He went down to the precinct basement to requisition tactical gear.

"Wow, Captain," said the sergeant behind the cage wire, "you starting a war?"

"Just running a tactical exercise for a few of my boys," said Hansen. "Can't let the detectives get fat and lazy while ESU and SWAT are having all the fun, can we?"

"No, sir," said the sergeant.

"I'm going to back my Cadillac sport ute around," said Hansen. "Would you pack all this stuff in two ballistic-cloth bags and get it up to the rear door?"

"Yes, sir," said the sergeant in an unhappy tone. It wasn't his job to hump gear bags up the back stairs. But Captain Robert Gaines Millworth had a reputation as a humorless, unforgiving officer.

Hansen drove out through heavy snow to Cheektowaga, thinking about how easy this apprehension would be if he could just call a dozen of his detectives into the ready room and send them searching for Frears and Kurtz: checking every hotel and motel in the Buffalo area, running credit-card searches, going door to door. He had to smile at this. After years of being the ultimate loner, James B. Hansen was being contaminated by the group-effort persona of Captain Millworth. Well. I'll just have to get by with Brubaker and Myers. It was too bad that he had to rely on a venial, corrupt cop and a fat slacker, but he'd use them and then discard them within the next couple of days.

The venial, corrupt cop and the fat slacker were eating doughnuts in Myers's Pontiac, across the street from Arlene DeMarco's house.

"Nothing, Captain," reported Brubaker. "She hasn't even come out for her paper."

"Her car's still in the garage," said Myers, belaboring the obvious. The driveway showed six inches of fresh snow and no tire tracks.

Hansen glanced at his watch; it was not quite 8:30 a.m. "Why don't we go in and say hello?"

The two detectives stared at him over their gnawed doughnuts and steaming coffee. "We got a warrant, Captain?" asked Myers.

"I've got something better," said Hansen. The three men got out in the falling snow. Hansen opened his trunk and handed the pneumatic battering ram to Myers. "Brubaker, you ready your weapon," said Hansen. He took his own Glock-9 out, chambered a round, and crossed the street to the DeMarco house.

He knocked three times, waited a second, stood to one side, and nodded to Myers. The fat man looked at Brubaker as if questioning the order, but then swung the ram. The door burst inward, ripping its bolt chain off as it fell.

Hansen and Brubaker went in with pistols held high in both hands, swinging their weapons as they moved their heads. Living room—clear. Dining room—clear. Kitchen—clear. Bedrooms and bathrooms—clear. Basement and utility room—clear. They returned to the kitchen and holstered their weapons.

"That bugger packs a wallop," said Myers, setting the battering ram on the table and shaking his fingers.

Hansen ignored him. "You're sure someone was home when you started the stakeout?"

"Yeah," said Myers. "I could see a woman moving around in the living room yesterday afternoon before she pulled the drapes. Then the lights went off about eleven."

"The lights could have been on a timer," said Hansen. "When was the last time you saw someone move?"

Myers shrugged. "I dunno. It wasn't dark yet. Maybe, I dunno, four. Four-thirty."

Hansen opened the back door. Even with the new snow, faint tracks were visible crossing the backyard. "Stay a few paces back," he said. Not bothering to pull his glock from its holster, he followed the faint depressions in the snow across the backyard, through a gate, across the alley, and through another backyard.

"We got another warrant for this house?" asked Brubaker from the yard as Hansen went to the back door.

"Shut up." Hansen knocked.

A woman in her seventies peered fearfully through the kitchen curtains. Hansen held his gold badge to the window. "Police. Please open the door." The three detectives waited while a seemingly endless number of bolts and locks and chains were released.

Hansen led the other two into the woman's kitchen. He nodded at Brubaker, who beckoned to Myers, and the two began searching the other rooms of the house while the old lady wrung her hands.

"Ma'am, I'm Captain Millworth of the Buffalo Police Department. Sorry to bother you this morning, but we're looking for one of your neighbors."

"Arlene?" said the woman.

"Mrs. DeMarco, yes. Have you seen her? It's very important."

"Is she in some kind of trouble, Officer? I mean, she asked me not to mention to anyone…"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean no, Mrs. DeMarco's not in any trouble with us, but we have reason to believe that she may be in danger. We're trying to find her. What is your name, ma'am?"

"Mrs. Dzwrjsky."

"When did you see her last night, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Right after Wheel of Fortune."

"About four-thirty?"

"Yes."

"And was she alone?"

"No. She had a Negro man with her. I thought that was very strange. Was she his hostage, Officer? I mean, I thought it very strange. Arlene didn't act frightened, but the man… I mean, he seemed very nice… but I thought it was very strange. Was he kidnapping her?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Is this the man?" Hansen showed her the photo of John Wellington Frears.

"Oh, my, yes. Is he dangerous?"

"Do you know where they went?"

"No. Not really. I loaned Arlene Mr. Dzwrjsky's car. I mean, I almost never drive it anymore. Little Charles from down the street drives me when I have to—"

"What kind of car is it, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?"

"Oh… a station wagon. A Ford. Curtis always bought Fords at the dealership out on Union, even when—"

"Do you remember the make and year of the station wagon, ma'am?"

"Make? You mean the name? Other than Ford, you mean? My heavens, no. It's big, old, you know, and has that fake wood trim on the side."

"A Country Squire?" said Hansen. Brubaker and Myers came back into the kitchen, their weapons out of sight. Brubaker shook his head. No one else in the house.

"Yes, perhaps. That sounds right."

"Old?" said Hansen. "From the seventies perhaps?"

"Oh, no, Officer. Not that old. Curtis bought it the year Janice's first daughter was born. Nineteen eighty-three."

"And do you know the license number on the Ford Country Squire, ma'am?"

"No, no… but it would be in that drawer there, with the registration forms and the car-insurance stuff. I always…" She paused and watched as Brubaker rifled through the drawer, coming up with a current license-registration form. He said the tag number aloud and put the form in his coat pocket.

"You're being very helpful, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Very helpful." Hansen patted the old woman's mottled hands. "Now, can you tell us where Arlene and this man were going?"

Mona Dzwrjsky shook her head. "She did not say. I'm sure she did not say. Arlene just said that something very important had come up and asked if she could borrow the station wagon. They seemed in a hurry."

"Do you have any idea where they might have been going, Mrs. Dzwrjsky? Anyone that Arlene might try to contact if there were trouble?"

The old woman pursed her lips as she thought. "Well, her late husband's sister, of course. But I imagine you've spoken with Gail already."

"Gail," repeated Hansen. "What's her last name, ma'am?"

"The same as Alan's and Arlene's. I mean, Gail was married, twice, but never had children, and she took back her maiden name after the second divorce. I used to tell Arlene, you can never trust an Irish boy, but Gail was always…"

"Gail DeMarco," said Hansen.

"Yes."

"Do you know where she lives? Where she works?"

Mrs. Dzwrjsky looked as if she might cry. "Gail lives near where Colvin Avenue becomes Colvin Boulevard, I think. Arlene took me to visit her once. Yes, right near Hertel Plaza, north of the park."