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deposited her wedding and engagement rings on a worn velvet mat of midnight blue. She waited while the man behind the counter studied them with the aid of a jeweler’s loupe.
    He named a price.
    Giving a quick shake of her head, Caroline named a price that was nearly double and waited, unsmiling. She had already learned the first rule of survival on the streets. Smiling was a sign of weakness.
    A short time later, she was six hundred dollars richer. She dined on a park bench overlooking Lake Michigan before heading back to Union Station to board the westbound Amtrak express.
    She collapsed against the upholstered seat, reciting a silent prayer as the train pulled out, carrying her from the Midwest and into her new life.
     
    Porter awoke to the persistent buzzing of the doorbell. It was not yet seven o’clock in the morning. He closed his eyes again, indignant, deciding to ignore it. And then realization hit him like a tidal wave. The bed next to him was empty. Caroline was not where she belonged. She was gone.
    Someone pressed the downstairs buzzer again in four long, persistent, evenly spaced bursts.
    Porter flew out of bed. He decided against his robe, pulling on his clothes from yesterday instead. Whoever was now rapping firmly on the brass knocker, Porter preferred to face in wrinkled clothes rather than wrapped in the fuzzy vulnerability of pajamas.
    He stopped long enough to grab his eyeglasses and run a hand through his hair. Hopefully it was the PI from Beltway Security Investigations with news of Caroline, news that could not be delivered by phone. An image came to mind of his wife far from home, badly injured or worse. The thought moved through Porter like a jolt of electricity, setting his nerves on end, as he undid the locks.
    And so his heart, already primed for bad news, was hammering uncontrollably when he yanked open the door to find two uniformed police officers on his front stoop.
    They watched unblinking while Porter stared, struggling to grasp the implications of their presence on his property at this unlikely hour of the morning.
    A radio squawked.
    Porter jumped, aware that this made him appear jittery.
    “Porter Moross?”
    He nodded, tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and failed, which made him queasy. He toldhimself they couldn’t hear the thumping of his heart inside his chest no matter how loud it sounded in his ears.
    The man doing the talking was shorter than his partner but no less broad across the shoulders. Together they took up every square inch of space on the tiny brick stoop and, it seemed to Porter, every last molecule of oxygen in the hot, humid air.
    The stocky one spoke again. “You have a wife, Caroline Hughes, who resides at this address?”
    “Yes.” An icy shudder began at the top of Porter’s head and traveled down his spine with lightning speed. This was bad. He squeezed his eyes shut and groped for the railing with one hand. “Oh, God, no.”
    “Take it easy, sir, everything’s okay.”
    Porter opened his eyes.
    The stocky one frowned. “I take it your wife is not at home with you now?”
    The hammering in Porter’s ears turned to thunder. He blinked uncertainly, forcing his mind to grasp what was being said. They had not come with news of his wife.
    The stocky one repeated his question, louder now. “Is your wife here with you?”
    They were here to seek out news of his wife. “No,” Porter said warily as his mind shifted gears, racing ahead now.
    Lindsay Crowley.
    Bitch!
    He had been wrong to approach the Crowleys last night. He had hoped to prevail upon John Crowley to locate Caroline in the nationwide databank of commercial airline passengers. Porter knew Crowley andhis nosy wife might come up with their own reason for Caroline’s sudden disappearance. He had no control over that.
    But Dr. Porter Moross knew the value of a half truth, how it could be used to ease doubts.
    So he had crafted a version of the truth, one that would appeal to a man like