James Patterson - The 6th Target

"We have a search warrant, Mr. Renfrew," I said.

Conklin signaled to the uniforms, and they clomped up the stairs with empty cartons in hand. They followed us down the long hallway to the Renfrews' office.

The workplace was orderly – a mug of tea was on the desk, a plate of half-eaten muffins resting beside a sheaf of open files.

"Why don't you tell us all about the Queensbury Register?" I asked Renfrew.

"Sit down, sit down," he said, indicating one of the two small sofas at right angles in the corner of the room. I took a seat, and Renfrew wheeled over his desk chair, all the while shooting concerned looks as Conklin directed the cops. They dropped file folders into boxes.

"Queensbury isn't a secret ," Renfrew said. "I surely would have told you, but we closed that business because it failed."

He showed me his palms as if to say there was nothing up his sleeves.

"I'm just a terrible businessman in a lot of ways," Renfrew said.

"We need to talk to your wife," I said.

"Of course, of course, and she wants to talk to you. She's flying out from Zurich this evening."

Renfrew's open manner was so winning, I let him think he'd won. I smiled, then asked, "Do you know this child?"

Renfrew took the photo of the blond-haired, blue-green-eyed boy and scrutinized it.

"I don't recognize him. Should I?"

Conklin came over with a cop in tow and several blue-covered ledgers under his arm.

"Mr. Renfrew, you're prohibited from doing business for seventy-two hours, and that includes using your business phone. This is Officer Pat Noonan. His job is to make sure your business is closed until the warrant expires."

"He's staying here?"

"Until his relief comes in about eight hours. You know anything about football? Pat is a big fan of the Fighting Irish. Can talk your ear off if you let him."

Noonan smiled, but Renfrew's face went blank.

"And, Mr. Renfrew, don't try to leave town. That would look really bad."

THE TENSION IN TRACCHIO'S OFFICE was almost unbearable. The insatiable media beast had been roaring at us nonstop for more than a week – on air, in the legit papers, and in supermarket tabloids. And we had no rebuttal.

A nineteen-year-old girl had been murdered. The child of a prominent family was missing and presumed dead.

It was a horrible feeling, and everyone in Tracchio's office took it personally.

"Boxer, lay it out for the chief," Jacobi instructed.

I gave Jacobi a look that said, I know what to do, Lieutenant .

I described what I had as I slapped each of our exhibits down on the desk. First, the copies of the kidnappers' notes. Next, the photos of three children – Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and the unknown boy with the blue-green eyes.

I said, "We don't know the identity of this little boy. Renfrew says he doesn't know him, but the child's picture was inside this ledger of his."

Rich placed the Queensbury Register on the desk next to two of the Westwood Registers.

I said, "We know the Renfrews ran three consecutive nanny businesses – one in Boston, the one they're running here, and an earlier service, the Queensbury Registry in Montreal.

"The Montreal police have a cold case," I continued. "A little boy named André Devereaux was taken from a playground near his home two years ago. He had a nanny ."

"She came from the Queensbury Registry?"

"Yes, sir," said Conklin. "I went over these ledgers. Between the rent, the cost of recruiting and importing girls from overseas, and the office and legal expenses – even with hefty place-ment fees – the Renfrews are hemorrhaging money ."

"And yet they keep working at it," I said. "And you have to wonder why. Where's the payoff ?"

Lieutenant Macklin slid a photo printout over to Tracchio.

"This is André Devereaux," he said of the abducted Canadian child. "He looks to be the same boy as the one whose picture was found inside the Queensbury Register.

"André's nanny was Britt Osterman, a Swedish citizen. She was employed by the Queensbury Registry. A week after the abduction of André Devereaux, Britt Osterman was found dead in a ditch off a secondary road. Bullet to the head.

"The Queensbury Registry was owned by two Americans, called themselves John and Tina Langer," Macklin continued. "The Langers disappeared after the Devereaux/Osterman abductions. The Canadian police e-mailed this photo of the Langers."

Macklin put another laser-print photo on Tracchio's desk, a man and a woman, white, late forties.

It was an informal snapshot taken at a holiday party. Beautiful room. Carved paneling. Men in dinner suits. Women in cocktail dresses.

Macklin's finger was pressed against the photo, nailing a brunette woman in her late forties, wearing a low-cut bronze-colored dress. She was leaning against a smiling man, who had his arm around her.

I could only guess at the woman's identity, but I knew the man. His hair was black, combed straight back. He had a goatee, and he didn't wear glasses.

But I'd looked into that face only a short time ago, and I knew him.

John Langer was Paul Renfrew.

AT JUST AFTER NOON THAT DAY, Conklin and I were at Uncle's Café in Chinatown. We'd both ordered the Wednesday special: pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Conklin had made inroads into his potatoes, but I had no appetite for food.

We had a straight-on view through the plate glass across the gloomy street to a row of brick houses and the Westwood Registry.

A pregnant Chinese woman in pigtails refilled our cups of tea. When I looked through the window a nanosecond later, Paul Renfrew, as he was calling himself, was stepping out of his doorway and heading down the front steps.

"Lookit," I said, tapping Conklin's plate with my fork. My cell phone rang. It was Pat Noonan.

"Mr. Renfrew said he's going out for lunch. Coming back in an hour."

I doubted it.

Renfrew was going to run.

And he had no idea how many eyes were watching him.

Conklin paid the check, and I made calls to Stanford and Jacobi, zipped my jacket over my vest, and watched Renfrew's peppy march past herbal shops and souvenir stores as he headed toward the corner of Waverly and Clay.

Conklin and I got into our Crown Vic just as Renfrew unlocked the door of his midnight-blue BMW sedan. He looked over his shoulder, then entered his car and headed south.

Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, pulled in behind Renfrew when he reached Sacramento Street while Jacobi and Macklin took a northern route toward Broadway. Our walkie-talkies bleeped and chattered as our team members called in their locations and that of the BMW, following, dropping back, weaving into place, and picking up the trail.

My heart was thudding at a good steady rate as we followed Paul Renfrew's run to wherever the hell he was taking us.

We crossed the Bay Bridge and drove north on Highway 24, finally entering Contra Costa County.

Conklin and I were in the lead car as Renfrew turned off Altarinda Road onto one of the smaller roadways in Orinda – a quiet, upscale town almost hidden within the folds of the surrounding hills.

I heard Jacobi on the car radio, telling the local police we were conducting a surveillance in an ongoing homicide investigation. Macklin requested backup from the state police and then called the Oakland PD and asked for chopper surveillance. The next voice I heard was Stanford's. He called for the big guns, an FBI response team.

"The SFPD just lost control of the takedown," I said to Conklin as Renfrew's BMW slowed, then turned into the driveway of a white multigabled house with blue shutters.