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never started a search without thinking of David, and of all the work David had put into these dogs, all the affection he had given them. Ben didn’t believe he had David’s capacity for forgiveness, but continuing David’s work was important to him, a way of saying David’s work had mattered. And despite the inherent stress in trying to find missing persons before they came to harm, Ben found he enjoyed the search and rescue work.
    He glanced at the directions Frank Harriman had given him and forced himself to concentrate on the job at hand. Frank Harriman and his wife—Irene Kelly—were among Ben’s closest friends. Frank had called a few minutes ago to ask Ben if he would bring his search dogs to a neighborhood about seven miles from Ben’s home.
    â€œWe’ve got a homicide, a male in his late thirties,” Frank had said. “Turns out he was a widower, raising a kid on his own. We’re just starting to work here, but we can’t locate the boy. There are some indications that he might have been taken from the home, maybe even injured. We want to find him as soon as possible, of course, and I thought you might be able to help out.”
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    â€œYOU SAID HIS NAME IS Alex?” Ben asked, studying the boy’s photograph.
    â€œNo,” Frank said. “Lexington. Neighbors call him Lex or Lexie. Think you’ll be able to help us out here?”
    â€œHope so,” Ben said absently, not looking up from the photo. A skinny kid with straight blond hair, a crooked smile, and dark circles beneath his blue eyes looked back at him. “You have anything more recent? In this photo, he looks as if he’s younger than eight—five or so, maybe.”
    Frank shrugged. “Neighbors say he looks like that one, that he’s small for his age. You know how it is with searches for kids—they change quickly, but the parents don’t take as many photos once the kids are school age. And it doesn’t look as if Toller was exactly staying on top of things here, does it?”
    Ben looked toward the body of Victor Toller, which lay facedown on the living room carpet, in a north-south position, so that his head was not far from the front door. Toller was a little over six feet tall, big-boned, with thick arms and broad shoulders. And a skull that had taken several crushing blows during a struggle that had left its mark on the living room.
    Ben noticed a shotgun propped near the front door. “I take it the gun hasn’t been fired?”
    â€œNo, not recently. It’s loaded, though. Neighbors say that was always there.”
    â€œChrist, with a kid that young in the house?”
    â€œHe wasn’t anybody’s idea of Mr. Responsible, it seems.”
    Ben glanced around the room. He doubted it had been orderly even before Toller met his fate. It reeked of booze and cigarette smoke, mixed with the rancid scent of cold greasy food. Empty bottles could be found on almost every flat surface. A quick glance at their labels showed that Toller’s tastes seemed to have varied from vodka to beer and cheap red wine.
    Crumpled paper wrappers, plastic foam hamburger boxes, and other scattered “to go” containers made up a monument to meals purchased at drive-up windows. A chair not far from the body had been knocked over. There were bloodstains on it.
    There were bloodstains consistent with Toller’s head injury, apparently delivered by the heavy fireplace poker being photographed by an evidence technician. Ben could see blood and hair on it. He glanced across the room, and saw the rest of the set of tools near the fireplace. There were no ashes in the fireplace.
    Ben said, “You think his attacker probably dropped him where he stood?”
    The evidence technician looked up, first at Ben, and then at Frank.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Frank said to the technician. “He’s authorized to be here. This is Dr. Ben Sheridan.