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I grabbed the other phone from the front hallway and A. J. and I greeted each other. Immediately after the pleasantries she asked, "Have either of you ever heard of a man named Edmond Locard?" I said no. Lauren said she thought the name was familiar.

  "Well, have you ever heard of an organization called Locard? It is, of course, named after Edmond Locard. He, by the way, was a nineteenth-century French police detective." We both said no, though Lauren had begun nodding her head as though she was remembering something about him.

  A. J. sighed.

  "Does the name Vidocq ring any bells? An organization called the Vidocq Society?"

  "Yes," I replied.

  "I've read something about them. It'sum a volunteer organization of law enforcement officers and-what?-forensic specialists and prosecutors who try to assist local police in solving old crimes. Murders and kidnappings mostly.

  They've been quite successful, haven't they?"

  "That's right, they have. Very good, Alan. Well, Locard is a group similar to the Vidocq Society and has similar goals, though a slightly, mmm, shall we say, different philosophy and approach. I am one of the founding members. We are not as well known as Vidocq, which is mostly by design. Our members are not as prominent. That, too, is partly by design. But as an organization we are very effective. The reason I'm calling is that we in Locard have just made a decision to consider involving ourselves with a case that involves a crime that occurred in Colorado over ten years back but that also has some intriguing contemporary Colorado connections. I suggested to our screening committee that I thought you could both be of some help in our efforts. You, Lauren, could advise us on the lay of the local prosecutorial landscape. And you, Alan, could help me with some aspects of the case that might involve your clinical skills.

  The screening committee has already looked-discreetly, I assure you-into your backgrounds and authorized me to invite you both to consider assisting us on the case.

  Should the case develop as we anticipate it will, you would each bring an important local perspective to our investigation." A. J. told us little more that evening. She did explain that our participation was purely voluntary, and that we would not be remunerated for our time or for our expenses except for extraordinary travel costs, which would need to be approved in advance by the director of Locard.

  We looked at each other and shrugged. Lauren told her that we would be happy to consider her request. A. J. explained that we would need to come to Washington, D.C." at least once and possibly twice or more but that the Colorado family that was imploring Locard to investigate the crime had agreed to provide transportation for the initial visit.

  "When would this be?" Lauren asked.

  "The first meeting is a week from tomorrow. You would need to be at Jefferson County Airport at six o'clock in the morning. That's close to your home, right?

  I'm told that it is."

  "Yes, it's close enough."

  "There will be a plane waiting for you there at a facility called…" She hesitated and I heard papers ruffle. "… Executive Air. The family name is Franklin. You should be back in Colorado the same day if you're lucky. Midday Sunday at the latest. If you're required to stay over, someone will make sleeping arrangements."

  "And you'll be there, A. J.? At the meeting?" I asked.

  "Yes, definitely. And one last thing."

  We waited.

  "Please don't tell anyone we've talked. Discretion is important. Essential.

  Agreed?"

  "Yes."

  "She doesn't want us to tell Sam," I said, a few moments after we hung up the phone. Sam Purdy was a Boulder police detective and a good friend. A. J. had become acquainted with him the previous autumn, too.

  "I got that impression, too," Lauren agreed.

  "Any idea why?" I shook my head.

  "Secrecy is its own reason. Can you finish making the pizza? I want to check some of this out on the Internet."

  I sat down at the kitchen table fifteen minutes later.

  "There isn't much about Locard as a group. A little about Edmond Locard as an individual. But the Vidocq Society has its own Web page. Lot of heavy hitters are members. You know, CNBC types-the kind of people who had endless opinions about Monica Lewinsky. Some people who testified in the O. J. trial. Vidocq has a fancy meeting room in a town house in Philadelphia. There's some blurb on their Web page about 'cuisine and crime."

  Apparently, they have fancy lunches while they sit around and discuss old crimes. The Web page makes it sound like some kind of club. A regular crime-fighters' Rotary."

  Though Lauren was drinking water, she handed me a glass of red wine.

  "While you were on the computer I remembered where I'd heard his name before.

  Locard. He's the man responsible for what detectives and crime-scene specialists call Locard's Exchange Principle. Its the foundation for the science behind trace evidence.

  Locard's the one who theorized that when any two objects came in contact or stay in close proximity for an extended period, something, some material, either visible or microscopic, will always be exchanged between the two objects."

  I smiled. "That's about all I learned on the Net, too. That and that Locard worked in Lyons. Can you believe we agreed to do this?"

  "Yeah, I can. I think it sounds fascinating. I'm more surprised that we were asked. Let's face it, Alan, our national reputation as crime fighters is, shall we say… nonexistent. I suspect that A. J. has an agenda that we don't know about."

  "Do you think it will take up much of our time?"

  She shrugged.

  "I know a couple of people who have done this sort of thing before. My impression is that its more of a consultation thing. I don't think it will be too bad. Anyway, we owe A. J. big-time."

  "Yes. We do owe A. J. big-time." I lifted the pizza to my mouth.

  "Gosh we make good pizza, don't we?"

  We were in.

  Our flight from Jefferson County Airport in Colorado to Washington National was on a private jet that had room to seat ten or so, depending on how many people squeezed onto the leather sofa in the center of the plane. On this nonstop, though, Lauren and I had been the only passengers. The whole private-jet, flight-attendant-acting-like-a-butler thing had led us to conclude chat we would be greeted on the tarmac at the airport by a shiny black limo with a liveried driver, or at the very least a Town Car with a chauffeur. Instead, as we descended the stairs from the Gulfstream and collected our bags from our always solicitous flight attendant, Ms. Anderson, we stood alone on the macadam watching the approach of a bright yellow fuel truck. After a minute or so one of the pilots followed us off the plane and suggested we might want to retreat to the waiting area that was inside the office of the company that was going to service the plane.

  We were almost to the office doors when a voice behind us called out, "Yo. Al?

  Laurel?"

  The experience of traveling cross-country on a private jet had left me feeling impervious to discourtesy. I turned and smiled and said, "Yes?"

  The man behind us seemed out of breath. He was wearing flower-print shorts, old Tevas, and a dirt brown T-shirt that was so faded I couldn't discern what had once been silk-screened on it. I pegged his age at around thirty-five.

  "Whoa, glad I caught up with you. Traffic is something for a Saturday and I thought I was supposed to go to the terminal to get you. Had to find my way out here by Braille, I swear. Anyway, I'm your wheels. This way." He pointed behind him, pausing only to glance up at the Gulfstream and add, "Nice ride. Is it yours?"

  He didn't wait to hear my reply, which was an amused "Hardly." We followed him to a red four-door Passat and loaded our own luggage into a trunk that was half-full of nylon ropes and harnesses, all neatly bundled. Lauren and I glanced knowingly at each other, recognizing the accoutrements of a rock climber.

  Lauren patted herself gently on the bulge that barely protruded from her lower abdomen and urged me into the front seat. Our driver lowered some narrow sunglasses from th
e top of his head to his eyes and said," I'm Claven, russ Claven, by the way. I guess I should welcome you, at least unofficially, to the ranks of Clouseau. So… hey… welcome to Clouseau." He affected a pseudo French accent for his final pronunciation of Clouseau, and completed his welcome by saluting us in a quasi-military fashion.

  "I'm Alan Gregory. This is my wife, Lauren Crowder. And… did you say Clouseau?" I asked.

  "We were expecting to be met by somebody from a group called Locard."

  He laughed with a robust roar that came straight from his belly.

  "Clouseau… Locard… Vidocq. They're all just dead French detectives, right?" He laughed again, enamored with his own joke.

  "Some of us affectionately call the group Clouseau. You like The Pink Panther?

  Personally I think Sellers is hilarious.

  "Does your dog bite?" was hilarious, anyway. You guys ever do the dead pool? Do they do that in Colorado? I do it every year. I almost won that year-the year that Sellers died? If Sinatra had kicked on time, it would have been mine. And John Paul? The man seems immortal. I had him on my list every year until they put him on the zombie list. I got Sonny Bono right, though, if you can believe it. Just a premonition on that one. But I always pick the wrong dead Kennedy.

  Seems one dies every year but the rules say you have to pick the right one to get the points. And I can't tell you how many votes I wasted on Bob Hope before he got added to the cast of Night of the Living Dead."

  I waited for him to pause for breath. He didn't.

  "Anyway, welcome. You know the District at all? We meet in a place in Adams Morgan. Not too far. Then again, not too close." He hit the accelerator with great force, as though he were trying to kill a roach that was camping out on the pedal.

  "Tell me. Which one of you is the shrink and which is the DA?"

  Lauren clenched the armrest with one hand and my shoulder with the other as she identified herself as the deputy DA.

  "Boulder, right? Colorado?"

  "Yes," Lauren responded, her voice tentative. I could tell she knew what was coming.

  "Did you do Jonbenet? Was that yours? And was it as crapped up as everybody says it was?" "It wasn't mine," she said, smiling insincerely.

  "I was totally out of the loop on that one."

  "You must hear things, though, right? That DA of yours pointing at the camera and saying he's gonna get his man. I loved it. Loved it. I have a friend who started calling him Wyatt Burp."

  I knew Lauren desperately wanted Russ Claven to drop the Jonbenet questions. To my surprise, he did. I couldn't decide whether he was displaying some sensitivity to Lauren's discomfort or whether he suffered from a congenitally short attention span.

  Claven drove the Passat aggressively. Lauren and I learned quickly that the German car accelerated with elan and thank God braked efficiently. He took us into the city across the Arlington Bridge and circled the Lincoln Memorial at a speed that made me grateful for centrifugal force.

  "I'm avoiding construction," he explained as he downshifted and accelerated up Twenty-third, as though he feared I was going to question his choice of routes or argue the charge on the meter.

  The morning in the capital was bright and warm. In some kind of seasonal time warp, Lauren and I had advanced a month further into spring by leaving Boulder, flying across country, and descending to sea level. She tapped me on the shoulder and pointed in the direction of the Tidal Basin and the sea of pink-white cherry blossoms. I heard her whisper, "Maybe we'll have time tomorrow."

  I somehow doubted it.

  In the next few minutes I recognized the fleeting images of the State Department, Washington Circle, and Dupont Circle, but we were soon traveling through the narrow, car-lined streets of an urban D.C. neighborhood that I'd never visited before. The way our driver was looking around from side to side I had the feeling he hadn't been here a whole lot, either.

  "Parking's always a bitch around here, especially on weekends. Too many college kids live in this neighborhood. None of them are even up this early on Saturday morning, so none of them have moved their cars." The DJ on the car radio announced the time. In mock horror, Claven repeated, " Twelve-seventeen? Shit, were late. God I hope the sandwiches aren't gone. I'm starving. Man can't live on potato salad alone."

  He squeezed the Passat into an impossibly small spot between a bread truck and a Chevy Impala that should have been in a museum, then removed the plastic faceplate from the front of his car stereo and slid it into the glove compartment. He apparently noticed my questioning stare and explained, "This isn't the best neighborhood in a city that's known for not having the best neighborhoods. Why do I leave it in the glove compartment, you ask? I figure that if they bother to steal the whole car, the thieves deserve a radio that works, don't you think? I mean, I could carry it with me, but what good does the front panel of a car stereo do me after my car is gone?"

  For two blocks we followed Claven on foot, at a distance. We hung back mostly because we were weighed down with our carry-ons and couldn't keep up with him.

  Finally, he ducked into the arched doorway of a stately old stone warehouse. He paused for a split second; I thought he wanted to be certain we were still on his trail. Once inside the building, there was again no sign of him.

  Lauren said, "Poof. He disappeared."

  "Back here," he yelled.

  "Behind the mailboxes."

  Behind the wall of mailboxes was a beautifully carved oak door. Behind that door was a tiny elevator. Claven called for the car with a key, escorted us inside, pulled the oak door shut, and tugged the gate closed. The elevator was about the size of a vertical coffin, sans satin.

  "Can you get to that button?" he asked me.

  "Which one?"

  "There's only one button. Just lean against the wall until the elevator starts moving." I did. It did.

  The elevator was patient. Russ Claven was not. He tapped his foot the whole time we were ascending. He was humming something by Bruce Springsteen. I couldn't remember the title, but thought Russ was carrying the tune quite well.

  Finally, I remembered the name of the song. It was "Pink Cadillac."

  After a long, slow ride we exited directly into the foyer of someone's loft.

  Claven walked past us into a huge open room and explained, "This is Kimber Listers house. Mr. Lister has good taste and the resources to indulge it.

  Family money."

  Lauren was taking in the beautiful furnishings. She said, "Indeed he does. What floor are we on, Mr. Claven?" She had moved her gaze to a southern wall of metal-rimmed square-paned windows that revealed an admirable view of the distant government buildings and monuments.

  "Russ. Call me Russ. What floor? Top floor," replied Claven.

  "We're on the top floor. Follow me. We shouldn't dawdle." He strode across a stunning old tribal carpet that was bigger than my office and up a ten-foot-wide staircase that was lined with banisters and handrails of exquisitely turned wrought iron. He waited for us at the landing and, with his arms parted, pirouetted to face a pair of heavy paneled doors. He said, "Voila.

  Oh, wait, do either of you need to use the John?"

  Lauren replied, "I do."

  "That door, there." Russ pointed to the opposite side of the landing.

  "Alan, you're sure your bladder is up to it? Kimber doesn't like anyone to leave until the initial part of the meeting is over. It could be a while. He runs these things like he's Werner Erhard and we're all at an old-time est meeting." Lauren disappeared into the bathroom. Russ asked me if I climbed rocks. I told him I didn't but that I had friends who did, mostly in Eldorado Canyon.

  "Oh maaan. Envy, envy. You should try it, you really should. You'll fall in love, I promise you. I'm going this summer for sure. First week in August, I'm climbing in Eldorado Springs. A long time dream of mine. I'll tell you, if it wasn't for climbing rocks and windsurfing I don't know how I'd stay sane." I told him I liked to ride bikes.

  He nodded and said, "That's oka
y, too," but his voice conveyed the same kind of disdain that snow boarders routinely express for skiers. Lauren returned to the landing. Claven's last words as he placed his left hand on one of the ornate doorknobs were, "Don't worry about being late. They'll probably blame me. It's one of my primary roles in the organization. Designated screw up." He snapped his fingers and added, "Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them I checked your ID."

  A second set of doors, these of some kind of metal, awaited us inside. Claven mouthed a profanity, added, "I knew it. They've started," and punched a code into a keypad mounted on the wall of the small foyer. Moments later the metal slabs slid open in the same silent, fluid motion as elevator doors.

  The doors closed behind us just as the lights in the room were dimming to black.

  My retinal image of the scene in front of me was of nothing but silhouettes.

  The room was large, maybe thirty by forty, and appeared to have been set up as a small theater with perhaps two dozen seats. I tried to visualize the backs of the heads I had seen and decided that more than half the chairs were occupied.

  Claven separated my hand from Lauren's and led her to our right. I grabbed her other hand and followed them to seats near the back of the room. The chairs were big, leather, and comfortable. Mine rocked gently as I sat down. A deep, unaccented voice cracked the silence in the room.

  "Nice of you to join us, Dr. Claven. You've gathered our final guests?"

  "Yes, Kimber. All present and accounted for."

  A spotlight clicked on and washed an uneven circle at the front of the room. At the bottom of the circle a man sat on the edge of a small stage, gripping a cordless microphone as though it were a cherished cigar. He was staring at the wall to our right. I was surprised to note he was no older than I was. His blond hair was thick, like his body.

  "Good day, all. My name is Kimber Lister. To those of you who are visiting my home for the first time, please permit me to offer you a warm welcome to my dwelling and a gracious introduction to… Locard."

  It was silent.

  Kimber Lister's eyes never strayed toward the small audience as he addressed us from the diminutive stage. His voice was a resonating baritone that caused the sub woofer in the room's sound system to rumble. The rich timbre of the sound was an incongruous counterpoint to the body of the man who was speaking; Kimber was soft and round and appeared almost childlike and angelic, despite his size.