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the hillside for any sign of movement, I plucked my phone out of my pocket and dialed Mel’s cell phone again—­with predictable results. The call went straight to voice mail. Then I dialed Mel’s office, not her direct line, but the one that was usually answered by Kelly, the receptionist stationed just outside Mel’s door.
    â€œIs Chief Soames in?” I asked when Kelly answered. “This is her husband calling.”
    â€œNo, she isn’t here,” Kelly answered, “and I’m a little surprised. She was supposed to do a live radio interview at one. I’ve tried calling her cell, but she doesn’t answer. It’s not like her to miss an appointment like this.”
    No it’s not, I thought grimly. “If you do hear from her,” I said aloud, “ask her to give me a call.”
    Before ringing off, I gave Kelly my cell-­phone number, then I hurried back up the hill. Ignoring the wide-­open front door, I headed straight for the back of the house and to the spot where the cars were parked, with mine directly behind hers. Some ancient cop instinct must have kicked in. As I approached her vehicle, rather than grabbing the door handle and pulling it open, I bent down and shaded my face enough so I could peer inside.
    That’s when my heart almost came to a stop. Mel’s purse lay half-­open on the passenger seat. Next to it lay an unopened Subway sandwich—­her favorite, no doubt, tuna with jack cheese and jalapeños. Next to the sandwich, I caught sight of what looked like the grip of a weapon. Her Smith & Wesson maybe? There was her cell phone, too, but what really took my breath away was what I saw on the passenger floorboard—­a shoe—­a single, abandoned shoe, one of the low-­heeled black pumps Mel routinely wore to work. If she had been in the driver’s seat, and the shoe was in the passenger footwell, that indicated there must have been a struggle of some kind.
    I stepped away from the vehicle without touching it—­holding my hands in the air as though I’d been ordered to do so by a traffic cop. If something had happened to Mel—­if someone had forced her out of her vehicle—­I had to stop being a worried husband and transform myself into a detective. I looked around. The cars were parked below the crest of the hill out of view from the level above and shielded from the neighbors on either side by a thick screen of trees. It seemed unlikely that there would have been anyone close enough to witness whatever had happened.
    Fighting panic, I fumbled to pry my cell phone from my pocket. My fingers seemed like frozen stubs as I forced them to dial.
    â€œNine-­one-­one,” a calm-­voiced woman answered. “What is your emergency?”
    â€œIt’s my wife,” I said. “I think someone’s taken her.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘taken?’ ” she asked.
    I tried to keep my voice steady. “My wife is Mel Soames,” I said. “She’s the police chief here in Bellingham, and she’s missing.”
    â€œCalm down, sir. What do you mean ‘missing’?”
    I wanted to reach through the phone and throttle the woman. How could she be so stupid?
    â€œI mean her car is here. Her purse is here. Her weapon is here. She isn’t. I think she’s been kidnapped.”
    â€œWhere are you?” the operator asked.
    Taking a deep breath to control my temper, I gave her the address. “All right,” the woman said. “I’m sending units your way. Do you have any idea how long she’s been gone?”
    I walked around to the front of the Porsche and leaned over close enough to the hood to hear if there was any clicking from the engine. There was nothing—­not a sound—­and there wasn’t any heat rising from the hood, either. That meant that the car had been parked long enough for the engine to cool