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more upholstered things, more pillows, more flowers, new curtains, livelier paint. He felt embarrassed.
    After several minutes Bett said, “Well, if her car’s gone she probably just went out to get something.”
    “That’s probably it.”
    Two hours later, no messages on either of their phones, Tate called the police.
    •   •   •
    The first thing Tate noticed was the way Konnie glanced at Bett.
    With approval.
    As if the lawyer had finally gotten his act together; no more young blondes for him. And it was damn well about time. This woman was in her early forties, very pretty. Smooth skin. She had quick eyes and seemed smart. Detective Dimitri Konstantinatis of the Fairfax County Police had commented once, “Tate, why’re all the women you date half your age and, lemme guess, a third your intelligence? If that. Why’s that, Counselor?”
    Konnie strode into the living room and stuck his hand out toward her. He shook the startled woman’s hand vigorously as Tate introduced them. “Bett, my ex-wife, this is Konnie. Konnie’s an old friend from my prosecuting days.”
    “Howdy.” Oh, the cop’s disappointed face said, so she’s the ex. Giving her up was one bad mistake, mister. The detective glanced at Tate. “So, Counselor, your daughter’s up ’n’ late for lunch, that right?”
    “Been over two hours.”
    “You’re fretting too much, Tate.” He poked a finger at him and said to Bett, “This fella? Was the sissiest prosecutor in the commonwealth. We had to walk him to his car at night.”
    “At least I could find my car,” Tate shot back. One of the reasons Konnie loved Tate was that the lawyer joked about Konnie’s drinking; he was now in recovery—no alcohol in four years—and not a single soul in the world except Tate Collier would dare poke fun at him about it. But what every other soul in the world didn’t know was that what the cop respected most was balls.
    Bett smiled uneasily.
    Tate and Konnie had worked together frequently when Tate was a commonwealth’s attorney. The somber detective had been taciturn and distant for the first six months of their professional relationship, never sharing a single personal fact. Then at midnight of the day a serial rapist–murderer they’d jointly collared and convicted was sentenced to be “paroled horizontal,” as the death row parlance went, Konnie had drunkenly embraced Tate and said that the case made them blood brothers. “We’re bonded.”
    “Bonded? What kind of pinko touchy-feely crap is that?” an equally drunken Tate had roared.
    They’d been tight friends ever since.
    Another knock on the front door.
    “Maybe that’s her,” Bett said eagerly. But when Tate opened the door a crew-cut man in a cheap, slope-shouldered gray suit walked inside. He stood very straight and looked Tate in the eye. “Mr. Collier. I’m Detective Ted Beauridge. Fairfax County Police. I’m with Juvenile.”
    Tate led him inside and introduced Beauridge to Bett while Konnie clicked the TV’s channel selector. He seemed fascinated to find a TV that had no remote control.
    Beauridge was polite and efficient but clearly he didn’t want to be here. Konnie was the sole reason Megan’s disappearance was getting any attention at all. When Tate had called, Konnie’d told him that it was too early for a missing person’s report; twenty-four hours’ disappearance was required unless the individual was under fifteen, mentally handicapped or endangered. Still, Konnie had somehow “accidentally forgotten” to get his supervisor’s okay and had run a tag check on Megan’s car. And he’d put in a request for Jane Doe admissions at all the area hospitals.
    Tate ushered them into the living room. Bett asked, “Would you like some coffee or . . . ?” Her voice faded and she laughed in embarrassment, looking at Tate, undoubtedly remembering that this had not been her house for a long, long time.
    “Nothing, thanks, ma’am,” Beauridge said for them