When Jim Hillyer emerged from the office on New Bond Street that dark night he'd been momentarily stunned by the camera-lights from the television crew that had gathered. Inspector Montague had pulled up in a Ford Escort police car with the siren wailing just as Jim came out, had grabbed Jim by the arm, and ushered him into the back seat of the car.

"What's going on?" Hillyer demanded as they sped down Piccadilly toward Jim's hotel. "I mean, thanks for getting me out of that chaos, but . . . what happened?"

Montague, sitting in the front seat, turned around. "So you haven't heard it on the news?"

"No," Jim answered. "I haven't heard any news." He smoothed back his hair with his hands and tried to pull himself together. "I repeat -- what happened?"

Open and shut. This case is wrapping up early, and easily, it would seem. But Montague's been around long enough to know that things are never quite that simple. And as clearly guilty as this Nicholas Hammond guy seems to be, Montague won't be surprised at all if he had nothing to do with it. Experience, you know.

"Well," the Inspector went on as the car coasted to a halt in front of Jim's hotel. A light rain had begun to fall, and, as usual, the London streets were shiny and slick. Inspector Montague, his junior detective and driver, and Hillyer remained in the car with the motor running, and Inspector Montague shifted in his seat so he could lean back and talk more comfortably to Jim. "We got a tip -- an anonymous one, maddeningly -- about some chap down in southeast London, neighborhood called Brockley, down Lewisham way." "What do you mean, a 'tip'?" Jim asked, his interest piqued. "Have you found Meg?" He braced himself for bad news, though, apparently, it was not forthcoming.

"No, nothing like that," Montague went on, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief he pulled out of his breast pocket.

"Well, what?" Jim demanded, getting impatient.

"The tip," Montague continued, "was about this fellow Nicholas Hammond. An anonymous phone call came into my office that he was involved in the kidnapping -- the caller said 'kidnapping' -- of Meg Townsend. It gave us his exact address, and, of course, we followed it up."

"And?" Jim asked, hanging on the Inspector's words.

"And . . . we drove down there -- seedy neighborhood, depressing little rooming house, basement flat -- and rang the doorbell. You see, Mr. Hillyer, most of these leads turn out to be absolutely nothing, and that's what we were expecting."

"And were you right?" Jim inquired, leadingly.

"I don't think so," Montague said. "I think this is the real thing." He put his glasses back on.

"Why?" said Jim.

"Well, we got no answer, but when we peeked in the window, what we saw made us go and get the landlady upstairs."

"Why?" Jim asked.

"You see, this guy Hammond's dingy apartment was covered floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with pictures of Meg Townsend. You know, photos clipped from magazine ads, posters. I mean, the whole flat was like a shrine, a homage, to Meg Townsend. He even had photos from early on in her career."

"Well, that's interesting," Jim said, "But --" "No, there's more," Montague interrupted, shifting his weight again. He was too large a man to sit comfortably, sideways, in the front seat of a car. "The landlady told us that he was obsessed with Miss Townsend. I mean, really sick stuff. Apparently, he told all his friends and neighbors that he and Miss Townsend were friends, that he was 'dating' her, that she'd personally given him all these photos . . . that kind of thing. You know, delusional." "Oh, I see," Jim said, not sure he really did see the Inspector's point. "You know, Inspector," he went on, "celebrities deal with this stuff all the time. It's part of the turf."

In the clear? Let's hope so. If Nicholas Hammond really is responsible for Meg Townsend's disappearance, Jim Hillyer is in the clear. If not, Jim is still in this thing up to his neck. And sinking deeper, dear reader.

"No, wait," Montague said. "The most interesting thing is that Hammond actually bragged to a neighbor, and to Mrs. Emery, the landlady, that he and Meg were 'going away together.'"

"Going away together . . ." Jim echoed.

"Yes," responded Montague. "Going away together. But the most incriminating thing, Mr. Hillyer, is that Hammond has disappeared, too. He was as predictable as prune pudding, say his neighbors, but he's gone. Disappeared the same day Meg did. Not a word from him since, and he's missed his monthly rent with the landlady."

"No kidding?" Hillyer asked.

"No kidding," Montague smiled weakly, repeating Hillyer's Americanism as if it were the first time he'd ever heard it. "Mr. Hillyer, I think this guy Hammond has your Meg Townsend. It's our first and only lead, and I don't want to jump at it. But I think he's our chap."

As he rounded the bend of the Kaumuali'i Highway heading West toward Barking Sands -- the part of the road that gave way to beautiful vistas of the Pacific, looking out toward the island of Ni'ihau -- Cy Lefkowitz downshifted the transmission on his rental Subaru and slowed. He did it reflexively, because he loved to contemplate the ocean as he drove this part of the road. But all he was thinking about this afternoon was . . . how the hell did he get himself in such a ridiculous situation?

Passive-aggressive But who could blame her? Sister Anne's got to use every trick and manipulation in the book to get what she wants -- and what her kids need. She knows just when to play upon Cy's sense of charity ... and guilt. It's a part of her "calling."

When Sister Anne had inferred from Cy's questioning her about Ano that Cy wanted to adopt him, she'd inquired of the authorities -- the state board, the Archdiocese that ran the orphanage -- as to whether it would be possible. The clear answer was no. No retired, single man in his mid-60s would be allowed to adopt a little boy . . . which is exactly what Cy had suspected. This is what Sister Anne had told Cy, as they were sitting on the veranda at the Waimea General Store. What he hadn't expected had come next, and Cy replayed the conversation in his head as he drove, trying at the same time to block the slowly setting sun out of his eyes. Would he, Sister Anne had inquired, be interested in using his advertising and promotion skills to assist the Archdiocese in raising funds for the maintenance and expansion of the orphanage and school?

Christ. It was just what he didn't need, Cy thought. He hadn't left Hillyer, Jones and traveled 5,000 miles to take on another ad campaign. No, worse -- a fundraising campaign. And, frankly, he'd said as much to Sister Anne.

Cy recalled how disappointed the young, committed woman had looked as he explained that he was tired of work. Tired of the grind. Tired of the meaningless competition, the ridiculous pressure-cooker atmosphere, the unreasonable demands of clients. Tired of the whole thing.

But that's just the point, Sister Anne had countered. This isn't meaningless. It couldn't be more important, in fact. He'd be helping children who needed him, she'd said. He'd be working, but in a place that was so beautiful he'd traveled 5,000 miles to get to it. They'd be no pressure, she'd promised -- his schedule would be his own. They even had a budget, she'd shared with him, excitedly.

Even as he wondered how pathetically low the "budget" was, and told her he'd mull it over, Cy knew that he was going to do it.