"The Grays, too," Caroline said. "Velovsky said they're mostly keeping an eye on the Greens."

"Right," Roger said. That last part hadn't yet occurred to him. "So they would have ditched the truck somewhere away from parks."

"That still leaves a lot of ground to cover," Caroline said, her enthusiasm fading a bit.

"I know, but right now it's all we've got," Roger said. "There's still a chance she managed to escape before they could get her out, and if so she may be in hiding near wherever we find the truck."

Caroline walked in silence for a minute. "Who do you think it was? A Green, or a Gray?"

Roger shook his head. "The Greens would probably be better at figuring out she was in the branch," he said. "The Grays seem more mechanically minded, which probably means they'd be better at hotwiring a truck."

"We also know it was a Gray who gave her to us," Caroline pointed out. "And only a Green could have turned her trassk into that gun he threatened us with," she added, her voice suddenly odd.

"You have something?"

"I was just thinking," she said. "The Gray who gave her to us couldn't have created that gun.

Obviously, it had to have been Melantha."

"Obviously," Roger agreed, wondering where she was going with this. "All that proves is that, down deep, she doesn't really want to die."

"Except that Greens don't just casually violate the decisions of their leaders like that," Caroline reminded him. "Especially when you've been told that your death is the only way for your people to survive." She shivered in the shifting breeze. "I hate this, Roger. All these people getting ready to restart a war that should have ended three-quarters of a century ago. And all of them trying to find a way to use Melantha to their advantage. We have to stop it."

"I'd love to," he said. "It is interesting, though, what Nikolos said about the universe's sense of irony.

Just look at who got picked to be dropped into the middle of this: me, who hates conflicts; and you, who automatically stands up for the underdog. Between us..."

He paused, an odd thought suddenly occurring to him. "Between us...?" Caroline prompted hesitantly.

"I never thought of it this way before," Roger said slowly. "But between us, we make a pretty good team."

"I've always thought so," Caroline said, slipping her hand into his. The hand was cold, but he could hear a new whisper of hope in her tone. "You think they're watching us?"

"What if they are?" Roger countered, trying to keep his voice light. "They probably know our life histories by now."

"I suppose," she said. "I just feel creepy with the thought of them looking over our shoulders."

"Yeah." Roger took a deep breath. "One other thing. If they did sneak off with Melantha when we think they did, then you and I going out to look for her after the cops left wouldn't have made any difference. There's no sense kicking yourself about that."

"I know," she said quietly. "I still can't help thinking we failed her."

"Caroline—"

"So we'll just have to make up for it," she said, her voice tight but brisk. "Let's start by finding that truck."

Still talking together, the Whittiers turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Setting his folded newspaper onto the seat beside him, NYPD Officer Jeff Smith turned the key in the ignition. He'd known that coming back this afternoon and staking out the neighborhood had been a long shot, especially after so many hours had passed. But he hadn't had anything particularly interesting planned for the day anyway, and sometimes long shots paid off.

This one just had.

Checking his mirrors, he pulled the car slowly away from the curb, steering with one hand as he punched the buttons of his cell phone with the other. "Powell," Powell's voice answered on the third ring.

"It's Smith, Detective," Smith said, smiling tightly as he turned in the direction the Whittiers had gone. "I've got them."

20

Powell was in the squad room, his phone pressed to his ear, when Fierenzo arrived. "About time," he said, waving Fierenzo to his own chair across their paper-strewn desk. "Smith is on four. You want to talk to him?"

"Absolutely," Fierenzo said, dropping into his chair and punching the extension as he scooped up the phone. "Fierenzo. You still on the Whittiers?"

"For what it's worth," Smith's voice came. "They've spent the last hour and a half walking around the Upper East Side, checking out every cross-street and driveway."

Searching for Melantha? "Are you on foot?" Fierenzo asked.

"Not yet," Smith said. "I've been trying to stay with my car in case they suddenly decide to grab a taxi."

"Is there any particular pattern to their search?" Powell asked.

"Just that they're focusing entirely on the streets," Smith said. "No apartments or shops, just the streets."

"Looking for something parked," Fierenzo murmured. "Did they go into their friends' place before they started their walking tour?"

"Yes, but they didn't stay long," Smith said. "Right after they came out they went back to the courtyard. The wife went to the south end and looked at several of the trees, while the husband went and talked for a minute to the landscapers who'd come by to fix the gash on that tree."

Fierenzo looked sharply across the desk at Powell. "There was a Parks truck there last night picking up the branch."

Powell nodded. "That was my thought, too," he said. "I've checked, and they say no one was out last night."

"So someone borrowed one of their trucks?"

"One of their trucks is missing," Powell confirmed. "I've got an alert out to watch for it."

Fierenzo scowled. "So in other words, someone just waltzed out from under our noses with something they didn't want us to find."

"Yeah, but what?" Powell objected. "CSU had already been all over that area. They wouldn't have let anyone take the branch otherwise."

"Unless the men in the truck asked them nicely," Fierenzo said. "Like the super at the Whittiers'

building."

"Right," Powell said slowly. "But Umberto freely admitted what he'd done when Smith and Hill questioned him. As far as I know, no one in CSU has come forward to announce they let someone walk off with evidence."

"Has anyone asked them?"

Powell's forehead wrinkled. "Well... no, probably not."

"Maybe somebody should," Fierenzo said. "Smith, you didn't happen to bring a camera with you, did you?"

"Actually, I did," Smith said. "I've got a telephoto lens, too."

"Good," Fierenzo said. "If they talk to anyone, get a picture of it. And call me right away if anything changes."

"Yes, sir," Smith said.

"Talk to you later," Fierenzo said, and hung up. "What's happening with our Mr. Green?" he asked Powell.

"He and Carstairs finished a while ago," Powell said, picking up a file folder and sliding it across the desk. "Here's what they came up with."

Fierenzo opened the folder and spread the papers in front of him. There were four drawings, each giving a front or a side view of one of the suspects, all of them far more detailed and refined than the vague sketches Carstairs was usually forced to turn out. Green apparently had an excellent memory for detail. "Like pre-Matthew Brady mug shots," he commented.

"Pre-who?"

"Civil War photographer," Fierenzo explained. "Very famous."

Powell made a face. "Let me guess. American history unit?"

"Very good," Fierenzo complimented him. "Nineteenth-century, to be specific."

"Yeah, whatever," Powell said. "Just try to go easy on that stuff around the others this time, will you? They were starting to call me Professor during that English lit unit last year."

Fierenzo shrugged. "Wait till you have a kid or two asking for help with their homework," he warned. "That stuff just sinks straight into your brain, whether you want it to or not. Anyway, that was Greek classics and mythology, not English lit. The English lit unit doesn't come until spring."