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you might remember, not always.”
    “More often than not, though. At least I felt I was doing something important. Instead of like now, when I’m waiting around for the next major life milestone after retirement, which I’m told tends to be death.”
    I F A BE THOUGHT Treya was unhappy with his decision to look into Katie Chase’s disappearance—and she was—he didn’t want to even casually run his freelancing by the personnel of the Homicide detail. If he wound up covering some of the same investigative ground as the inspectors assigned to the case, they’d find out soon enough and could deal with it as they saw fit. Glitsky didn’t want to have another discussion—or argument—before he’d even begun.
    So instead of going up another two floors, he went downstairs and out the back door, then into the admitting lobby of the jail, a separate oval building that adjoined the main rectangular edifice of the hall. The deputy behind the counter—his name tag read CREELEY —greeted him cordially and with no sign that he’d gotten the memo about Glitsky’s retirement. “Lieutenant,” Creeley said, “what can I do for you?”
    “I wonder if I could have a word with Hal Chase. Is he still on duty?”
    “He’s Mr. Popularity today, isn’t he?” Creeley checked his watch. “Shifts change over in about fifteen, if you want to wait. I’ll get word to him.”
    Glitsky thanked the deputy, decided to take a walk around the back parking lot to stretch his legs, and returned to the admitting desk to find Hal Chase—name tags were a wonderful invention—by the counter, his face a mask of worry.
    Glitsky introduced himself without a handshake, and Chase barely whispered, “So you found her?”
    “Why do you say that?”
    Chase’s temper flared. “Because you’re Abe Glitsky out of Homicide, and you wouldn’t be hassling me again after I told your inspectors to pound sand this morning unless you knew Katie was actually dead.”
    “Easy,” Glitsky said. “I’m not hassling you. I don’t know if your wife is dead. I’m not in Homicide anymore. I’m working with Dismas Hardy.” As he watched the gears shift in Chase’s head, Abe explained, “I retired six months ago. The word doesn’t seem to have gotten out too well.”
    Hal’s shoulders fell with relief. “I heard your name and I thought . . .”
    “I get it. But really, I’m retired. Hardy told me you wanted somebody working on finding your wife, not finding evidence that you killed her. It looks like I’m your man.”
    Chase nodded, then another thought seemed to strike. “Is Hardy paying you? Because I’m tapped out after the retainer I gave him.”
    “That’s covered. Hardy can afford it.” Glitsky shrugged. “The guy’s a little unorthodox, but for a lawyer, he’s actually got a heart. Plus, he seems to be about the only one who’s inclined to give you a chance.”
    “That I didn’t kill her, you mean.”
    “Yep.”
    “How about you?”
    “I’ve got an open mind. With your permission, I’d like to get ahold of some facts and see where they lead. I’m not going on any assumptions. I was just over in Missing Persons and got their opinion, which you already know.”
    “Katie’s dead.”
    “Right. But I’m not starting there. I hope your wife is still alive. I’m going to assume that. If there are other possibilities that might have driven her to leave, or somebody to have taken her, I want to find out what they were. You want to help me with that?”
    “I want to find her, whatever it takes.”
    “That’s a good answer. Are you on your way home now?”
    “That was my plan.”
    “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride out with you.”

7
    “T ELL ME ABOUT the night,” Glitsky said as Hal pulled his Subaru out into traffic. “Wednesday, wasn’t it?”
    Though Hal’s sideways look telegraphed what Glitsky read as impatience, he sighed in resignation and started in. “There wasn’t any drama before. It was just a