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to the crown. He was the best at what he’d sought to do. A legend.
    At times, he knew that following in the footsteps of a legend was like walking a tightrope in the dark. Yet he had no choice. He never really had.
     
     
    Police detective Grace Alexander stood on the front doorstep and let her eyes pierce through the opening in the curtain between the small window and the door frame. The fabric moved and a woman with dark, penciled-on brows and eyes that had obviously cried a thousand tears stood there waiting. The women’s eyes met, and in a flash both knew that what they were about to share was nothing either would have wanted.
    Not ever.
    “Let me do the talking,” she said to Paul Bateman, who was standing a step behind her.
    “You always do the talking,” he said. “But I guess that’s one of the things you’re good at.”
    If it was a dig, it was a subtle one. At least for Paul, who’d been anything but subtle. He’d been angry over custody issues concerning his daughter, Elizabeth, a twelve-year-old girl who did what a lot of kids of police officers did—whatever she could think of when it came to torturing her father.
    And her mother, too. Paul’s ex, Lynnette Bateman, was the sergeant in the same detectives’ unit—the one who’d insisted her unit “man up” and get the work done with less. For the past few months, Grace and other members of the department had half-enjoyed the drama of two of their own tussling over a kid who it seemed was going to end up on the wrong side of the law.
    At that moment, none of that mattered, of course. The woman on the other side of the door twisted the knob and spoke with the kind of anxiousness that was the hallmark of a mother in her position. She couldn’t fathom that the world had conspired to drag her down lower than she’d ever dreamed possible in the beautifully restored turn-of-the-century home in Tacoma’s Proctor district.
    “You found her,” she said, stepping backwards as the door widened to let the detectives inside the foyer, a large space of gleaming mahogany trim.
    “Ms. Lancaster?” Grace asked.
    Catherine Lancaster gave a quick nod. “You found her,” she repeated.
    “I’m Detective Alexander,” Grace said. Without allowing her eyes to move from Ms. Lancaster’s, she twisted a little toward her partner. “This is Detective Bateman.”
    Paul Bateman nodded but, sticking to his word for a change, said nothing.
    “You’ve found Lisa, haven’t you? She’s dead, isn’t she? My baby’s dead!”
    “No. No, Ms. Lancaster, we haven’t found her.”
    A brief look of relief came over Catherine Lancaster’s face, and she steadied herself. She led the detectives inside and motioned to a pair of chairs across from a sofa draped with an afghan. It was a large room, deceptively so. Most homes of that vintage were warrens, small spaces. This one was spacious.
    The detective who had originally had the case had been injured in a car accident the previous evening—the night of the news telecast. Grace and Paul had taken the case—and the urgency that came with it— that morning. They explained the accident and how they’d be taking over.
    “I hope you’re better at finding my daughter than he was,” Catherine said. “It has been four days, you know.”
    Grace let the cutting remark slide. Detective Roger Goodman was an excellent investigator. His notes indicated that he had been following up the possibility that Lisa had left with a boyfriend.
    Catherine offered coffee, but no one wanted any. They sat around the kitchen table, a refrigerator plastered with magnets and postcards was a chronicle of the family’s life—Disney, Grand Canyon, Hawaii. On the counter were shopping bags from Macy’s and Nordstrom and a shoebox. A chalkboard above the wall phone carried a message.
    Lisa, let me know about Friday!
    “We want to follow up on Marty Keillor, your daughter’s boyfriend. He left town the same day as Lisa.”
    Catherine shook her