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Hooper says, “Let’s order. I can’t stay late. Early watch tomorrow.”

“Anything good?”

The deputy scoffs. “Not hardly. There’ve been complaints of kids four-wheeling behind a development.”

“Where?”

“Old Bennett Road. You ever hear of it?”

“No, never have,” Marlowe says and opens the menu.

Thursday, April 6

Detective work is about unraveling puzzles, often in the most unlikely ways.

This was one of the things Constant Marlowe liked about it.

As she walked into the ancient redbrick building on Hammett Street in downtown Upper Falls, she wondered if the solution to the hunt for Paul Offenbach would be inside.

Today, in a nearly identical outfit to yesterday’s but with a black tee, she climbed the stairs and at the metal detector perplexed the guard when she announced she was armed and displayed her IDCI badge. “Official business.” She steamed past him, leaving the near-retirement-age fellow to decide if making trouble wasworththe trouble.

In the Recorder of Deeds office, she used the same two words with the clerk, an enthusiastic woman in her midtwenties who warmed immediately to the intrigue and said, “Whatever I can do. You bet.” Marlowe wondered if she’d salute.

“Here’s what I need: any record of property in the county owned by Paul or any other Offenbach.”

Her visit last night to Saint Francis Hospital had been partly to have some words with Jessica Lombardi and offer sympathy to Tony, which she’d done when they had wakened him.

She’d also wanted to ask him a few questions.

Let’s wake him up, why don’t we. I don’t think he’ll mind ...

He’d been more than willing to help, writing down in loopy, morphine-slacked handwriting that the deputy had realized Offenbach was phony because he claimed he knew nothing of the county when in fact he seemed quite familiar with the geography.

Maybe he’d owned property here at some point, Marlowe speculated. Maybe he still did.

And if so, maybe that’s where he was hiding out.

Because of the age of the county building, Marlowe had the idea that the records woman would lug out huge, dusty tomes of maps on crisp, yellowing paper.

But computers had come to Harbinger County the same time they had everywhere else. The blonde—she was born to define “pert”—sat on a stool before her terminal and with lightning strokes, despite long, turquoise nails, typed in the request.

In minutes, the results were in, and it was clear that the puzzle wasn’t going to be solved here.

No record showed an Offenbach, Paul or otherwise, owning property in Harbinger County or anywhere else in the state.

“Can you tell me what this is about?” the woman asked, and Marlowe knew from the shine in her eyes that she was a fan of true-crime shows.

“An investigation.”

Which wasn’t quite the level of detail the woman wanted.

Then she added, in a whisper, “Between you and me, it’s classified. But big.”

The clerk’s face beamed.

Marlowe asked, “Is there a Vital Statistic Department here.”

“Yes, Officer ... Detective?”

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