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go easy with reality for now. We soften them up. If we do our jobs properly tonight—we go slowly—by tomorrow they’ll be feeding us information even they didn’t know they knew. We step on the gas too hard,” she said, adjusting to his language, “and we’ll flood it, and it won’t restart.”
    â€œI’m with you, Lieutenant.” She knew that her senior rank bothered LaMoia. Most psychologists would have been on the civilian payroll. She had done the academy, carried a weapon and a shield believing one could not consult and advise cops without knowing everything there was to know.
    She said, “For the record, we’re going to get her back, John. Never mind that the other cities failed. That doesn’t have to affect us. If we start discouraged we’ll never overcome it.” Looking toward the house she said, “These people have information for us. We both know that. They doubt it. The clock is running. If everyone does their job—and we’re part of that—then by morning that child is back in her crib.” She glanced over at him. “Believe it.”
    â€œSave the cheerleader routine for them, Lieutenant. They’re the ones who need it.”

    The woman—the mother, Daphne thought—looked a wreck. The father was drunk and had been for some time. Daphne introduced LaMoia and herself twice but knew the only thing that registered was their occupation: police.
    The mother clung to her three-year-old son like life itself. Daphne offered her sympathies and the husband burst into tears, mumbling apologies to his wife, who clearly did not want to hear them.
    The parents had been briefed by Mulwright concerning the baby sitter’s ordeal as the victim of a stun gun and that she had been transferred to the hospital. Daphne drew this out of the mother, regretting she had not had the opportunity to tell them herself and gauge their reactions. Doris Shotz then rambled on about asking her neighbor to check the house for her, and the neighbor’s discovery of the unconscious sitter and little Henry, who had been found safe hiding in a corner of the kitchen. The neighbor had rescued Henry, phoned the police and had called back the train car’s cellular pay phone connecting with Doris—which, according to the husband, “was when all hell broke loose.”
    LaMoia mentioned the string of kidnappings that had swept up the West Coast and that the Feds attributed the abductions to a man they had dubbed “the Pied Piper.”
    Doris Shotz said she’d heard about the kidnappings, but her next words were absorbed in her sobs and lost to both police officers.
    Together, Daphne and LaMoia then filled in the blanks: the FBI’s involvement in the investigation, the task force headed by SPD. Determining that the husband had purchased the dinner-train tickets, LaMoia directed to him, “Do you remember who you told about the dinner train?”
    â€œNo one,” he said, numbly.
    â€œA co-worker, a secretary, a neighbor?”
    â€œNo one. It was a surprise. Doro thought we were going to Ivar’s.”
    Doris Shotz nodded.
    â€œYou made the arrangements yourself?” LaMoia inquired.
    â€œYeah, yeah. Had the tickets mailed to the shop.”
    LaMoia checked his pad. “Micro System Workshop.”
    â€œDoro,” the husband chastised his wife, “are you listening? These other kidnappings? They have not gotten one of these kids back.” He asked LaMoia, “Isn’t that right?”
    LaMoia avoided an answer, directing himself to the wife. “Can you explain some pieces of broken glass found in front of your daughter’s crib? A drinking glass, maybe—a mirror?”
    â€œThere was nothing like that when we left,” the wife replied. “I cleaned the room just this morning.”
    â€œVacuumed?” Daphne asked softly, doubting the woman could focus on anything but her