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looked at Flemming, “so that we don’t double up the lab work,” to LaMoia, “so we don’t monopolize a witness. The daily four o’clock is our chance as a team to share our progress and our hurdles, to communicate, to facilitate a more efficient investigation.”
    Mulwright interrupted, “They withheld critical information.”
    â€œThe AFIDs, the penny flute,” LaMoia said, “we would have withheld those as well.”
    The lack of team support angered Mulwright. True to form, he had not heard a word of what Matthews had to say.
    Flemming said, “I think I’ve made my position perfectly clear. Or are there questions?”
    Dunkin Hale, a thirty-five-year-old red-headed jock with an attitude, chewed gum violently and wore a thick gold wedding ring on his left hand. They didn’t make ties to fit necks like his; the silk knot stood out like a large thumb protruding from his Adam’s apple. His attention remained primarily on Flemming, a dog awaiting a scrap, his loyalty unmistakable.
    Flemming informed them, “We are looking for this Taurus.”
    He nodded to Hale, who said, “We’re running rental car contracts—all contracts made here in the past four days compared against all rentals contracted in the week prior to the Portland and San Francisco kidnappings. Credit card comparison, model requests. It’s slow going, but maybe it kicks a match.”
    â€œWho informed the press of the hundred-thousand-dollar reward?” Mulwright challenged. “The phone number in that release was the task force hot line, not an FBI number I noticed, which means it’s us getting a couple hundred calls an hour , all of which have to be followed up, meaning we’re out chasing ghost stories while you guys are working real leads. Is that cooperation?”
    â€œLieutenant!” Hill chided. “Although we were in fact blind-sided by the reward and the flood of calls it caused, let none of us forget that the task force phone number was our idea. We asked for this.”
    Flemming spoke in his low, warm voice, “Special Agent Kalidja is our research expert and our fact-finder.” Delegate the problems: what every bureaucrat learns early on.
    Kay Kalidja’s parents had immigrated from the Caribbean. She had lighter skin than Flemming and widely set, Asian eyes. Bone thin, she looked more like a runway model than an FBI agent. She wore a starched white shirt and crisp gray suit. Her tobacco-colored hair was done in corn rows with terra-cotta beads that clicked if she shook her head quickly. She kept her attention on Flemming like a benched athlete watching her coach, and took her cue.
    Her voice was musical, her accent vaguely British. The moment she spoke, she captivated everyone. “The press release was our doing, it is true. We have case history to support that an informed public, an alert public, a motivated public, can and does lead to arrests. Also, although there is no apparent direct link between widespread publicity and the abrupt end to the kidnappings in the prior cities, its influence cannot be discounted. In each case, the louder the cry of the press, the quicker the kidnapper moved on.”
    Daphne Matthews objected, “Moved on, yes. But that’s all.”
    Flemming reminded, “It’s to our benefit if we keep this guy on the run.”
    Daphne Matthews contested, “The penny flutes indicate a person intent on making a statement. We put him between twenty-five and forty. High school graduate at least. Organized—he knows what the hell he’s doing; what comes next. Most likely scenario: He never met his father, mother died before he was fifteen. He’s never known any family. If he’s using the children sexually, then he will have been arrested on similar though lesser offenses—he may or may not have served time. If he’s selling the children, then we can be fairly certain he was