“It was quite a sight,” Officer Carlisle said, nibbling on the edges of a danish. “Wrapped up like a Christmas present, he was. Said he’d been cooling his heels behind the sewage treatment plant, along with Brad Whittaker. That FBI agent, Parker or whatever his name is, practically started salivating when he heard. No sign of Whittaker, of course. Maybe MacInroe’s losing his mind.”

“And he didn’t see anything, which makes him kind of useless,” Officer Baker pointed out. “I can’t believe he didn’t see whoever it was that took him. I’ll bet it was one of them environmental organizations,” he said, drawing the word “environmental” out as long as he could. “Everyone knows he was up to something with the mill, and if they didn’t before, the FBI’s sure tipped ‘em off.”

“FBI asked him to catalogue the files in his office, see if anything was taken after that break-in. Asking the fox to count the hens, if you ask me,” Officer Carlisle said darkly. “I never trusted MacInroe, myself.”

“He certainly offered some funny advice to some of his clients,” Officer Baker said. “For someone who said he didn’t like to spend time in court, MacInroe seemed to have a deep interest in the workings of the legal system.”

The two policemen stared thoughtfully at the table for a moment, before Officer Baker stood up and stretched.

“Well, I guess we’d better go sweep the woods behind the sewage plant again,” he said. “It was awful dark out there when y’all were looking for Whittaker last night. Can’t believe no one even reported him missing. That man must be the loneliest person on Earth; his own mother doesn’t call him.”

Officer Carlisle rose as well, tucking the remains of the danish into its wax bag and taking it along for the ride. He liked to have a snack around, just in case. Security, the way he saw it. You never know when you’ll get distracted on a call and realize that you haven’t eaten for eight hours.

Their search of the woods, predictably, uncovered nothing, not even a scrap of blue nylon. Of course, it looked like an entire coil of cord had been used to tie up MacInroe, so perhaps that wasn’t too surprising. MacInroe himself was whisked off in the custody of the FBI, along with his files, and his house was locked up tighter than a drum, now, not that there was anything to take at this point.

Now, Officer Carlisle didn’t have a lot of experience on the force, but he made up for it with his powers of observation. He was the sort of man who didn’t mind awkward silences, speaking only when he needed to, and he had a sharp eye for a scene. These traits had come in handy more than once on the job; Carlisle was often the one who spotted the little sign of something wrong which could indicate a larger problem, and he was famous for his efficient and confident dispatch. Shoplifters and drunken brawlers alike tended to respect Officer Carlisle.

And something about this, these events, was troubling Officer Carlisle. He felt his observant senses tingling, as though sending him some sort of frantic message, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was confident that the disappearance of George MacInroe was related to something at the mill, and he was willing to admit that Brad Whittaker didn’t seem to be anywhere he knew about, so perhaps the same person who had taken MacInroe had also taken Whittaker. But why MacInroe had been returned when Whittaker hadn’t was something that Kevin Carlisle couldn’t fathom.

Furthermore, MacInroe didn’t come with a note or any other form of communication, and he was adamant that his kidnapper never talked to him. In Carlisle’s brief conversation with MacInroe, he had learned basically nothing about the kidnapper. No notable smells. No distinctive sounds. Nothing. Like a ghost. Why had MacInroe been thrown through Henry Makepeace’s window, in particular? Why then?

More than that, something about the fire at Giuseppe’s stank, and while it might, perhaps, be a leap of logic, he thought it had something to do with MacInroe and Whittaker, although he wasn’t sure what, exactly. Giuseppe had almost certainly set fire to his own establishment, Carlisle thought, so the question was why, aside from the hefty insurance policy. Was it possible that Giuseppe was hiding something for MacInroe or Whittaker? Apparently all sorts of things had turned up during the remodel, and Giuseppe was a man with fingers in a lot of pies, thanks to the fact that wine flowed freely in his restaurant and he was the sort of man whom people liked to talk to, to confide in.

The fire chief seemed to believe it was arson as well, and so did Makepeace, the strange little arson investigator who lived next door to Stella. In Carlisle’s eyes, Makepeace seemed like the sort of man who noticed more than he mentioned, like Carlisle himself, and Carlisle wondered if perhaps he should pay a visit to Makepeace. The quicker, the better, since the man might have some leftover artichokes.

However, Carlisle was reluctant to make his suspicions official, or to involve the force. There were too many unanswered questions and vague connections, and he never liked to express a thought before it had fully formed. This was a job for after hours, talking to Makepeace, and maybe tracking Giuseppe down as well. Both, however, were unknown quantities, so Carlisle would need to proceed with caution.

When Officer Carlisle dropped by the house of Henry Makepeace, he found the man himself lying on the lawn, along with Stella and Gregory. The three were eating leftover baguettes and cheese, while Stella and Gregory filled Henry in on the history of the mill.

“They developed a new process, you know,” said Stella. “For smelting steel. It’s supposed to be more efficient or something like that; some trade secret. For awhile they were quite the great shakes, back in the 1800s. The railroad was their biggest customer, and then the railroad shipped it out. Supposedly, the mill actually owned the railroad, although no one could prove it.”

She’d brought along a photo album to illustrate her story, and she pointed to a photograph of some severe looking millworkers, standing next to an enormous furnace.

“See the foreman? That’s my great grandfather. Joseph Carlisle. We’re an old family around these parts.”

Officer Carlisle squatted in the grass next to the trio, who greeted him.

“Hello there,” Henry said. “Come by for leftovers, have you?”

“And information, I’ll bet,” Stella added. “The artichokes are in the fridge; you know where the kitchen is, right? Grab them and while you’re inside, I’ll tell Henry the dog story.”

Officer Carlisle felt hesitant entering Henry’s house without so much as a by your leave, but Henry nodded, and the door was open, so he slipped inside. Stella had told him when Henry moved in that he bought the house sight unseen, and hadn’t made many changes, but the realtor had primped it up a bit before putting it on the market, so it had honey colored hardwood floors and creamy walls, with beautifully hand-restored wainscoting to boot. Entering the kitchen, Carlisle noted that Henry had painted one of the walls a rich orange color, which contrasted starkly with the basalt counters. Henry Makepeace, apparently, had money.

The artichokes were indeed in the fridge, on a cobalt blue plate which matched the plates in the rack above the center island. Officer Carlisle also grabbed a cake plate full of cupcakes, after stuffing a bottle of sparkling lemonade under his arm. As long as they were having a picnic, he thought, they might as well do it in style.

Back on the lawn, Gregory and Henry were laughing dutifully at the dog story, and Stella scooted over to make room for her son.

“So,” she said. “I know you’re not just here for leftovers. What gives?”