Which was not going to happen.

It wasn’t.

He pushed aside the unanswered telephone messages, propped his feet on top of his desk, and reached for a yellow legal tablet on which to jot down thoughts as they came to him.

In addition to the note, there were other reasons he-and DeeDee-found Elise Laird’s story hard to accept. One was the burglary itself. It seemed odd that Trotter was on foot in a classy neighborhood like Ardsley Park. The residential area was demarcated by busy boulevards, but the streets within the area didn’t invite pedestrians other than moms pushing baby strollers or people out getting their exercise. A man walking the streets a half hour after midnight would arouse immediate suspicion. A seasoned crook-even an unsuccessful one-would know that and have a getaway car parked nearby.

Also, it was an outlandish coincidence that Trotter had chosen to break into that house on the one night, out of all nights, that Mrs. Laird had forgotten to engage the alarm system.

Okay, so wine and sex could make you lazy. But her satiation hadn’t overcome her insomnia. She hadn’t drifted off into a peaceful, postcoital slumber. No, she’d gone downstairs for a glass of milk to help her fall asleep. Wouldn’t roaming around in the dark house have reminded her that she had failed to set the alarm?

Second, when she heard a noise coming from the study, why hadn’t she crept back into the kitchen and used the telephone to dial 911? Why had her first reaction been to grab a pistol and confront the intruder?

Third, Trotter didn’t seem like a guy who would brazen it out if caught red-handed. He seemed the type to tuck tail and get the hell outta there. Only a supremely confident burglar would stick around and have a face-off, especially if he was there only to steal something.

Duncan ’s mind stumbled over that thought. Mentally he backtracked and looked at it again. He underlined if he was there only to steal something, then drew a large question mark beside it.

“Hey, Dunk.”

Another detective popped his head inside the door. His name was Harvey Reynolds, but everyone called him Kong because of his gorilla-like pelt. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in thick, curly black hair. No one dared speculate on what the unexposed parts of his body looked like.

His apelike appearance was further enhanced by his thick neck, barrel chest, and short legs. Despite his intimidating appearance, he couldn’t be a nicer guy. He coached Little League for his twin sons’ team and was dotty over his homely wife, believing himself lucky to have won such a prize as she. Duncan, who’d met the lady on several occasions, agreed with Kong. She was a prize. It was clear the couple were nuts about each other.

“Can I bend your ear for a minute?”

Duncan was eager to get back to examining that last niggling thought he’d written down, but he tossed the legal tablet onto his desk and motioned Kong in. “What’s the Little League team selling this week? Candy bars? Magazine subscriptions?”

Kong gave him a good-natured grin. “Citrus fruit from the valley.”

“What valley?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I’ll hit you up for that later. This is business.” Kong worked missing persons in the special victims unit, or SVU. Sometimes their cases overlapped. He pulled up a chair and straddled it backward, folding his hirsute arms over it. “Anything cooking on Savich since the mistrial?”

“Not even a simmer.”

“Bitch of a turn.”

“Tell me.”

“He never got nailed for those other two…uh…Bonnet, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and a guy named Chet Rollins before him,” Duncan said tightly.

“Right. Wasn’t ever indicted for those, was he?”

Duncan shook his head.

“I thought you had him for sure this time. Is he gonna get away with doing Freddy Morris, too?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Limp-dick DA,” Kong muttered.

Duncan shrugged. “He says he’s hamstrung till we come up with something solid.”

“Yeah, but still…Feds have anything?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“They still steamed?”

“Oh, yeah. Breaks my heart. They never call, never write.”

Kong chuckled. “Well, anything that I can do to help you nail that son of a bitch Savich…”

“Thanks.” Duncan hitched his chin at the sheet of paper in Kong’s shaggy clutch. “What’s up?”

“Meyer Napoli.”

Duncan guffawed. “You must have been out overturning rocks today.”

Meyer Napoli was well known to the police department. He was a private investigator who specialized in fleecing his clients of huge sums of money by doing practically nothing except making guarantees that he rarely fulfilled.

It wasn’t unlike him to work both ends against the middle. If hired by a wife to get the goods on an unfaithful husband, Napoli was known to go to said husband and, for a fee, promise to return to the wife empty-handed. He also usually consoled the brokenhearted wife in a way that made her feel like a desirable woman again.

“Which rock did you find Napoli under?”

Kong tugged on his earlobe, from which a crop of black bristles sprouted. “Well, that’s the problem. I didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Napoli’s secretary called us this morning, said Napoli failed to show up at his office for a meeting with a client. She called his house and his cell phone a dozen times apiece, but failed to raise him. That never happens. He stays in touch, she said. Always. No exceptions.

“So she went over to his place to see if he was dead or something. No trace of him. That’s when she called us. She’s been calling every hour since, insisting that something has happened to him. Said he wouldn’t miss a morning of appointments with clients, no matter what. According to her, he never takes a sick day or vacation, and even if he did, he wouldn’t without letting her know.

“She was bugging us so bad, hell, I gave in. I went over to his office and explained that unless there’s evidence of foul play, we don’t consider an adult officially missing unless it’s been twenty-four hours since he was last seen. She said there was nothing at his house to indicate foul play, but something bad must’ve happened to him or else he’d be at work.”

Duncan figured Kong had a good reason for telling him all this, and he wished he’d get to the point. His stomach had reminded him that it was past suppertime. It had been a very long day after a very short night. He was ready to take home some carry-out chicken, crack a beer, maybe play the piano to help him do some free associating about Trotter, specifically what he was doing in the Lairds’ house and why he hadn’t made a dash for it when he was caught.

He also needed to think about Elise Laird’s note, why she’d given it to him, and why he hadn’t shared it with his partner.

Kong was still talking. “I figured Napoli ’s private office would be sacrosanct. Locked down, you know? But his secretary was so flustered, she didn’t notice that I was scanning the paperwork on his desk while she was wringing her hands, wondering where her boss is at.”

At this point, Kong produced the sheet of paper he’d brought in with him. Duncan saw on it a typewritten list of names. “I memorized some of the names I saw on paperwork scattered across Napoli ’s desk,” Kong explained. “Typed up this list soon as I got back to the office so I wouldn’t forget them.

“Frankly, I figure Napoli dived underground to avoid somebody he’s pissed off, either an irate, dissatisfied client or some broad he was banging. But if the scumbag has met with foul play-the secretary’s convinced-I figured these names might come in handy. Gives us places to start looking for him.”

Duncan nodded, indicating that he followed Kong’s reasoning.

“Now, why I bring this up to you…” Kong pointed to a name about midway down the list. “Isn’t this your guy?”

Duncan read the name. Moving slowly, he lowered his feet from his desk, took the sheet from Kong, and read it again. Then in a dry, scratchy voice, he said, “Yeah, that’s my guy.”