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Carlucci’s eyebrows went up. “Of course he gets to go to tony Las Vegas. I think the nicest place—and I use that loosely—that I went as commissioner was Newark.”

There were a few chuckles.

Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana was the department’s top cop—the last position Carlucci had held before his retirement and being elected mayor. Both the commissioner and the first deputy commissioner served at the mayor’s pleasure, although they were appointed to their jobs by the city’s managing director. The seven thousand policemen they commanded—the country’s fourth-largest force—were all civil servants.

Carlucci was neither surprised at Mariana’s absence nor was he angry. It was no secret that Mariana—a natty, stocky, balding Italian with four stars on his white uniform shirt—served as the face of the police department, while it was his three-star, Denny Coughlin, who effectively saw to the day-to-day running of the department.

And it was His Honor the mayor who ultimately called the shots.

The brass in the room had a long history—certainly professional but also to varying degrees personal—with one another. When young Philadelphia police officers showed promise, a “rabbi” quietly mentored them as they rose in the ranks, preparing them to take on greater responsibilities. Jerry Carlucci, for one example, then a captain and head of the Homicide Unit, had been Denny Coughlin’s rabbi.

Carlucci looked from Coughlin to the others.

“The department has run out of luck because Margaret McCain’s father . . . you are aware of who the McCains are?” he said rhetorically, continuing before anyone could answer: “For everyone’s edification, allow me to share. They’re among the Proper Philadelphians—the founders—right up there with the Whartons and the Pennypackers and the Rittenhouses. There’s the story that Michael McCain, one helluva clever lawyer who later became governor, banged heads with Ben Franklin over the way various parts of the Declaration of Independence were worded. And Will McCain, Margaret’s father, is a chip off that old block—the old man also was six-foot-something and had a hot Scottish temper. Would not surprise me if, like the old man, Will carries a gun everywhere. Hell, the McCains once owned the land that’s now the Radnor Hunt Club. So, understanding that background explains why Will does not take no for an answer. He’s like General George Patton—also a Scot—in that he gets what he wants. And what he wants right now are answers about his daughter.”

“I sympathize with her father and his frustration,” Chief Inspector Lowenstein offered. “The McCain girl has gone to great lengths trying to become untraceable—and done so remarkably quickly. His fear is grounded, and that is without the benefit of knowing anything about the other missing caseworkers.”

The ruddy-faced Lowenstein, who was Jewish, had a full head of curly silver hair. He was barrel-chested, large, and stocky.

“The damn fact of the matter,” Carlucci said pointedly, “is that we essentially don’t know a thing about what happened to those two women.”

The room was silent for a long moment. Then Coughlin came to Lowenstein’s defense.

“It’s certainly not for lack of effort,” Coughlin said evenly, the frustration in his tone evident. “Since those first two went missing last week, Matt has had an entire unit in Special Operations quietly running down every lead.”

Carlucci nodded.

“I of course understand that, Denny. As well as the frustration. Yet now we’re looking for three.” He turned to Lowenstein. “It sounds as if you’ve decided that Margaret McCain is a willing participant in her disappearance.”

“I don’t know if the word ‘willing’ is entirely accurate,” Lowenstein said, waving a sheaf of papers. “But it is looking like she could be the one making the decisions. What she’s doing seems almost planned.”

“What’re those papers?” Carlucci said.

“The initial responses to our electronic queries. I’m thinking that because of her job keeping track of the kids at Mary’s House, she became quite knowledgeable about electronic tethers—credit and debit cards, cell phones, E-ZPass, et cetera. She’s being careful. There’s been no signal from her personal cell phone, which could mean she has intentionally turned it off or that it has a dead battery. Her Land Cruiser’s GPS unit either is not working or has been disabled. When we queried the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission, her E-ZPass account came up with no active travel through any tollbooth in the last forty-eight hours.” He paused, then went on: “And there were only two charges on any of her half dozen credit cards. Both to the same PNC MasterCard. One was for forty bucks and change at a Gas & Go near the airport. The other was made a half hour later, at two o’clock this morning, at a Center City pharmacy for more than three hundred dollars.”

“Anything on their survei

llance cameras?”

“We got a look at images at the Gas & Go, but they were too dark and grainy to tell if she was alone or not when she pumped gas. The pharmacy’s system was inoperable.”

“Okay, so it sounds like she topped off her gas tank, suggesting she’s hit the road—and is avoiding tolled ones. And the other’s probably for prescriptions? They aren’t cheap.”

Lowenstein shrugged. “Could be. If I were leaving town for a while, I’d want my meds. We should know shortly—we are waiting for a response from the store as to what its computer system says the itemized receipt shows she bought. But that’s the end of the trail. After that, there is nothing. It’s like she pulled the plug on everything.”

“What about that stuff they’re all doing on the Internet?” Carlucci said.

“Social media activity?”

“Yeah. That produced a number of leads with the other two caseworkers. Is she in touch with anyone through that?”

“It produced leads,” Coughlin put in, “but none went anywhere. The caseworkers themselves never posted anything on the Internet after they went missing.”

“And it’s worse with the McCain girl,” Lowenstein added. “We asked everyone—friends, family, neighbors, coworkers—and every single person said Margaret never really embraced social media. She tried one or two, then gave up on them. Her mother said she didn’t think that they were worth the time, that they took away from her privacy.”

Carlucci looked deep in thought.

“Okay. Back up,” he then said. “When was the last time she was seen?”