook her head. “Nope. Table Two.”

“Because he’s wearing a tie?”

“Because he has food stains on his tie. Also, check out the socks. They don’t match.”

“And that makes him a cop?”

“Who else would have such poor personal habits?”

“Oh, anyone single. Which would be everyone in this bar.”

“People coming to a singles bar hoping to hook up with someone are going to doll themselves up. Including guys. Only someone working undercover would wear those socks. I mean, one of them is argyle, for God’s sake. The other is a sweat sock. They’re not even close.”

Tony relented. Shelly was an astute judge of humanity; that was why he put her behind the bar. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got my eyes on one of the guys next to the dance floor. Table Ten.”

“Which one?”

“The blonde.”

“You’re saying he’s the cop? Or you’re just saying you have your eye on him?”

Tony smiled. “How well you know me.”

Shelly was, as Tony’s mother was fond of saying, cute as a bug. Barely five feet tall-she had to stand on a box to reach the glasses hanging over the bar. She had a pert, trim figure, and an effervescent personality that patrons loved. It was more than just her personal adorableness-even Tony loved to watched her work as she darted from one station to the next, working three mixed drinks simultaneously and getting them all exactly right. He loved it when she pumped the Bass Ale spigot; it made a pneumatic hissing noise that reminded him of the elevator brakes in the Sears Tower. Shelly was good, and he wasn’t the only one who knew it. Some of the regulars dropped by Remote Control just to see her. One of his very first actions when he became manager was making her head bartender for the after-work shift. Drink sales rose dramatically.

Decisions like that were what put Tony where he was today. Not that managing a near-campus singles bar was going to rival Supreme Court justice as one of the country’s most desirable jobs. But given where he had come from, what he’d had to overcome to get to this point, he felt pretty good about it. The bar was thriving, and he liked to think he’d played some small part in that success, since the whole place was his idea.

He’d spent the whole evening trying to keep a smile on his face, but the truth was all these rumors about undercover narcs were worrying him. Even if there was nothing to it, the gossip alone could put a serious dent in their business. And that caused him considerable concern.

He tried to shrug it off, but there was a heaviness settling in, fogging his brain, that he couldn’t quite shake loose. It was nothing tangible or rational-but it was there, just the same. Like a shadow hovering over his shoulder. A pervasive uneasiness he couldn’t talk himself out of, since he didn’t know what was causing it. He’d had black patches before; they were always there, always lurking, the enemy within. He had tried to conquer them, without success. He thought he’d mastered the situation, but even that seemed in doubt, what with everything going on at the bar, at school. With Roger.

He knew it was foolish to take everything that happened here so personally. Mario owned the place, not him. But he was its creator. He couldn’t help having some paternal feelings, weird as that was. To him, this job was one long party. And he needed that party. Needed it to remind himself that he was happy. No matter what happened. Happy, happy, happy.

Remote Control was particularly crowded tonight. All the bar stools were filled and there was a half-hour wait for a table. All for the good. The bar was more fun when it was packed, more alive. The rich dark oak fixtures gave the place an Old World feel-in direct conflict with the ambience suggested by all the high-tech gadgetry. The decor was full of contradictions, and Tony embraced them all. He loved it here.

“I’ve got two Coronas headed to your blond boytoy’s table,” Shelly said, sliding the tray toward him. “I know you executive types don’t normally perform manual labor, but-”

“I’ll take it.”

Tony checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. Sandy blond locks, bangs dangling over one eye the way he liked them. Could you tell he’d been working out? I mean, he could tell, but could anyone else? Like the blond guy at Table Ten?

“Two Coronas for the gentlemen,” Tony announced as he lowered the tray. “As ordered.”