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for the door lock or, if necessary, with a swat with his window tool. He wouldn’t wait for the owners.
    A teenaged shopper exited The Spree carrying a single plastic bag. He walked across the parking lot toward Pershing Street, rubbernecking the commotion around the ambulance as he went.
    Torrez, Miss Barber, and two EMTs clustered around the Volvo. Miss Barber held up a folded newspaper to shield the parchment skin of her face from the beating sun, then transferred the spot of shade to a target in the Volvo. Pasquale’s radio squelched again.
    â€œYou saw Stacie Stewart go into the store?” the sheriff radioed.
    â€œYes, sir. Not too long ago. Just a few minutes.”
    â€œGo in and get her. We ain’t waitin’.”
    â€œI’m on it.” Pasquale lunged out of the Expedition and jogged along the sidewalk, past the displays of wheelbarrows and barbecue grills. Once inside, it was impossible to see more than a portion of a couple of aisles at once, and Pasquale strode toward the office complex on the west end of the store where a narrow stairway accessed the upper floor and the closed-in observation deck.
    â€œHey, stud.” Tilda Gabaldon hadn’t inherited height from the sheriff’s side of the family, but Sheriff Bob Torrez’ cousin looked as if throwing cartons full of stock around the storeroom would be no problem. She favored Tom Pasquale with a brilliant smile, highlighted by just a wink of gold. Tilda had been headed down the stairs toward the floor, and Pasquale paused. “Whatcha need, Thomas?”
    â€œI gotta find Stacie Stewart. She came in the store just a few minutes ago. Like maybe ten?”
    â€œCome on up.” Tilda turned with Pasquale following, and in a moment they entered the long, narrow room with deeply tinted, slanted windows looking down on the store. A row of computer screens on the back wall showed the various views of the store’s security cameras. “What’s she wearing?”
    â€œWhite,” the deputy said. “White blouse, white slacks.”
    Tilda laughed playfully. “Like you’d notice, right?”
    â€œI’m a trained observer and investigator,” the deputy said with mock solemnity. “I notice things like that.” Back and forth between observation windows and computer screens, they searched the store. “There are some dead zones still,” Tilda said. “You know, like over there in automotive? What’s the deal, anyway?”
    â€œShe left her baby and a dog out in the car,” Pasquale said. “No problems, though. The sheriff is going to get ’em out.”
    â€œYou know, it doesn’t take long to overheat in weather like this.” She looked worried. “We train the kids who go out to gather the shopping carts to always keep their eyes open for something like that. And there’s the notice on the front door to remind shoppers not to leave kids unattended. People get preoccupied sometimes, though. Let’s page her.”
    â€œThanks.” He watched the store while Tilda’s voice boomed out on the PA. “Stacie Stewart, please come to the customer service desk.” Tilda repeated the message twice, enunciating the name clearly. “I’ll give you a holler if I see her first,” Tilda said as Tom headed back downstairs.

Chapter Four
    Dodging down one aisle after another, the deputy expected at every corner to come face-to-face with the young mother. Stockers sliced open cardboard boxes in one aisle, two men concentrated on handheld inventory computers in another, a scattering of shoppers ranged from an aging Elvis Presley look-alike to four more high-schoolers who flushed guilty when Pasquale hustled by, and a few housewives who glanced at him with interest. No Stacie Stewart.
    Circling back along the store’s perimeter to the south corner, he opened the door of the women’s restroom a bit. “Stacie Stewart?”