“Shit.”

“Her mother did file a missing-persons report, but the officer didn’t think she had anything to worry about. He took down all the information and told her to get in touch if she heard from Janet, but forget about that. All this time she’s been telling herself stories about where the girl was and why she didn’t write. This is Ned Lowe. I know it is. He works in outside sales, but photography has been his passion since he was in high school.

“The reason I mentioned him in the first place was because both Susan’s name and Janet’s were on the list Pete put together. One of the six women was his first wife, who died back in 1961. One divorced him and the other one is currently married to him. The fourth was involved in a so-called love relationship that she broke off.”

“Where is he now?”

“Well, he lives in Cottonwood, but he was scheduled to leave on one of his annual photographic jaunts, which begin to sound like hunting trips. His wife said she’d call after he left, but I haven’t heard from her, so maybe he’s getting a late start.”

“I’ll have the detectives in Henderson talk to Tucson. At least they can compare notes and establish the link if there is one. Why don’t you talk to Cheney and tell him what’s come up. Maybe there’s a way to corral the guy. You know where he’s headed?”

“Not a clue, and his wife doesn’t know, either.”

Dietz said, “Never mind. I’ll call Santa Teresa PD myself. I know more of Susan Telford’s story than you do, and it’ll save them some time.”

I gave him Ned and Celeste’s address and phone number in Cottonwood. I replaced the handset in the cradle, feeling the tension seep out of me. It was a relief to turn the whole issue of Ned Lowe over to law enforcement. I’d pursued the matter as far as I could, and now that I knew about the two missing girls, it was clear I was out of my element. Dietz had sworn he’d keep me posted, but I didn’t expect news anytime soon. In the meantime, I was hoping for a way to distract myself. I pulled out two sheets of typing paper and a fresh sheet of carbon paper and rolled them into the carriage, pausing to think about how to frame the information I’d just been given.

I heard the office door open and close. I looked up, but no one appeared in the doorway. I waited briefly and then got up from my desk and crossed the room, peering out into the reception area. I looked to my right just as Ned Lowe grabbed me and locked his arm around my neck. He leaned back and lifted me almost off my feet and then flipped me so that I came down hard. I might have grunted as I hit the carpet, but that was the only sound I made. I was astonished to find myself facedown, staring at the floor from a distance of less than an inch. My cheek was pressed hard against the rug, which bit into my skin more viciously than you’d imagine. The takedown had been so quick, I could scarcely comprehend what was happening. I had that odd sensation at the bridge of my nose that denotes a hard blow. No blood gushed out, so my guess was the cartilage was intact. He had his knee in the middle of my back and he grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head up far enough to get one hand on my face. He pinched my nose shut, that same warm hand covering my mouth. I thought, Oh shit. I knew what this was. This was how Lenore died.

In the brief moment as I went down, I’d noted the absurdity of my situation. It was broad daylight. My office was wired, equipped with a panel where an emergency button would signal my distress and bring help in short order. The problem was while I could move my feet, I couldn’t lift my hips or legs and I couldn’t buck or turn my lower body. The small effort I made was futile and only burned oxygen I needed to conserve.

I converted any thought of resistance to a simple resolve to breathe. Fewer than ten seconds had passed, but his weight prevented me from drawing a breath and the panic was overwhelming. Compressive asphyxia had limited the expansion of my lungs to the point of suffocation. This crushing phenomena was precisely what I’d been avoiding by never jacking up my car and sliding under it to make homely repairs. The nose pinch and the palm pressed hard against my mouth formed a seal. My attention was most wonderfully concentrated on the need for air. Often in moments of physical jeopardy, I’m entertained by the incongruities of time and place. Once when I was bleeding on a stretch of office carpeting, thinking soon I’d be shot to death, I wondered idly what unlucky soul would be hired to clean up the mess. With blood, cold water is always preferable to hot because heat cooks the protein content, causing it to set. You don’t want blood to dry, either, because you’ll only compound the staining issue. Never seal your bloody evidence in a plastic bag. In short order, it will putrefy and will be worthless in court.