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toward me to see into my eyes. "I’m sorry, but… did this girl mean something to you? If you don’t mind my asking. You seem… sad."
    Normally, I might have minded, but Marcella Weaver had been nothing but helpful and open with me so far.
    "Caroline was my niece," I told her.
    She sat back again with a manicured hand over her mouth. "I never even saw the slightest violence against any of my girls. Whoever did this deserves to die a painful death, if you ask me."
    It seemed like I’d said enough already, but if that lawyer hadn’t been sitting there, I probably would have told Marcella Weaver that I felt exactly the same way.

Chapter 14

    I COULD FEEL some positive movement on the case, but the rest of the day was all dreaded missing-persons follow-up. Sampson hooked up with me for the afternoon, and we interviewed one distraught family member after another.
    By the time we got to Timothy O’Neill’s parents, the only thing I felt we’d accomplished for sure was stirring up bad feelings.
    The O’Neills lived in a brick-and-stone colonial in Spring Valley. It was modest for the neighborhood but still seven figures, I was pretty sure. Like a lot of people up here, the O’Neills were part of the Washington machinery. They struck me as a "good" Irish Catholic family, and I wondered how that jibed with the story of their missing son.
    "We love Timothy very much" was Mrs. O’Neill’s first response to my questioning. "I know what his file says, and I’m sure you’ll think we’re naive, but our love for Timmy is unconditional."
    We were standing in their living room, next to a baby grand with family photos spread out over the top. Mrs. O’Neill held on to one of Timothy, a larger version of the same picture I had on my bulletin board at home. I hoped for their sake he had just moved away from Washington.
    "You said he was working as a bartender?" Sampson asked.
    "As far as we knew," Mr. O’Neill said. "Tim was saving up for his own place."
    "And where was that job?"
    Their eyes went to each other first. Mrs. O’Neill was already in tears. "That’s what’s so very hard," she said. "We don’t even know. It was some kind of private club. Timothy had to sign a confidentiality agreement. He said he couldn’t tell us anything about it — for his own protection."
    Mr. O’Neill picked up for his wife. "We thought he was being a little grandiose at the time, but… now I don’t know what to believe."
    I think he did know what to believe, but it wasn’t my job to convince the O’Neills either way. These people were desperate to have their son back. I wasn’t going to begrudge them whatever it took to get through a difficult interview with two police detectives.
    Finally, I asked to see Timothy’s room.
    We followed the two of them back through the kitchen and attached laundry room to what I assumed had once been a maid’s quarters. There was a separate entrance from the back hall and a bedroom with its own bathroom — small but with lots of privacy.
    "We haven’t touched anything," Mr. O’Neill said, and then he added almost affectionately, "You can see what a slob he was."
    My first reaction was that messes are good for hiding things in. The room had as much strewn on the floor as anywhere else. Timothy had never really grown up, had he?
    There were clothes piled everywhere — on the bed, over the easy chair, on top of the desk. Some of it was just jeans and T-shirts, but there was a lot of expensive-looking stuff, too. The one thing he seemed to keep hung up was a collection of suits and jackets, and three leather coats. Two of them were Polo, one Hermès.
    That’s where I found the haystack needle. Sampson and I had been sifting for about fifteen minutes when I pulled a piece of paper out of one of the blazer pockets.
    It had a string of ten letters written on it — like the ones from Caroline’s date book. This one said AFIOZMBHCP.
    I held it up for Sampson to see. "Check this out, John."
    Mrs.