Chris Mooney - The Missing

Terry Mastrangelo was a single mother.

Dianne Cranmore was a single mother.

Was Carol's mother the intended target?

Granted, Dianne Cranmore was a full decade older than Terry, but age didn't seem to be a factor in the abductor's selection process. The idea was still turning over in Darby's mind when she stood and headed back to the mother's bedroom.

Dianne had spent good money on the comforter and sheets. She had some decent jewelry, but nothing worth stealing. Wellworn clothes hung inside the closet. It looked like she splurged a little on nice shoes.

Across from the bed was a cheap bookcase holding framed pictures of Carol as a baby. Two shelves were crammed with paperback romance novels plucked from library book sales. The books and trinkets on the bottom shelf were coated with dust – except for the three black leather-bound albums. Those had been moved.

Had Dianne pulled them out last night? If she did, why had she returned them? Maybe she wanted another picture of Carol – the one that was printed on the flyers.

Darby snapped on a pair of latex gloves and settled on the carpeted floor to examine the bottom shelf.

Mounted underneath the shelf, tucked in the far corner so it was safely out of view, was a small black plastic box half the size of a sugar packet. Sticking out of one side, a quarter inch in length, was an antenna.

A listening device.

Grabbing the penlight from her shirt pocket, Darby lay on her back and examined the black box. It was secured to the wood by a Velcro mounting strip. No wires, so it was most likely battery operated.

There were devices on the market that could be turned on and off remotely to save battery power; some were voice activated. They all had different transmitting ranges. What she needed to know were the specifications of this device.

Darby leaned in closer, hoping to find the manufacturer's name and model number. She didn't see it. The manufacturer's stamp was most likely located on one of the sides flush against the wood, or on the back of the unit. In order to find it, she'd have to tear the device away from the Velcro strip. There was no way to do that quietly.

And if he's listening right now, he'll hear it and know we've found the listening device.

Darby stood up, legs fluttering, and hustled back to search Carol's room again.

Darby found a second listening device underneath Carol's bed, mounted against the frame. Like the first device, this unit had been placed in such a way that she couldn't find the manufacturer's name or model number.

Two listening devices. She wondered how many more were inside the house.

Here was something else to think about: If Carol's abductor had taken the time to install listening devices inside the house, was he was also monitoring police radio and cell phones? They sold police scanners at Radio Shack, and cell phone frequencies were just as easy to pick up, if you had the right equipment.

Coop was in the kitchen. She caught his attention, pressed a finger to her lips, then wrote what she had found on his clipboard.

He nodded and started to search the kitchen. Darby went outside.

Bloodhounds and their handlers were searching the woods, their barks echoing through the pleasantly warm air. Standing on the front porch, she dialed Banville's number and watched a man limp his way over to a telephone pole and use a staple gun to tack up a leaflet holding Carol's picture. She wondered if Carol's abductor was sitting in his car right now, listening.

Darby remembered the monitoring equipment the feds had used in a case she and Coop had worked on last year. The equipment was big and bulky. If Carol's abductor was using similar equipment, it would need to be placed in something like the back of the van.

Banville picked up.

'Where are you?' Darby asked.

'On my way back from Lynn,' Banville said. 'I got a call early this morning about our boy LBC. He's been crashing at his girlfriend's house for the past two months. He's got a size nine foot, doesn't own any boots, and we have two witnesses who will swear LBC was with them the night the Cranmore girl was taken. I think we can safely scratch him off our list. We've rounded up all the local pedophiles. They're at the station right now.'

'How soon before you're back in Belham?'

'I'm already here. What's going on?'

'Tell me where you are.'

'I just stopped off for coffee at Max's on Edgell Road.'

Darby knew the place. 'Stay put. I'll be there in ten minutes.'

Before she left, she checked in with Coop. Darby headed back out, deciding to walk to the diner. It would be quicker than driving through all the traffic, and she could use the time to organize her thoughts. Daniel Boyle stood across the street, watching Darby McCormick walking fast down Coolidge, head down and hands stuffed in her windbreaker pockets. He wondered where she was going.

For the past hour, while he had been papering the nearby houses with fliers, tucking the sheets underneath windshield wipers and inside mailboxes, he had been listening to Darby and her partner's movements inside the house over his headphones. The iPod tucked in his pocket was actually a six-channel receiver that allowed him to switch between the six listening devices he had planted inside the house.

He had listened to the chatty conversation between Darby and her partner inside Carol's room. After her partner left, Darby had rustled about the bedroom for a bit, opening drawers, before heading back to the mother's bedroom. Lots of movement in there, especially near the bottom shelf of the bookcase where he had placed one of the listening devices.

Then Darby headed back to Carol's bedroom again, and after half an hour or so of searching, she went back downstairs to the kitchen. There was no conversation between Darby and her partner. A few minutes later, she was standing on the front porch, making a call on her cell phone.

Why did she have to come outside to make the call? If she had found something interesting, some new piece of evidence, why not make the call from inside the house? Why did she have to step outside?

Boyle had placed the listening devices in strategic locations where no one should be looking. Had she found them?

Clearly, she had discovered something. When she was on the phone, she had seemed either nervous or excited – and she kept looking around the street as if she knew he was here, mixed in with all the volunteers. She had watched him limp his way over to the telephone pole and put up a flier. He had adopted the limp because he wanted to stay close to the house. The cop handing out the fliers had no problem with it.

Boyle watched Darby take a right onto Drummond Avenue. He wanted to follow her and see where she was going.

No. Too risky. She had seen him. He should leave, just to be safe.

Boyle switched the receiver to the listening devices inside the kitchen and limped his way back to his car. All he heard was the echo of footsteps.

The reception on the iPod grew dimmer. The receiver inside his car had a much broader range. The police were no doubt looking for a van, so he had opted for his recent purchase, an old Aston Martin Lagonda, the same car his grandfather/father had owned. The car's engine and transmission were brand new, but the outer shell was in desperate need of a new paint job. The paint had started to fleck and peel in several places, especially around the pockets of rust.

Boyle picked up his new BlackBerry phone. Richard had given it to him last night. It was equipped with encryption technology so it couldn't be overheard by the police or anyone trying to listen in on a scanner. The stolen phone had been reprogrammed so the calls couldn't be traced by the phone company.

'What's Darby doing?'