Lots of cities had started referring to their police forces as "public safety" departments, a phrase intended to promote a softer, friendlier image. Like most officers, David Delinko thought the name change was pointless. A cop was a cop, period. In an emergency, nobody ever yelled, "Quick! Call the public safety department!"

"Call the police" is what they always shouted-and always would.

David Delinko was proud to be a policeman. His father had been a robbery detective in Cleveland, Ohio, and his older brother was a homicide detective in Fort Lauderdale-and a detective is what David Delinko fervidly wanted to be, someday.

That day, he realized sadly, was probably further in the future than ever, thanks to the vandals at the pancake-house construction site.

Officer Delinko was mulling his situation, watching the rain stream down, when a lightning bolt zapped a utility pole at the end of the street. Briskly he retreated into the lobby of the headquarters building, where the ceiling lights flickered twice and faded out.

"Aw, shoot," Officer Delinko grumbled to himself. There was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass.

He couldn't stop thinking about the bizarre incidents at the Mother Paula's property. First, somebody pulling the survey stakes; then dumping the alligators in the latrines; then spray-painting his squad car while he was asleep inside-this was the work of bold and defiant perpetrators.

Immature, certainly, but still bold.

In Officer Delinko's experience, kids weren't usually so persistent, or so daring. In typical cases of juvenile vandalism, the crimes could be traced to a group of youngsters, each trying to outdo the other for thrills.

But this wasn't a typical case, Officer Delinko thought. Possibly it was the work of just one person with a grudge-or a mission.

After a while, the squall began to subside and the thunderclouds scudded away from the center of town. Officer Delinko covered his head with a newspaper and made a dash for the motor-pool yard. His hand-shined shoes were squirting water by the time he got there.

The Crown Victoria, looking as good as new, sat outside the locked gate. Officer Delinko had asked the garage chief to hide the car keys in the gas cap, but instead they were inserted into the ignition, visible to anyone strolling by. The garage chief believed nobody was loony enough to steal a marked police car.

Officer Delinko started up the car and headed for his apartment. Along the way he made a slow loop around the pancake-house property, but there wasn't a soul to be seen. He wasn't surprised. Criminals disliked lousy weather as much as law-abiding citizens did.

Even when off-duty, Officer Delinko always kept the radio in his police cruiser turned on. That was one of the strict rules for those who were allowed to take their patrol vehicles home with them-you must keep your ears on, just in case a fellow officer needs help.

Tonight the dispatcher was reporting a couple of minor fender benders and a local boy who went missing on his bicycle during the electrical storm. Roy something-or-other. A burp of static on the radio made it hard to hear the boy's last name.

His parents must be pulling their hair out, Officer Delinko thought, but the kid's bound to turn up safe. He's probably just hanging out at one of the shopping malls, waiting for the thunder to stop.

Ten minutes later, Officer Delinko was still half-thinking about the missing boy when he spotted a slender, rain-soaked figure standing at the corner of West Oriole and the highway. It was a boy matching the description given out by the dispatcher: approximately five feet tall, ninety pounds, sandy brown hair.

Officer Delinko steered his car to the curb. He rolled down the window and called out across the intersection, "Hey, young man!"

The boy waved and moved closer to the edge of the road. Officer Delinko noticed that he was walking a bicycle, and that the rear tire appeared to be flat.

"Is your name Roy?" the policeman asked.

"That's me."

"How about if I give you a lift?"

The kid crossed the street with his bike, which fit easily inside the spacious trunk of the Crown Victoria. Officer Delinko radioed the dispatcher to report that he'd located the missing youth and that everything was fine.

"Roy, your parents are going to be mighty happy to see you," the patrolman said.

The boy smiled nervously. "I sure hope you're right."

Silently Officer Delinko congratulated himself. Not a bad way to end the shift for a guy stuck on desk duty! Maybe this would help get him out of the captain's doghouse.

Roy had never been in a police car before. He rode in the front seat next to the young officer, who did most of the talking. Roy tried to be polite and keep up his end of the conversation, but his mind was swirling with what Beatrice Leep had told him about the running boy.

"My stepbrother, actually," she'd said.

"What's his name?"

"He got rid of it."

"Why do they call him Mullet Fingers? Is he an Indian?" Back in Bozeman, Roy had gone to school with a boy named Charlie Three Crows.

Beatrice Leep had laughed. "No, he's not an Indian! I call him Mullet Fingers 'cause he can catch mullet with his bare hands. You know how hard that is?"

A mullet was a slippery, free-jumping baitfish that traveled in schools of hundreds. The bay near Coconut Cove was full of them in the spring. Throwing a cast net was the customary method of capture.

"Why doesn't he live at home?" Roy had asked Beatrice.

"Long story. Plus, none of your business."

"What about school?"

"My brother got shipped off to a 'special' school. He lasted two whole days before he ran away. Then he hitchhiked back, all the way from Mobile, Alabama."

"What about your parents?"

"They don't know he's here, and I'm not gonna tell 'em. Nobody is gonna tell. You understand?"

Roy had solemnly given his word.

After they'd sneaked out of the auto junkyard, Beatrice Leep had given Roy a peanut-butter cookie, which he gobbled hungrily. Considering the circumstances, it was the best-tasting cookie he'd ever eaten.

Beatrice had asked how he planned to explain his whereabouts to his mother and father, and Roy had admitted he hadn't figured that part out yet.

Then Beatrice had performed an astounding feat-she'd lifted his bicycle by the sprockets and chomped a hole in the rear tire, like she was biting into a pizza.

Roy could only gape in amazement. The girl had jaws like a wolverine. "There! Now you've got a flat," she'd said, "and a halfway decent excuse for missing dinner."

"Thanks. I guess."

"So what're you waiting for? Get outta here."

What a weird family, Roy thought. He was replaying the tire-biting scene in his mind when he heard the policeman say, "Can I ask you something, young man?"

"Sure."

"You go to Trace Middle, right? I was wondering if you've heard any talk at school about stuff that's been happening out where the new pancake house is supposed to go up."

"No," Roy said, "but I saw an article in the newspaper."

The officer shifted uneasily.

"About the alligators," Roy added, "and the police car getting spray-painted."

The officer paused for a brief coughing spell. Then he said, "You sure nobody's been talking about it? Sometimes the kids who pull these sorts of pranks like to brag on themselves."

Roy said he hadn't heard a word. "This is my street," he said, pointing. "We're the sixth house on the left."

The policeman wheeled into the Eberhardts' driveway and braked to a stop. "Roy, could I ask you a favor? Could you call me if you do hear something-anything, even a rumor-about the Mother Paula's situation? It's very important."

The officer handed Roy a printed card. "That's the office line, and that's my cellular."