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house. I wanted to see what they could tell me about their son’s social circle. If there was a group like that around, it would be a fair bet he’d go to it. Smithfield didn’t look like the spot for a commune.
    But then, I wasn’t quite sure what a spot for a commune looked like.
    When I pulled into the Bartlett driveway, the chief’s car was there again along with three others. One was a cream-colored Thunderbird with a black vinyl roof. One was a blue Ford station wagon with Smithfield Police lettered in black on the sides and the emergency number 555-3434
    across the back. The third was a two-tone powder-blue and dark blue Massachusetts State Police cruiser. A state cop with a uniform that matched the cruiser and a gray campaign hat was leaning against it with his arms folded.
    The short-sleeved blue shirt was pressed with military creases; the black shoes were spit-shined. The campaign hat was tipped forward over the bridge of his nose like a Parris Island DI’s. He had a big-handled Magnum.357 on a shiny black belt. He looked at me with no expression on his tanned and healthy face as I got out of my car.
    “May I have your name, sir?” he said.
    “Spenser,” I said. “I’m working for the Bartletts. What’s going on?”
    “DO you have any identification, please,” he said.
    I fumbled under my sport coat for my wallet, and as I brought it out, the Magnum.357 was suddenly right up against my neck, and the cop said very seriously, “Put both hands on the top of the car, you sonova bitch.” I put my hands, the wallet still clutched in the left one, on the top of my car and leaned.
    “What’s the matter,” I said. “Don’t you like my name?”
    With his left hand he reached under my jacket and took my gun from the holster.
    “Not bad,” I said. “You must have gotten just a flash of it when I took out my wallet.”
    “Now the wallet,” he said.
    I handed it to him without ceasing to lean on the car.
    “I’ve got a license for that gun,” I said.
    “So I see,” he said. The gun barrel still pressed under my left ear. “Got a private cop license too. Stay right where you are.” He backed two steps to the cruiser and, reaching through the window, honked the horn twice. The Magnum stared stolidly at my stomach.
    A Smithfield cop came to the back steps. “Hey, Paul, ask Mr. Bartlett if he knows this guy,” the state cop said. Paul disappeared and returned in a minute with Bartlett. Bartlett said, “He’s okay. He’s a private detective. I hired him to find Kevin. He’s okay. Let him come in.”
    The state cop put the gun away with a nice neat movement, gave me back my own gun, and nodded me toward the house. I went in.
    We were in the kitchen again. Margery Bartlett, her face streaked and teary, Bartlett, Trask, the Smithfield cop, and two men I didn’t know.
    Margery Bartlett said, “Kevin’s been kidnapped.”
    Her husband said, “We got a ransom note today.”
    One of the men I didn’t know said, “I’m Earl Maguire, Spenser,” and put out his hand. “I’m Rog’s attorney. And this is Lieutenant Healy of the State Police. I think you know Chief Trask.” I nodded.
    Maguire was small. His grip was hard when he took my hand, and he shook it vigorously. He was dark-skinned with longish black hair carefully layered with a razor cut. Six bucks easy, I thought, for that kind of haircut. I bet the barber wore a black silk coat. He was wearing a form-fitting pale blue denim suit with black stitching along the lapels, blunt-toed, thick-soled black shoes with two-inch heels, a black shirt, and a pale blue figured tie. It must have been his T-Bird outside. BC Law School. Not Harvard, maybe BU, but most likely BC.
    “Where’d you go to school?” I said.
    “BC,” he said. “Why?”
    Ah, Spenser, you can do it all, kid. “No reason,” I said.
    “Just wondered.”
    Healy I knew of. He was chief investigator for the Essex County DA’s office. There were at least two first-run