There was never any parking near the Avenue at this time of evening, so Dusty just left his truck in one of the university lots. Unable to focus in any productive way on academic tasks now, he’d dropped all his classes, and arranged suspension of his financial aid for the semester. But his parking sticker was paid up and nonrefundable, so why not make some use of it?

As he walked across campus toward the café, however, passing familiar classroom buildings and the undergrad library—where, just five weeks ago, before the flood, he’d been a work-study employee—he felt increasingly despondent. There was virtually nowhere to look without seeing couples drift past on their way home from class, or off to get dinner somewhere. When Colleen had vanished, Dusty’s whole life had gone with her. He’d hardly even been back to his own apartment since that day. All the confident direction and momentum he’d achieved during the past seven years had come to revolve around their ongoing rush toward graduation, their wedding, and their shared lives and careers after that. Now…he kept trying to be strong—as he knew she’d want him to be. So she’d see he had been, when they got her back.

If they got her back.

For a short while after she’d been taken, adrenaline and disbelief had continued to power Dusty forward. The desperate urge to do something about her kidnap had briefly made it feel as if something could be done. When the FBI had come to camp out in Thom and Anna’s home, Dusty had imagined them trained and able to get Colleen back and throw the assholes who’d done this behind bars. Then the call hadn’t come, and hadn’t come, until it began to dawn on everyone that it might not be coming. Ever. Unavoidable questions had followed, about what that silence might mean—with answers no one wanted to hear spoken aloud—until, with thoroughly professional expressions of regret, the FBI had packed up again, and left. Dusty and the others had been assured, repeatedly, that everyone was still working—somewhere—to find her. But nothing more had seemed to happen since then. Nothing they could see, at least.

So…was she coming back—or wasn’t she? …Would their life together resume—in a few weeks, or months from now? In a year or two? Without her, nothing he’d been about still seemed possible—or even thinkable. But without knowing whether she’d be back, how could he…even start to think about what there might be to move on to, if she…if…

And that’s where the whole hopeless line of reasoning ended. Every time. Because he couldn’t face whatever lay beyond that ‘if.’ Not yet. It had only been three weeks. They’d been told that if ‘these things’ weren’t resolved right away, then it ‘usually took some considerable period of time.’ As if those two options were the entire menu. The FBI team had urged them not to give up hope, as they’d departed—as had the police detective a few days later. The word ‘yet’ had never been spoken aloud, but it had been there, dangling silently at the end of every such encouragement. No one had given them any indication, yet, about when it would be time to give up; but then, in fairness, no one had yet dared ask that question either.

When Shelly had announced that she and Robert were hiring a private investigator, the decision had been presented as a way to ‘get this thing unstuck’—take Colleen’s rescue into their own hands and keep moving forward. And Dusty had tried to greet the news with optimism: ‘Yippee ki yay, mothafucker!’ as Bruce Willis had once famously exclaimed. But he hadn’t managed to make himself believe it. For him, at least, their decision just seemed to drive the point home: all the real cops had failed them, so, in a weirdly disguised admission of defeat, they were going to rent a pseudo-cop of their own now, for whatever illusion of control that might provide them. Not that Dusty had said any of that aloud, of course—or ever would. But, really, what was a local P.I. going to accomplish that the FBI and the city’s whole police force hadn’t?

Not that the city’s whole police force had ever been applied, of course. From things Schafer had said to Shelly, it sounded like they were still so overbooked with continuing fallout from the flood, that there weren’t many cops beyond Schafer himself available to pursue this matter at all. And even he didn’t seem to be paying half as much attention to it as he had at first. A few days ago, he had finally admitted to Shelly that they’d “hit nothing but dead ends so far.”

Dead ends. Could he have chosen any two worse words than those?

Having done their homework very carefully—as Colleen’s parents, and their daughter, always did—Shelly had been delighted when Amber Page had called to say she’d take the case—for about thirty-five seconds, at least, before learning that the only person Ms. Page wanted to speak with immediately was Dusty. Well, of course, he’d thought upon hearing the news. The boyfriend’s always suspect number one. But, after the call, Shelly had assured him it was just because Dusty had been the only one of them at the crime scene near the time of the event. Then Shelly had made it clear to everyone—repeatedly—how completely she understood and agreed with Page’s decision to put off interviewing the rest of them, given how much there was to do now, as quickly as possible—which was why Shelly didn’t mind at all that it might be days, or even longer, apparently, before the P.I. she had just bought and paid for would be making time to speak with any of the rest of them. Shelly had left no doubt in Dusty’s mind, or anybody else’s, about how pissed off she really was. Thinking about it now made Dusty grin a little, in spite of everything.

When Page had called Dusty twenty minutes later and asked where he’d like to meet her for this interview, he had reflexively suggested a U District café that he and Colleen had frequented. But now, as he reached ‘the Avenue’—as everyone called this carnival of pedestrian traffic jostling past restaurants and shops along the ridgeline north of campus—he surveyed its architectural silhouettes luridly illuminated against the twilit sky, and pondered his unconscious penchant for self-punishment. Here he was, back on the very street where his whole ugly past had played out—like the stage set for a movie about how far he’d come only to see the whole journey blown sky high—to sit down with some rent-a-cop and hash over all of it—again. Was there anyplace to go from here now? Had there ever really been?

Minutes later, Dusty crossed the busy street and walked into The Transcendent Bowl for the first time since he and Colleen had last been here for lunch—on the day all this had started.

The place was so crowded that it took Dusty a moment to spot the only black woman there, sitting at a booth all the way in back, gazing out the window. He was surprised to discover that this ‘legendary’ P.I. looked hardly older than himself. With a close cap of curly black hair, no obvious makeup, a roomy maroon cable-knit sweater and no jewelry beyond a small gold stud in each ear, she was attractive, yet…very unassuming. No one you’d notice, much less remember in a crowd—which surprised him too. She’d seemed so imposing on the phone—intimidating even. He’d expected some more dramatic or…authoritative presentation.

She turned to look up as he approached, and smiled politely.

“Amber Page?” he asked, just to be sure.

She nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Clarke.”

“Dusty, if that’s okay,” he said, settling into the booth across from her.

She shrugged in acquiescence. “You look…puzzled about something?”

“I do?”

“Yes. Ever since you walked in and saw me back here.” He hadn’t even seen her look his way. He glanced at the window to see if the café’s entrance was reflected there, but couldn’t really tell from his side of the table. “Something about me puzzling?” she asked casually.

“Oh. Well…I’ve met all kinds of cops over the years—especially lately—and…I guess I just expected you to look more like one than you do.”

“Ah.” The smile she gave him now seemed a bit less formal than the last had. “Maybe that’s because I’m not one. Just ask any cop; they’ll confirm that—with feeling. Not looking like a cop is an important part of my job, actually.”

Dusty offered her a tight smile. “I guess it would be. So, listen…before we start, I’ve got a question I’d like to ask you, if that’s okay?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Please, don’t take this the wrong way, but…it would help me a lot if… I’m really hoping for just a clear, honest, uncomplicated answer.”

Her brows rose almost imperceptibly. “I can’t imagine what reason I’d have to be anything but honest with you.”

He nodded, fearing he’d already offended her. “Okay, thanks. So…” He looked her in the eyes. “Do you really think there’s any serious chance of finding her anymore?” He held her gaze, bracing himself for whatever she might say, be it just one more vaguely reassuring dodge, or the answer he feared most. 

For a moment, she just gazed back at him, expressionless and silent. He couldn’t tell whether she was considering her answer, or studying him, but it made him fear the worst. “I’ve already told Mrs. Fischer that anyone who offers guarantees in situations like this is a liar,” she said at last. “But even if I didn’t have a pretty full caseload right now—which, as it happens, I do—there is no way on earth I would be here if I didn’t think there was still some reasonable chance of finding Colleen. I am not the kind who would do that—to either of us.”

And there she was—the intimidating woman he remembered from their phone call. Inside that unassuming shell lived someone fierce, all right—which he found strangely encouraging.

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes still fastened on his own. “No one moves through an inch of space, or a minute of this life, without leaving traces of some kind. All sorts of things besides Colleen’s presence were altered by the passage of these events and whoever was behind them.” She looked away at last, glancing out the window before turning back to him with an almost irritable expression. “This event’s been a lot noisier than most that way. Even the fact that no one’s been able to draw anything useful from all the hacking and stalking and ridiculous fireworks that have gone on here almost certainly means something important. I just have to figure out what.” She leaned back into her seat. “Whether I’ll be able to find all those traces and interpret them usefully is still anybody’s guess. But the pieces are always there, somewhere. And they can be assembled in some way that makes the story clearer. That’s all an honest person’s got any business telling you at this point.”

After digesting this for a moment, Dusty said, “It’s more than anybody else has told me.”

A waitress arrived with menus for them.

“Just coffee for me, please,” said Page. “Cream, no sugar.”

“French dip still on the menu?” Dusty asked.

“It sure is.”

“I’ll have that then.”

“Shall I leave a menu—just in case?” the waitress asked.

Dusty glanced at Page, who shook her head. Then he did the same. “We’re, uh, kind of here to have a meeting. If you could bring the check with my sandwich, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course,” she said, and left.

In truth, Page’s answer to his question had borne no resemblance—in tone or content—to anything that anyone else involved in this had ever said to him. The only thing Dusty had not been braced for here was credible reassurance, which, now that he’d received it, left him swatting down a sudden surge of confusing emotions. “Thank you. For your answer.”

She gave him another nod, this time unsmiling.

“So, what’s next?” he asked, wanting to move along before this unexpected sliver of hope undid him completely.

“Now I have questions.”

“Fire away.”

“How long have you and Colleen known each other?”

“About three years. We met as grad students at the university.”

“She’s a year behind you. Is that right?”

Had Shelly told her that? “Yes. I was her T.A. When we met, I mean. …But we didn’t date or anything until the next semester.”

Amber didn’t quite suppress another smile.

“I just…thought I should make that clear.”

“Thank you. Clarity is always useful. How long ago did you two become engaged?”

“Last July.” He shied away from the memory of that night—which had begun right here at The Transcendent Bowl. He began to realize that this interview might prove harder than he’d thought—and wished he’d picked some venue less full of old associations.

“Leaving aside for now whatever may be going on with Matthew Rhymer, can you think of anyone else who might have wanted her taken?”

This question hit him like a not unwelcome splash of cold water. “Well…no. I mean, who else would there be? I can’t think of anyone who didn’t like her—or at least admire her.”

“Anyone ever seem jealous of her—for any reason? Academically? …Financially? Her parents are pretty wealthy, aren’t they? …Or some prior girlfriend of yours, maybe?”

This last suggestion almost made him laugh. “The last girlfriend I had before Colleen was in junior high—and she dumped me. I’d be amazed if she remembers I existed.”

Page’s brows rose. “Not a single one between junior high and Colleen?”

He wondered, suddenly, how much she might not have heard about him yet. “Shelly said you’d talked with Detective Schafer this morning?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Did he tell you anything about my past?”

“A fair amount, actually, as did Mrs. Fischer. What’s that got to do with old girlfriends?”

“A couple months after I got dumped in junior high, I ran away from home—for good. I, uh, wasn’t really boyfriend material for a pretty long time after that.”

“Because you were here on the Avenue—addicted to speed and mostly homeless. Good-looking, charismatic addicts don’t have girlfriends?” She tilted her head. “News to me.”

“Good-looking and charismatic?” Dusty did laugh now. “Where’d you come up with—”

“That’s what Stacy told me, just this afternoon,” she cut in. “At Nocturnal Lullaby. You remember that shop, don’t you? ‘Good looking and charismatic’ were her very words, and it sounded like she knew you pretty well back then.”

Dusty stared at her, slack-jawed. “How did you find Stacy?”

“Pete Draigger sent me to her, after we talked at his auto shop.”

Dusty’s mouth fell further open. “No he didn’t! That shop burned! Years ago!” Another painful memory to be shoved aside.

“And was rebuilt,” she said, “though not here on the Avenue. Maybe you should keep in better touch with some of your old friends, Dusty. They certainly remember you—pretty fondly, I have to say. Draigger knows you’re at the university, in fact, and asked me to tell you hi. Said you were a very honest and reliable worker. Stacy even knew you were engaged, but not to who, or any of the rest. And, before you ask, I didn’t tell them anything—about either of you—because even though I’m paid to snoop into your business, I do respect your privacy. Until I’ve got some reason not to anyway. I just told Draigger I was an old friend from L.A. trying to reconnect with you while I was in the city on a business trip, and how you’d mentioned once you used to work for him.”

“Which you know how? My work there was all completely under the table.”

“It’s amazing what half an hour on the internet, and a couple of old newspaper articles—about that very fire, actually—can dredge up. I’d have thought a grad student—especially one in social work—would already know that.”

Well…yes, he did. But it had never been pointed at him this way before. “So…what did you tell Stacy?” he asked, not pleased to learn that Page had been raising his ghost down here.

She shrugged. “The truth—that Draigger had sent me to ask her if she knew how to contact you. Sadly, she did not. But I must say, you made a fine impression on her. She called you a saint, in fact! She said that’s what quite a few people down here used to—”

“Don’t!” Dusty blurted. “I don’t want…that was… I’ve left all that behind.” He gave her an imploring look. “My whole life for seven years has been about leaving that behind. Do we have to…go through all of that? Now?” She fell silent, gazing at him…differently. Her expression wasn’t apologetic, exactly, just sadder than it had been. “You did all this since this morning?” Dusty asked, incredulous.

“As I just finished telling you, Dusty, no one moves through the world without leaving traces. It’s my job to find them—and I’m good at it.” She smiled. “Besides, since we were meeting here—right in your old stomping grounds—it would have been very inefficient not to maximize the opportunity. Time matters right now—maybe quite a bit.”

Damn, thought Dusty. He hadn’t even guessed that Stacy or Pete were still around, not that he’d ever felt any real urge to check. He’d been…careful to avoid old acquaintences, actually. “Well, I’m impressed,” he said. “And encouraged, I guess.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, if we can get back to who else might have wanted Colleen gone? In my experience, few things appeal to a certain kind of woman more than saints do. You sure there wasn’t even one deranged crush from back in those days—who meant nothing to you, maybe; just a one-night stand you blew off in the morning? Some borderline character disorder, who might still bear an…overblown grudge, even after all these years?”

Dusty looked down, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t really…” He sighed and looked back up at her. “You want the truth—about the Avenue’s resident saint? He put on a really great act—whenever he was here. But when the craving got bad, he just skipped town until all the tweaking was over—far away and out of sight. Then…” Dusty spread his arms, as if soliciting applause. “He’d drag himself together, and reappear, in all his saintly glory, to resume his celebrated act. But girlfriends…?” Dusty released a huff of mirthless laughter. “Self-loathing’s not an aphrodisiac—any more than squat-reek and greasy hair and poverty are. All that’s a real buzz-kill. I can’t…” He looked down again. “I can’t vouch for what might have happened while I was binging out of town. I can’t remember half of that. But there were no girlfriends here—one-night stands or otherwise. My whole life then was about…concealment—even from myself. Not exposure—to anyone—even for sex.” He couldn’t bring himself to look back up at her, so he gazed out the window instead. “I was a fucking mess.”

They sat in silence for a while, until he found the stones to turn and look at her again.

“That’s not how you’re remembered,” she said. “Or, not just as that, anyway. Not by the people I talked with. And I’m not trying to embarrass you, or catch you out at anything. I’m just trying to gather information. As much as I can. It’s how I do this job.”

“Okay, but…I don’t really get the question. We already know who took her, and why.”

“Do we?” she asked. “Well, let’s go see them then. We’ll just get a warrant, and—”

“You know I didn’t mean it that way.” For someone who wasn’t trying to embarrass him, she was doing a damn good job of it. “I meant we know it was these guys looking for Rhymer.”

“Because of the ransom note,” she said. He knew where this was going, and was feeling more pissed off by the moment. “The note that no one but you saw, or ever found a trace of,” she continued. “And, more importantly, no one ever followed up on?”

He found himself staring out the window again, not from embarrassment this time, but in an attempt to get his anger wrestled down before he lost control of it. “I know that makes me look like a liar or a lunatic,” he said. “But the letter was there. I know what I saw.”

“Schafer doesn’t think you’re lying or a lunatic,” she said levelly. “I did, though, until he filled me in more on all the other seemingly impossible stunts someone’s pulled here. I want to hear more about that letter in a minute. But for now, let’s assume you saw exactly what you think you did.”

He turned from the window and looked at her, conceding that maybe he’d jumped the gun in his assumptions—once again. “This is…really hard for me. All of this. …I’m sorry.”

“You owe me no apologies. I know ‘hard.’ I’ve been there too. But if you want my help to find her, Dusty, I’ll be needing to ask a lot of uncomfortable questions. I’m not asking your permission for that. I’m asking you to permit yourself to hear those questions asked.” She gave that a minute to sink in. “Can you do that? …If it helps me find Colleen?”

He shoved the emotion this last remark had fiddled up right back where it had come from. “I’ll do anything it takes to find her.”

“That’s what I thought, but I’m still glad to hear it. Just by way of warning though, I might be reminding you of that statement before this is done. Maybe more than once.”

She had his numbers all right, and wasn’t even trying to be subtle about using them to yank him around with. Had he given her all that since walking in—or did she do this to everyone? Didn’t really matter… If she could use this shit to find, Colleen, he’d forgive her.

“So, what do you suppose that note you saw says about who took Colleen?” she asked.

“Well, it seemed pretty clear. They wanted to trade her for Matt.”

“It said that? Exactly?”

He tried again to bury his impatience. “It said…” He thought back, trying to envision the awful message. “We want someone…you know how to find. Would you like to trade?”

“So, you’re absolutely sure the ‘someone’ they want is Matthew Rhymer?” she pressed.

He rolled his eyes. “Who else would it have been?”

“I have no idea, but ‘who else might it have been’ is exactly the kind of question it’s my job to ask. Not just the obvious questions, that everybody’s gotten nowhere with, but the ones no one thought there was any point in asking. And now I’ve got an even better one for you. If that’s why they took her, then why haven’t they ever tried to make that trade?”

“Well, that’s what we’re all wondering. Have you got theories?” That I want to hear?

She shook her head. “None at all. But if they didn’t follow through, then could the ransom note have been just a ruse all along? It’s also my job to assume that things may not mean what they seem to—by design.” She gazed at him while that settled too. “Which is why I’m going to keep on asking stupid questions as well as uncomfortable ones, until I feel sure the obvious answers aren’t just red herrings thrown at us by someone—or by ourselves.”

Their waitress arrived again, with Page’s coffee, Dusty’s French dip, and the check. “Anything else I can get you before I go?”

Dusty tugged his wallet out, and handed her his credit card. “I think this’ll do it. Thanks.”

“I’ll be right back with your receipt,” the waitress said.

As soon as she was gone, Page leaned toward him again across the table. “As I believe I’ve shown you, it’s not hard for someone who knows how to look to find out all sorts of things about a person. Your past, in particular, is like a tidy, well-marked highway paved in legal documents—attached to other documents about those around you—before you ran away, while you were here on the Avenue, while you were California, while you were in the hospital and the court system after your last run-in with Matthew Rhymer. And ever since then. I haven’t begun to read all that yet, but I’ve already got it. And I’m not just talking about run-ins with the law. You’ve had drivers licenses, and public assistance for everything from food to lodging to medical care. You were a reported runaway, and an emancipated minor. Any paperwork you may remember from that process was dwarfed by what the agencies that helped you through it had to file. I’ve wandered miles of your road already, just today. And anybody else who wanted to could use that information to pretend they were somebody else you’d recognize, and think you understood.” She leaned back again and crossed her arms. “Are you so sure that Matthew Rhymer’s back at all? Or that anyone is even really looking for him? Was that him who sent you all those crazy stories that’ve disappeared just like your ransom note? Or was all that ‘crazy shit’ just making it easier for someone else to seem like they were Rhymer? Any false notes they might strike would just get chalked up to more ‘crazy,’ right?” She tilted her head again, and gazed at him.

“Well…fuck,” Dusty murmured. “Then how am I supposed to have any idea what to believe? From what you’re saying, anything could be true.”

She smiled again, less politely than ever. “Now we’re getting somewhere. None of this is about knowing what to believe. It’s my job to discover everything I can about all the things there might be to think, then sort through and test them all until only one of all those things still seems thinkable.” She leaned in again, setting her elbows on the table, and resting her chin on her hands. “That’s a very big job, Dusty. And there’s not much time to do it. So, the sooner you decide to believe I may actually know what I’m doing—and quit fighting me at every turn—the better this all stands to go. Are we getting any closer to that yet?”

He sighed and looked at his sandwich, feeling less hungry by the minute. “I’m sorry… I never meant to fight you.”

“We never mean to do most of what we do,” she said, raising her cup for a sip of coffee. “Not on the surface, anyway. Which is why it’s helpful to drag what’s underneath the surface up as fast as possible, where you can see it more easily, and make some better choices.”

“Here you are,” said the waitress, making Dusty flinch as she reached in from behind him to set his bill down on the table.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I’ll leave you alone now,” she said cheerfully.

“Okay, so ask me anything,” said Dusty when the waitress was gone again. “I won’t fight you anymore. I’ll just tell you whatever you need to know.”

“Thank you.” She beamed at him between sips of coffee. “I have about a hundred questions, so it might be best to eat that sandwich very slowly, and prepare yourself to be here until closing time.”

“Closing time?” He looked at his watch. “They’re not going to let us hog this table for the next three hours on a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”

“If we have to get dessert later, well…everybody’s got some kind of cross to bear. And I’m sure you can tip our waitress handsomely enough right now to make her feel better about our stay.”

Dusty sighed, and reached for his sandwich.  

“Sadly,” Page continued, “we’ve already used up so much time that I still doubt we’ll get to everything. So…let’s just skip to the most important questions first…” Dusty chewed uncomfortably as she thought through some list that only she could see. “Well, all right,” she sighed at last. “I guess we’d better start with Rhymer.”

Dusty swallowed. “I thought you said Rhymer didn’t matter after all.”

“I said no such thing. I just warned against assuming he was the only possibility. But he’s more than strange enough to have gotten my attention. In all my hunting so far, I found not one picture—even from the group home where you caught up with him. He was in the process of applying for emancipation there, and there really should have been some photos—along with fingerprints, and all kinds of other information. But all I’ve found are a couple tax forms from his bussing job in California, and the court records of his disappearance from the home, and your trial afterwards. No matter who he was, or is, there should have been more. Much more. If it weren’t for that one brief period—between the time you two arrived in California, and the night of your last fight—I’d swear that you’d just made him up.”

Dusty shook his head. “He existed. Anna knew him too. Lots of people did. He was pretty popular down here, for a while. That’s…sort of why we had to leave.”

“Oh, I know. Both Stacy and Draigger told me bits of that story. And Janus is still down here too. Did you know that?”

Dusty set his sandwich down, understanding suddenly, or just remembering maybe, why he’d been so careful to avoid ‘old friends’ down here since coming back as someone else. “No, I didn’t,” he said quietly, looking out the window at a world gone fully dark since he’d arrived. “He still doing same old shit?”

She shook her head. “I’m told he’s quite the influencer now. Has a fancy office on the seventh floor of that big new building at the corner of 23rd. Repping some multinational concern, Stacy told me, though she didn’t know much more, or seem to want to.”

“You didn’t…go see him too, did you?” Dusty asked, still gazing at the window, half expecting Janus to appear there.

She shook her head again. “I wanted to hear more about all that from you first. And looking at you now, I can tell you, if I do, he’ll have no idea you’re anywhere in it.”

“I’d appreciate that.” He looked back at her. “I guess he might belong on your list.”

“My list?”

“People who might have wanted Colleen taken.” Dusty shook his head, scarcely able to believe how completely he’d walled all of that away. It had seemed too much another world, another lifetime, he supposed. But what if it wasn’t? “There was a time when Janus would have been delighted to do anything that hurt me. That was years ago. I’ve got a different name now. I don’t look the same. I don’t…exist in any of the places where…any of us used to matter.” He drew a shuddering breath. “But if he knows where I am too these days—and…what’s happened in my life…” Dusty nodded to himself. “He’d definitely have known way more than enough—about me and Matt—to have…faked all this, I guess.”

“Well…that’s why I ask the stupid questions,” she said, almost gently. “That’s all good to know. But right now. I still want you to tell me about who Matthew Rhymer was to you. Every little thing you can remember.”

“Matthew Rhymer,” he sighed, then drew a deep breath, and sat up straighter. “That’s gonna use up the rest of our time here all by itself.”

“Then we’d best get started,” she said, leaning back into her seat.

“Well, I met him…just a couple blocks from here, I guess.”