Being a genius isn’t terribly useful when you’re five years old. Joey understands chord progressions, he sees the shape of music way better than most adults, but has very little understanding of evil in the shape of man. And yet he senses that something is wrong. The bad man has never touched or threatened the boy—all communication comes through the woman—but the man’s very presence makes Joey regress to his old habit of sucking his thumb. A habit he long ago—a year at least—abandoned to please his mother.

Mi Ma. Mommy. Joey last saw his mother two weeks ago, and he worries incessantly that he may never see her again, despite more or less constant reassurance from the woman who is taking care of him.

“Where’s my real mommy?” he asks. It’s his most frequent question, and the only one that matters.

“I told you, sweetie, she had to go away to the hospital.”

Joey nods, his eyes big. “Real Mommy’s okay?”

“She’s fine. She’ll be back in a few days, as soon as she’s all the way better. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says.

“You want to play some more? How about your Mozart, you love Mozart.”

On the verge of tears he shakes his head.

“How about a story. The Phantom Tollbooth? You like that one, don’t you?”

Weeping silently, the boy sucks his thumb and nods.

The scary man has many names. Just lately he’s been calling himself Kidder. He thinks of himself as having a sense of humor, although others might disagree. If the ability to kill without remorse is funny—and it does sometimes make him laugh out loud—then he has a great sense of humor. His present assignment involves keeping an eye on a very special little boy and his caregiver. Great location. A private, oceanfront estate with absentee owners. Less than an hour from the city and yet it’s country quiet, with total privacy and a lovely view of the sea. Easy duty for him, not so much for the woman, who gets all in a tizzy when the boy whines for his real mother.

Kidder doesn’t get it, why the kid won’t stop whining. The little brat has a new mommy, one focused solely on his welfare—a definite improvement on the old one, no question there. He has his special kid-size piano keyboard and his headphones, where he can practice for hours at a time—and only when he wants to, it’s not like anybody makes him. If he’s bored with music he has all the toys in the world, pizza whenever he wants and a big-screen TV loaded with DVDs of his favorite shows. Not exactly a torture situation. More like a trip to his own personal Disney World.

At the moment New Mommy is reading him a story, and when she gets to the end she starts all over again, keeps it up until the brat finally falls asleep.

Kidder thinks it’s funny that when New Mommy puts the kid to bed she calls it “putting him down.” Like he’s a dog at the pound being put to sleep forever. Not that New Mommy would ever do such a thing. She’s all soft and weepy and worried, totally clueless about the real nature of the operation, and comes to Kidder with her eyes wet, like she caught tears from the kid.

“How much longer?” she asks.

“A day. A week. Forever.”

“That’s not funny!”

“It is if I say it is,” Kidder says.

“How long?” she insists.

“Not my call. When Shane says so, that’s when. You know how he is.”

“I need to speak to him,” she says, her voice choking. “I need to talk to Shane. Please?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “You knew it was a one-way deal when you signed up. No calls to him. Not from me, not from you, not from anybody. That’s the only way to keep the boy safe. I explained all that.”

“I know, I know, but it’s making me crazy.”

“Yeah? I’ll make you crazy. Me and Wee Willie Winkie. Come on over here and sit on my lap.”

“You’re disgusting!”

That makes Kidder laugh. He makes the same sound when killing, a jagged, high-pitched giggle as sharp and sudden as a bag of razor blades. Not that he’s going to kill the woman or the brat.

Not yet anyway. Not today.

When it does happen, he’ll try to make it fun for everyone.

PART I

The Last Kid Finder

Chapter One

The Trunk Thing

The killer came to us in the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car, and stayed just long enough to wreck the house. By that I mean the pile of brick that Naomi Nantz uses as her personal residence as well as for the business of solving unsolvable cases, assisting the helpless and generally amusing herself by being difficult, if not impossible.

My name is Alice Crane, and I serve as Ms. Nantz’s recording secretary and chief factotum. In case you don’t know—I had to look it up when she hired me—a factotum is an employee or assistant employed in a wide range of capacities. I mean, come on, this is the twenty-first century, who uses fusty old words like that anymore?

My boss, Naomi Nantz, that’s who.

The Nantz residence takes up most of a block in the Back Bay area of Boston. Don’t bother trying to find us, we’re camouflaged as two—or is it three?—typical Victorian brick town houses located somewhere between Storrow Drive to the north, Boylston Street to the south,

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