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hour, Dupree, not us. Get my point? ”
    Grace’s phone rang.
    “Grace, Berman at the scene here. We may have something.”
    Rick Mofina
    “What?”
    “Security camera in the hardware store across the street may have recorded the whole thing.”

6
    “I t should be here. Why isn’t it here?”
    Arnie Rockwell, seventy-four, replayed the tape from his surveillance camera yet again.
    Fuzzy black-and-white images of his empty hardware store filled much of the small TV monitor on his counter. A sliver at the top of the screen offered a view of the street through his window. Stationary images of the store’s interior were punctuated by jumpy stop-and-go frames of a car or person passing by. A patch of the street in front of Kim’s Corner Store was visible.
    Dylan Colson’s abduction had not been captured.
    “I don’t get it.”
    Arnie’s hand, speckled with age spots, scratched his head to coax a memory. His son had installed this cheap little security unit years ago after a pimple-faced teenager tried to steal a hunting knife. The system was ancient, but it still worked.
    Kind of like Arnie, who’d kept his store going ever since he’d returned home from the Korean War with the need to hang on to something redemptive. He believed that hardware was the pillar of self-improvement. Yourfirst stop to fix whatever ain’t working in your life, he used to tell the boys down at Oscar’s Bar.
    That was long before his “forgetting” had worsened. Long before his wife, God bless her for keeping the shelves orderly, wanted him to retire. He refused. “Might as well lay me down and pat my face with a spade.”
    Arnie was at a loss.
    “I don’t understand. It should be here.”
    “Mr. Rockwell,” Grace Garner said, battling time, “your tape has no date display. Are you certain your camera was operating today?”
    “You bet. I save tapes and change them every week or so. I know I saved this one after what happened this morning.”
    “Where do you put the tapes you save?”
    “In the back room.”
    “Show us.”
    Reeking of must, the room was a portrait of chaos that reflected Arnie’s ailing memory. Boxes, supplies, and crates were stacked floor to ceiling. It was crammed with barrels and buckets of screws, bolts, and nails; the walls were covered with girlie calendars and license plates from the 1950s. A rolltop desk was cluttered with unopened mail, invoices, disorganized ledgers, outdated magazines, and a heap of videotapes.
    Upward of fifty, Grace estimated. All unlabeled. She looked at Schaeffer and Berman.
    “I thought we had it, Grace,” Berman said.
    “Go through these tapes with him and call me if you find it.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll be at Kim’s.”
    They were losing time.
    As much as Dupree was typical of the FBI’s takeover style, Grace knew he was right. There was little hope they would find the baby alive. This case was going to draw a lot of heat. Crossing the cordoned-off street, reporters called to her from the other side of the tape.
    “Detective! Can you give us a statement?”
    Someone from downtown was supposed to be here to handle the press. Grace waved them off. She didn’t need this now, not in what was shaping up to be a homicide-abduction.
    The doctors had said it could be hours before Maria Colson might regain consciousness after surgery. They doubted she would live and had braced her husband for the worst. The FBI had taken him home in case Dylan’s abductors made contact.
    This one sucked, worse than most of them, Grace thought. Uncertain witnesses, unreliable security tape, no linchpin evidence, and no time. She glanced at the criminalists in their white jumpsuits scrutinizing the blood pool and the stroller, measuring distances. Anger twisted her stomach. No way was she giving up. All she needed was a break. Or something to point her to one.
    Anything.
    The transom bells rang when she entered Kim’s.
    Dominic Perelli was talking to a girl who looked to be in her