AFTER I THANKED VINCE FOR LUNCH, I GRABBED THE JONES file from the library and rushed upstairs to Zach's office. His door was open. Fast-food paper wrappers from lunch were strewn across his desk.
"Are you ready to go?" I asked.
Zach looked at his watch. "I worked until one o'clock, then went out for a burger. Mr. Appleby doesn't take a two-hour lunch unless there is going to be a twenty-thousand-dollar fee on the line."
"Vince took me to a French cafe near Greene Square. The food was good, but the service was on European time."
Zach wadded up the food wrappers and threw them across the room into a round trash can.
"Nice shot," I said.
"When did you go to Europe?" he asked, standing up.
"I haven't. Vince told me the French take a lot of time with their meals. Eating is more of a social event with them than it is for us."
"Let's socialize with Mr. Jones at the jail," Zach said. "While you were leisurely dining, I stopped by the courthouse and copied the district attorney's file."
"What did you find?"
"I'll let you look it over in the car."
I'd never seen Zach's car. He owned a white Japanese compact. The engine didn't start until he turned the key in the ignition. He handed me the file.
"See what you think," he said.
I opened the folder. There was a one-page arrest record, and the names of the five property owners mentioned in the criminal charges. Beside each name were several dates and the words "video surveillance."
"Do you think the police were watching Moses for several weeks and videotaped him each time he tied up at one of the docks?" I asked.
"No. Video surveillance refers to images from security cameras. That's how they knew which night Moses was at each location. Each count has a specific date. While I was waiting for you, I called three of the five homeowners. They were nice enough to talk to me. That's how I found out about the surveillance cameras. The homeowners association has a contract with a security agency that services everybody."
"What else did you find out?"
"That Moses Jones did not have permission to trespass. One woman said she was terrified that Jones was going to assault her and burglarize her house. She saw his boat floating at the end of her dock early one morning and called the police. He was gone by the time they arrived, but that's when the investigation started."
"Did she talk to Moses?"
"None of them did. The two other owners I reached didn't know he'd been there until the security company checked the recordings for all the houses on the river. Jones was arrested at the dock of a homeowner who didn't answer the phone."
I turned to the next page in the folder and found the statement Moses gave to Detective Branson.
"Moses doesn't talk anything like this," I said after quickly scanning the four-paragraph statement with my client's crude signature at the bottom. "These are the detective's words put into Moses' mouth."
"Stylistic objections aside, what is your opinion of the statement?"
"Moses admits tying his boat up at the docks. I know he's guilty, but the way the detective crafted the statement bothers me."
Zach glanced sideways at me. "Are you turning into a left-wing criminal defense lawyer before my eyes?"
"No, I don't want to miss anything else. I didn't pay enough attention to the charges."
"Should we file a motion to suppress the confession?"
"I don't know if there are legal grounds."
"Research it before we appear in front of Judge Cannon tomorrow afternoon."
We arrived at the jail complex. I pointed to a parking area.
"That's near the entrance for the cell block where he's kept. Didn't you handle a criminal case when you clerked for the firm?"
"Remember, I didn't clerk in Savannah."
I felt embarrassed. Zach had told me he had clerked in Los Angeles, not Savannah, but I hadn't paid attention to the details. I started to apologize, but that would have only reinforced my blunder. We entered the waiting area. A different female deputy was on duty. I showed her the order from Judge Cannon, and a deputy took us to the interview area.
"I'll have the prisoner brought up," the deputy said.
In a few minutes the door to the cell block opened and Moses came in. He saw me and smiled. I couldn't help feeling some compassion for the old man.
"Mr. Jones, this is Zach Mays," I said. "He's a lawyer who is going to help you."
"Call me Moses," the old man said. "No one calls me Mr. Jones unless they be wanting my money, which I ain't got none."
We entered the interview room.
"What you do about my boat, missy?" Moses asked before we were seated. "It be in the same place as before."
I'd forgotten my promise to check on the status of his boat.
"Uh, that's not been decided. We'll talk to the district attorney about it and include return of the boat as part of the plea bargain in your case. Mr. Mays has been working hard on your case and has some things to tell you."
Zach told Moses about his interviews with the homeowners and Ms. Smith's plea offer. When the subject of jail time came up, Moses looked puzzled.
"She want me in this here jailhouse for six months more? I done been here 'bout two months."
"Which is long enough," Zach said. "I think they should let you out for time already served and put you on probation for less than three years."
"Oh, yeah. Plenty boys get prohibition. But the policemans, they turn that into hard time if they be wanting to. This ought to be over and done with."
"That may not be possible," Zach said. "Some probation, or 'prohibition' as you call it, will be included in your sentence. Do I have your permission to talk to the district attorney about a deal? You would have to be willing to plead guilty to at least some of the trespassing charges and agree not to do it again."
"I told missy here, I be tying up to an old tree from here on." The old man's eyes watered. "I just be needing a place of peace where they can't find me."
"Who?" Zach asked.
Moses looked at me. "The faces. I ain't on the river, but that little girl, she found me last night. I dream 'bout the river an' there she be. How she do that? In my dream, miles from the river edge?"
"What is the girl's name?" Zach asked. "Do you know her?"
"It's not relevant to the case," I said to Zach. "We don't need to ask about this. Please leave it alone."
"What's her name?" Zach persisted, leaning forward in his chair.
Moses licked his lips. "It be Prescott. She a pretty little thing. No more than ten or eleven year old. I don't do nothing bad. So, why she bother me all these years?"
I remembered the photograph in Mrs. Fairmont's room. The blood rushed from my head, and I felt slightly dizzy.
"Did you say Prescott?" I asked in a voice that trembled slightly.
"That be right, missy."
"What color eyes and hair does she have?"
"She be yellow-haired with eyes like the blue sky. Even in the dark, dark water, that hair, it still glows, those eyes, they see right through my soul."
"Is she the girl who was murdered?"
Moses stared at me and blinked.
"What are you talking about?" Zach asked me sharply.
I bolted from the room and let the door slam behind me. I leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. The deputy on duty in the room started walking toward me. Zach came out of the interview room and joined me.
"Are you okay?" the deputy asked.
I held up my hand. "I just needed to leave the room for a minute. I'm okay."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes sir."
The deputy backed away.
"What's going on?" Zach asked as soon as the deputy was on the other side of the room. "Who is the Prescott girl?"
I didn't answer. Zach put his hands on my shoulders and came close to my face. "Talk to me!"
I pushed away his hands. "That's not necessary," I said. "Give me a second."
He backed away.
In a shaky voice I told him about the old photograph and Mrs. Fairmont's story.
"A terrible crime like that would have been the talk of the town for months," Zach said matter-of-factly. "Everyone else in Savannah would have known all about it. The girl's picture would have been on the front page of the paper every time it ran an article."
"But that doesn't explain why Moses sees her face in the water. You heard him. He wanted to make sure we didn't think he'd done anything wrong."
"Which proves?"
My frustration with Zach flew to the surface. "That you don't understand we may be representing a man who should be charged with murder, not trespassing!"
"Keep your voice down," Zach whispered as he glanced across the room toward the deputy. "We're here to talk to Moses Jones about a misdemeanor trespassing case."
"Then why did you keep going on about the girl in the water after I asked you to stop? This isn't my fault!"
"I'm not blaming you," Zach answered. "But we can't leave Jones alone while we argue. I'm going back in. We need to finish meeting with him about the trespassing case before thinking about anything else."
We returned to the interview room.
"Sorry to leave you like that," Zach said to Moses.
I stared at the old man's hands. They were arthritic now, but when he was younger they could have been lethal weapons.
"How did the Prescott girl die?" I blurted out. "Was she strangled and drowned?"
"No, Tami," Zach said. "Leave it alone."
Moses didn't pay attention to Zach. "People, they know. I not be telling the policemans. How could I?"
Zach spoke. "Mr. Jones, you don't have to talk about this if you don't want to." Moses blinked his eyes and began to cry softly.
"Tami, do you have a tissue?" Zach asked.
I reluctantly took one from my purse and handed it to Moses. The old man wiped his eyes and put his head in his hands. There was nothing to do but watch. Moses' shoulders shook slightly from the sobs. He sniffled several times.
"Mr. Jones, maybe we should come back later," Zach said.
Moses raised his face. His eyes were bloodshot.
"I be tired," he said. "I been rowing this boat way too long. Time to pull it up on the bank and lighten my load."
"What do you mean?" Zach asked.
Moses turned to me. "Do you believe I done hurt that little girl, missy?"
The old man's face didn't look sinister, but how could I trust my eyes?
"I don't know."
"Row my boat," he replied softly. "All I done, is row my boat. That be the whole truth. He give me a shiny silver dollar, but I throwed it in the river."
"Who?" Zach asked.
"He gave me that dollar, and talk about that little girl," Moses said with a faraway look in his eyes. "But it make me scared."
"Who gave it to you?" Zach persisted.
Moses refocused his eyes on Zach. "Ol' Mr Carpenter, the big boss man, he give it to me. He be toting a wicked-looking gun."
I looked at Zach. "Joe Carpenter?"
Moses turned to me and shook his head. "No, missy. 01' Mr. Carpenter, he be dead and in the water hissel£"
Zach pushed his chair away from the table. "Okay, that's enough. Mr. Jones, I need to apologize to you. I let my curiosity get the best of me and asked you questions that don't have anything to do with your trespassing case. Ms. Taylor and I are here to discuss the hearing in front of Judge Cannon tomorrow. You'll have to plead guilty or not guilty. I need your permission to work out a plea bargain with the district attorney's office. If I can get you out of jail for time served followed by a reasonable period of probation and the return of your boat, does that interest you?"
"I be listening," Moses replied. "You be the lawyers."
Zach looked at me before he answered. "I'll interpret that as your agreement for us to negotiate a better plea bargain; however, you'll make the final decision tomorrow."
Moses stared at me for a few seconds. I waited for him to speak.
"Yes, missy," he said. "You be thinking about all Moses done told you. That other tall girl. She listen, but I think you be knowing more than she do. Taking a green pill, that don't change the past."
Zach rose to his feet. "We'll see you in the courtroom tomorrow," he said to the old man.
I watched the deputy return Moses to the cell block.
"Who is the `other tall girl'?" Zach asked when Moses was gone.
"Probably a mental health worker who prescribed medication. Detective Branson knew Moses needed professional help."
A deputy led us back to the main entrance.
"Should we talk to Mr. Carpenter about this?" I asked as we left the building.
"And ask why his family name was linked by an insane old man to the death of the Prescott girl?" Zach replied. "That kind of conversation might shorten your stay as a summer clerk."
"No, I want to ask his opinion of whether it's right to get Moses out of jail on probation when he may be guilty of murder."
WE PHONED MAGGIE SMITH from Zach's office. The assistant district attorney wouldn't be available until the morning.
"What do we do in the meantime?" I asked.
Zach pulled on his ponytail. "Wait."
"I know what I'm going to do," I said. "Find out more about the Prescott girl's death."
"Are you sure that's smart? Our job is to represent him in a trespassing case. The rest of it is probably a fantasy of random information swirled together in his mind. We don't even know there was a murder investigation."
"Mrs. Fairmont wasn't confused when she mentioned it."
"And could be remembering a rumor. On something like this, it's best to be skeptical. I'm not sure I'm going to let you-"
"Investigate it at all?" I interrupted sharply.
"Calm down," Zach answered.
I imagined steam coming out of my ears. After a few moments, Zach spoke. "We'll get on the phone to the district attorney's office first thing in the morning about a plea bargain on the trespassing case. After that's taken care of, you can decide if you want to talk some more with Moses about the faces in the water or let him slip back into the marsh. If you still want to check it out, I won't stop you."
WHEN I RETURNED TO THE LIBRARY, Julie was sitting hunched over one of the research terminals. She turned around when I entered and held up her right hand. It was clenched in the shape of a claw.
"See my misshapen hand?" she asked. "That's what two and a half hours of nonstop note-taking will do to otherwise healthy fingers. While you were laughing it up with Vinny, I barely had time to take a sip of water."
"Is it an interesting case?"
"If you think sorting through fourteen shell companies, some registered overseas, others with dummy boards, is more fun than the Sunday crossword puzzle, this client will be a blast. At one point, I think Mr. Carpenter was having second thoughts about trying to get the business, but when the main guy agreed without argument to the amount of the retainer, all reservations flew out of the room. Now, I'm researching information about the other side. They seem as devious as our client." Julie pushed her chair away from the computer. "So, what about Vinny? Did you tell him you have a crush on Zach Mays?"
"No and no."
"What do you mean? You have to tell me!"
"Why? So you can make fun of me?"
Julie held up her claw hand. "Don't make me use the claw on you. Your arms are longer than mine, but I'm tough in a catfight."
"I'm not scared, but there is a lot more to Vince than either of us realized." I paused. "And I don't have a crush on Zach Mays."
"More," Julie commanded.
I gave her a quick summary of lunch.
"Vinny is a genius," Julie sighed. "If they only make an offer to one clerk, there's no way you or I will land a permanent job with the firm. We may as well goof off the rest of the summer."
"They're paying us to work."
"Oh, don't bring that up." Julie turned back toward the computer screen. I decided not to tell her anything else about Moses Jones. The old man might be delusional, but I wanted to keep his strange comments confidential. I opened one of the Folsom files and began working. Shortly after 5:00 p.m., Julie announced it was time to go home.
"I need to ask Ms. Patrick a question," I replied.
"Don't be long. I have a headache."
I ran upstairs to the administrator's office. Her door was open, and I knocked on the frame.
"Come in," she said. "How are you?"
"Fine. I'm going home now but may want to come back tonight and do some research. Do I need to be concerned about a security system?"
"Not until eleven o'clock. After that, a code has to be entered."
"I won't be that late."
I started to leave.
"Tami, are you respecting the opinions and beliefs of others?" Ms. Patrick asked.
I turned around. "I think so. Have there been any complaints?"
"No, but misplaced zeal can be unprofessional."
"And I hope strong convictions aren't squelched," I responded.
Ms. Patrick had caught me off guard, and the words popped out before I scrutinized them. I inwardly cringed.
"Use restraint," she answered curtly. "I think that is a universal virtue."
"Yes ma'am." I returned more slowly down the stairs. Julie was waiting for me in the reception area. We stepped into the oppressive late-afternoon heat.
"If I'm not offered an associate job at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, I don't think it will be because of Vince," I said.
"Why?"
"It's hard to get a job when you're competing against yourself."
Julie rubbed her left temple. "I'm not feeling well enough to figure that out."
She dropped me off in front of Mrs. Fairmont's house.
"I'll pray that you feel better," I said.
"And I'll take an extra painkiller in case that doesn't work. See you tomorrow."
MRS. FAIRMONT WAS DOZING in her chair in the den. Flip barked when I entered and ran across the floor to greet me. Mrs. Fairmont stirred in her chair. I waited, hoping she was lucid. Her eyes opened and focused on me.
"Good afternoon, Tami," she said. "Have you been home long?"
"No ma'am. I just walked in the door. How are you feeling?"
A little groggy. Gracie fixed supper. It's in the oven and needs to be warmed up."
"Are you ready to eat?"
Flip barked loudly.
"I know you're hungry," I said to the little dog.
Mrs. Fairmont pushed herself up from the chair. Even on days when she didn't leave the house, she wore nice clothes. When I'd asked her about it, she told me that unexpected company could arrive at any moment.
"Let's feed Flip and turn on the oven," she said.
I knew where Mrs. Fairmont kept the dog food, but taking care of Flip was one of the things she enjoyed most. She carefully measured a scoop of food and poured it into the dog's dish. He immediately began munching the multicolored food with gusto. Gracie had left a note on the oven door with cooking instructions.
"It's a chicken dish," Mrs. Fairmont said. "I think there's garlic in it. I could smell it in the den when she put a clove in the crusher."
"That's fine so long as we both eat it," I replied.
"And the vegetables are in the refrigerator."
The vegetables, succotash and new potatoes in butter, were in pots. I put them on the stove. Without Gracie's help, Mrs. Fairmont wouldn't be able to stay in her house.
Flip finished his dinner and ran out the doggie door. Mrs. Fairmont slowly leaned over, picked up his water dish, and filled it with fresh water. It was time to ask the question that had been in the forefront of my mind since I walked through the front door.
"Do you remember showing me the picture of your friend, Mrs. Prescott, the woman whose daughter died?"
Mrs. Fairmont straightened up. "Yes."
"You and Mrs. Prescott were really good friends?"
"Yes. That's why I have her picture beside my bed. We were really close all through school and beyond. We had a lot of pleasant times before Lisa's death."
"Lisa Prescott," I said softly.
"It's a pretty name, isn't it?"
"Yes ma'am."
I stirred the succotash and checked the potatoes. "Mrs. Fairmont, I don't want to bring up any painful memories, but how much do you know about Lisa's death? Are they sure it was murder? Was anyone ever arrested and charged with a crime?"
"They never caught whoever killed her. I saved all the newspaper clippings."
"May I read them?"
"I think they're in a box downstairs, but I'm not sure where."
"Could I try to find it?"
Mrs. Fairmont shrugged. "Better let me help. Even as young as you are, you could spend the rest of your life going through the junk I've saved. Christine will probably send it all to the dump, but a lot of it meant something to me."
I checked the clock. The chicken would be ready in ten minutes. The vegetables were on simmer.
"Could we look now?" I asked.
"No, child," Mrs. Fairmont said. "I can't go right to it."
"After supper? It's important."
Mrs. Fairmont gave me the same look I'd seen when she first inspected me at the front door.
"Why are you so interested in Lisa Prescott's death?" she asked.
I avoided her eyes. "I can't tell you, except something happened at work today that made me want to find out."
"Christine probably remembers more than I do," Mrs. Fairmont replied. "Let's give her a call."
"No!" I said more strongly than I intended. "Uh, there may not be anything to my curiosity. At this point, I'd rather keep this between us."
"Christine is a blabbermouth," Mrs. Fairmont said, nodding her head. "I don't tell her anything that I don't want spread all over Savannah."
Mrs. Fairmont was quiet during supper. I'd enjoyed the fancy lunch with Vince, but preferred the chicken and nicely seasoned vegetables prepared by Gracie. Mrs. Fairmont yawned several times. I talked, trying to keep her alert enough to lead an expedition into her basement archives after supper.
"Bring the sliced cantaloupe from the refrigerator," Mrs. Fairmont said when we finished eating. "Let's have some for dessert."
I brought the cantaloupe to the table. Mrs. Fairmont ate the fruit with maddeningly slow deliberation.
"This is perfect," she said. "I love it when it's firm and sweet."
"Yes ma'am," I answered as I tried to will her to eat faster. "My family grows very good cantaloupes and watermelons."
She finished the meal with a final large yawn. "Excuse me," she said. "That is so rude, but I can't help it."
She pushed her chair away from the table.
"Have a good evening," she said. "I wish Flip could carry me upstairs to bed. I'll sleep for a while and probably be wide awake in the middle of the night. That's how it is with my condition."
"Yes ma'am," I answered. "Do you think you could put off going to bed for a few minutes so we can locate the newspaper clippings you saved about Lisa Prescott?"
"I forgot," she said with another yawn. "It all happened so long ago, it's hard to imagine it being terribly urgent."
"It is," I said bluntly. "I need to have the information by the morning."
"Very well. But you'd better hold my arm while we go downstairs. I don't want to break my neck."
It was a horrible image-Mrs. Fairmont lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the stairs. I'd been hired to protect the elderly woman, not to place her in harm's way.
"Maybe we should wait until you wake up in the night," I said. "I can adapt to your schedule."
"No, no. That cantaloupe was sweet enough to give me a few more minutes of energy."
"Are you sure?"
She didn't answer but started walking toward the basement. Flip and I followed. I firmly held her arm, and we made it to the bottom of the stairs without mishap. I turned on the bare lightbulbs that illuminated the open area opposite my apartment. Large cardboard boxes were stacked on top of one another. Furniture not in use was covered by white bedsheets. Shelves affixed to two of the walls contained scores of smaller boxes. I wouldn't have known where to begin. Mrs. Fairmont stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared at a lifetime of accumulation.
"I think I keep the older records over here," she said, moving down a row of the large boxes.
I followed. Most of the boxes were labeled. We passed dishes, extra china, and souvenirs from travel. Mrs. Fairmont stopped and pointed.
"Could you lift that one out?" she asked.
"Yes ma'am." I sprang into action.
It was marked "Of Interest." I placed the lightweight box at Mrs. Fairmont's feet and removed the top. It was filled with yellowed newspapers.
"This is it!" I exclaimed.
"Maybe," she said.
I reached in and grabbed a newspaper that promptly crumbled in my hands. "Oops," I said.
"Don't worry. I'd never have seen it again if you hadn't asked me about Ellen's daughter."
I carefully retrieved what was left and held it up to the light. It was a Savannah paper almost seventy years old. Mrs. Fairmont leaned close to my shoulder.
"That's from my school days," she said. "My mother probably saved it because it contained news about me and my classmates."
I stared at the other papers in the box. "Would everything in this box be that old?"
"At least," she said. "Put it back. I don't want to read it."
I returned the box to its place. Mrs. Fairmont pointed to another box. This one was labeled "Newsworthy Items." I put it on the floor and removed the top. Inside were stacks of manila folders grown discolored with age.
"That's Christine's handwriting," Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to the tab on the top folder. "These will be more recent."
One by one I took the folders from the box. They contained everything from Christmas punch recipes to information about horses.
"Christine loved to ride jumpers when she was younger. She wasn't afraid of anything."
I remembered my brief ride in the car with Mrs. Bartlett. I thought she might try to jump the curb in her Mercedes. Toward the bottom of the box, I saw a folder with the name "Lisa' on it and opened it. My eyes fell on the front page of the Savannah paper and a grainy picture of a little girl. I showed it to Mrs. Fairmont. She stared at it for a second.
"It's Lisa," she said in a sad voice. "That picture brings back a lot of memories. Lisa loved dressing up and sitting in a parlor chair with her feet dangling in the air. Ellen brought her over several times for afternoon tea."
While Mrs. Fairmont talked, I quickly scanned the article. On a Tuesday afternoon, the ten-year-old girl vanished following a piano lesson. The piano teacher, a woman named Miss Broadmore, was questioned by police and reported that Lisa left the teacher's house at precisely 4:30 p.m. for the five-minute walk home along familiar streets. Lisa never made it. Within an hour the police were notified. Requests for assistance were broadcast on the local radio stations. Anyone seeing her was urged to come forward.
"It was a sad time," Mrs. Fairmont continued. "The whole city was touched by the Prescotts' loss. I think Christine saved all the articles she could. Most of my news came directly from Ellen."
There were other articles in the folder. All of them featured the same photograph. Even in a black-and-white image, Lisa fit Moses Jones' description.
"Do you remember anything else Ellen told you?"
Mrs. Fairmont shook her head. "There are lots of things jumbled up in my head. Trying to sort them out would be an unhappy way to end the day."
"Yes ma'am. I understand. Thanks for helping me."
I assisted Mrs. Fairmont up the stairs to the main floor and then to her bedroom. I examined the picture of Ellen Prescott on the nightstand more closely. Lisa looked a lot like her mother.
"How old were you and Ellen in that picture?" I asked.
"About seven or eight. Young enough that a trip to the park with a friend was a special treat."
I turned to go downstairs. I was anxious to read the rest of the newspaper articles.
"Tami?" Mrs. Fairmont asked.
"Yes ma'am."
"I like having you in the house. It makes me feel safe."
"Thank you."
I took the box into my apartment and carefully removed the newspapers. They weren't as brittle as the very old ones. Beginning with the first account of Lisa's disappearance, I read the unfolding story more slowly.
There wasn't much to tell.
One day Lisa was a bright, vivacious girl. The next she vanished without a trace. The second article was the longest and featured a map with Lisa's most likely route from Miss Broadmore's house to the Prescott home on East McDonough Street. Close to the Prescott home was the Colonial Park Cemetery.
Several follow-up articles included quotes from people claiming to have seen Lisa during her walk home. Unfortunately, the claims were inconsistent and would have required Lisa to walk several blocks out of her way instead of following the most direct route. The police chief offered cryptic comments without substance to the newspaper reporters. One fact seemed clear. No one saw the little girl after she neared the cemetery. The police focused their investigation on that area and scoured it for physical evidence. Not a piece of sheet music or bit of clothing was discovered. No ransom note was delivered. The possibility of a kidnapping faded.
After a week of daily articles, there was a two-day gap followed by a brief update without any new information. A week went by before another article repeated familiar facts with the conclusion that the police suspected "foul play" but had no suspects. Two months later there was a notice on page two of "Memorial Service for Girl Presumed Dead." It was a harsh headline. More than eight hundred people attended the service at a local church. I returned the newspapers to the box. I looked over my notes and decided I hadn't uncovered anything that warranted a nighttime walk to the office.
And, even though Lisa Prescott's unexplained disappearance occurred decades earlier, I didn't want to go out after dark.