He hoped for the best.

But after glancing at the files the detective merely scooted into the seat across from Matthews and shook his hand.

They made small talk for a few moments-Matthews using his best government-speak. Stiff, awkward. If the fake files hadn’t fooled the cop the stilted language surely would have.

The waitress came and they ordered. Matthews wasn’t surprised when the detective ordered milk with dinner. Matthews himself ordered a beer.

He said, “I’m afraid we don’t have many leads. But from what you were telling me you think there’s a chance she was kidnapped?”

“First I just thought she ran off. But there’s apparently a tape that shows somebody switching her car with this gray Mercedes around the time she vanished. And maybe hustling the girl into the trunk, unconscious.”

“I see,” said Aaron Matthews, who felt fire burn right through him. His battleship gray 560 sat in the parking lot, fifty feet from them. Resplendent with its stolen license plates.

A tape? Who’d taken it? He was furious for a moment but anger was a luxury he had no time for.

“You’ve got this tape?”

“Vanished into thin air. Long story.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t envy you that job,” the detective said. “Looking for missing kids all day long. Must be hard.” Revealing a sentimental side Matthews wouldn’t have guessed he had.

Matthews said in a soft voice, “It’s where I feel I can make the most difference.” Their drinks came. They clinked glasses. Matthews spilled some beer on the table. Wiped it up sloppily with a cocktail napkin.

“Detective-”

“Call me ‘Konnie.’ Everybody else does.”

“Okay Konnie. I hate to ask but I don’t know this Collier and the question’s come up. Do you think there was anything between him and the girl?”

“Naw. Not Tate. If anything, just the opposite.”

“How’s that?”

“Hell, I didn’t even know he had a daughter until we’d been working together awhile. It’s not that. I do think somebody ‘napped her. No motive yet, though might be a case Tate’s working on. He’s decided this local real estate guy didn’t do it. But I’m not so sure. I also have some thoughts about the girl’s aunt-apparently she’s pretty jealous of her sister having a child.”

Bett’s sister… How did Konnie know about her?

“I ‘statted some tire treads and got a list of a hundred and a half people bought that brand of tire in the past year. Could I give you the receipts”-he patted the briefcase-”have your people check ‘em out?”

“Be happy to. Have you done anything with them yet?”

“Just run ‘em through the outstanding warrants and arrests. Nothing showed up.”

Planning for the kidnapping, Matthews had bought new tires for the car two months ago; he couldn’t afford to be slowed up by a flat. At least when he’d taken the car into General Tire he’d given a fake name and paid cash.

“But then I got to thinking,” Konnie continued, “on the way over here, what I shoulda done-I shoulda looked at the receipts and found out who paid cash. Anybody who did, I figure it’d be a fake name. I mean, those tires cost big money. Nobody pays cash for something like that. So what your folks could do is check the tags and see if the name matches-on all the cash receipts. If they don’t then that’s our prime suspect.”

Jesus in heaven. Matthews hadn’t swapped plates when he’d taken the car in to have the new tires mounted. The tag would reveal his real name and the address of his rental house in Prince William County. Which didn’t match the fake information he’d given the clerk at the tire store.

“That’s a good idea,” Matthews said. “A proactive idea.” He sounded casual but he wanted to scream. A dark mood hovered over him.

The food came and Konnie ate hungrily, hunched over his meal.

Matthews picked at his. He’d have to act soon. He flagged the waitress down and ordered another beer.

“You want to give me those receipts?” Matthews nodded at the briefcase.

“Sure, but let’s go back to headquarters after. It’s right up the street here. You can fax ‘em to your office.”

“Okay.”

The second beer came. Konnie glanced at it for a second, returned to his food.

“This Tate Collier,” Matthews said slowly, savoring his microbrew. “Sounds like a good man.”

“None better. Best fucking lawyer in the commonwealth. I get sick of these shits getting off on technicalities. When Collier was arguing the case they went to jail and stayed there.”

Matthews held up the beer. “To your theory of tires.”

The detective hesitated then they tapped glasses. Matthews drank half the beer, exhaled with satisfaction and set it down. “Hot for April, don’t you think?”

“Is,” the detective grunted.

Matthews asked, “You on duty now?”

“Naw, I been off for three hours.”

“Then hell, chug down that milk and let me buy you a real drink.” He tapped the beer.

“No thanks.”

“Come on, nothing like a nice beer on a hot day”

‘Fact is, I gave up drinking a few years back.”

Matthews looked mortified. “Oh, I’m son’.”

‘Not at all.”

“I wasn’t thinking. A man drinking milk. Shouldn’t have ordered this. I am sorry’.”

The cop held up a calm hand.” ‘S no problem at all, I don’t hold with making other folk change their way of life ‘cause of me.”

Matthews lifted the glass of beer. “You want me to get rid of it or anything?”

As the cop glanced at the beer his eyes flashed-the same as they had when he’d walked through the bar, looking longingly at the row of bottles limed up like prostitutes on a street corner.

“Nope,” the detective said. “You can’t go hiding from it.” He ate some more mashed potatoes then said, “Where you find most of the runaways go?”

Matthews enjoyed each small sip of the beer. The detective eyed him every third or fourth. The aroma from the liquid he’d spilled-on purpose-filled the booth with a sour malty scent. “Always the big city. What a lure New York is. They think about getting jobs, becoming Madonna or whoever the girls want to become nowadays. The boys think they’ll get laid every night.” Matthews sipped the beer again and looked outside. “Damn hot. Imagine that battle.”

“ Bull Run?”

“Yep, well, I call it first Manassas but that’s because I’m from Pennsylvania.” Matthews enjoyed another sip. “You married?”

Or did the wife leave the drunk?

“Was. Divorced now”

“Kids?”

Or did they cut Daddy off cold when they got tired of him passing out during Jeopardy! on weeknights and puking to die every Sunday morning?

“Two. Wife’s got ‘em. See ‘em some holidays.”

Matthews poured down another mouthful, “Must be tough.” “Can be.” The fat cop took refuge in his potatoes.

After a minute Matthews asked, “So, you a graduate?” “How’s that?”

“Twelve steps.”

“AA? Sure.” The cop glanced down at his beefy hands. “Been four years, four months.”

“Eight years for me.”

Another flicker in the eyes. The cop glanced at the beer.

Matthews laughed. “You’re where you are, Konnie. And I’m where I am. I was drinking a fifth of fucking bad whiskey every day. Hell, at least that. Sometimes I’d crack the revenue of a second bottle just after dinner.” Konnie didn’t notice how FBI-speak had turned into buddy talk, with syntax and vocabulary very similar to his.

“‘Crack the revenue.’” Konnie laughed. “My daddy used to say that.”

So had some of Matthews’s patients.

“Bottle and a half? That’s a hell of a lot of drinking.”

“Oh, yes, it was. Yes sir. Knew I was going to die. So I gave it up. How bad was it for you?”

The cop shrugged and shoveled peas and potatoes into his mouth.

“Hurt my marriage bad,” he offered. Reluctantly the cop added, “I guess it killed my marriage.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Matthews said, thrilling at the sorrow in the man’s eyes.