Mission Bay High School is located on Grand Avenue, one of the busiest thoroughfares in San Diego. When it was built, however, it wasn't so busy. MBH is one of the oldest schools in the county and it looks it. The buildings are sun bleached and badly in need of paint. The meager landscaping shows signs of giving in to the constant onslaught of salt air and the annual pounding of seventeen hundred pair of student feet. The grass is brown, and a few scruffy bushes cling to life. But the school has a surfing team and that makes it one of the most popular among teens and assures parental support.

I pull up about fifteen minutes before the end of the school day and Ryan is already at the curb, pacing and frowning with the intensity of a pit bull. He barely lets me come to a stop before he yanks open the door and jumps in.

"Let's go," he says in tight voice.

I look pointedly at my watch. "I thought school wasn't over for another fifteen minutes."

"It's over for me. Has been since you called. Now take me to Trish."

His face is so implacably hostile it almost trips an outburst of my own temper - until I remind myself that this is the kid who helped Trish and protected her when she had no one else. He deserves some respect for that.

Act like an adult, I tell myself. Say something meaningful.

I turn in the seat to face him. "Would you like to get something to eat?"

"Are you crazy? I want to see Trish. If you don't take me to her, I'll jump out of this car and start yelling that you are trying to molest me. I can be very persuasive. Do you want to see?"

His response is explosive and full of rage. But under the rage blazes fear. He's scared to death for Trish. And he now sees me as the enemy - another adult out to take advantage of her.

I hold up a hand. "Ryan, listen to me. Trish is all right. She's safe. I'm sorry I can't take you to her. You must have heard what happened to her mother. The police are looking for Trish. They think she's involved. We had to take her to a place where no one can find her."

"We?"

"Mr. Frey and me."

Ryan's expression is a mask of dark skepticism. "You told me I'd be able to talk to her. Mr. Frey never answers his phone anymore. And if Trish was really all right, she'd call me. I think you're lying."

His voice shakes a little at the end, as if he's fighting tears. He has turned his face away from me so I won't see if he loses the battle.

I place a hand on his arm. His whole body stiffens, but he doesn't jerk away. I take that as a good sign. "Let me tell you why I came to you. I have a friend in the police department. He knows where Trish is and he's not going to tell anyone. He's giving us a chance to help her."

His eyes narrow and slide toward mine. "Us?"

"Yes. You and me. We have to figure out who hurt Trish. I know they are behind what's happened to Barbara and to Trish's mother. If we can do that, we will go to the police with the information. The police will believe it when they see the videos from the computer."

A spark of suspicion flares in his eyes. "I won't turn it over to anybody. It's the only proof we have that those men did what they did to Trish."

"I'm not asking you to. At least not yet. But, Ryan, the police have experts who might be able to trace where the videos come from. Or to identify the men in the pictures."

He shakes his head. "You never see a face." His voice cracks again. "Only hands."

A woman pulls beside me and rolls down her window. "Can you move your car?" she huffs. "You are in a loading zone."

For the first time I notice that school has let out, and the line of cars forming with parents here to pick up their kids is backing up traffic on the busy street. I smile an apologetic smile and start the car.

"Are your folks expecting you home right away?" I ask Ryan when we're back on the road.

He shakes his head. "They'll be at work until six or so."

"Is the computer at home?"

"Do you think I'm that stupid?"

Anger again. I guess that's better than fear. I eye the backpack he has clutched between both hands. "Okay. I take it that means you have it with you. I want to see the videos. Maybe I can catch something you didn't. Do you want to go back to my place at the beach?"

"Will we be alone? I don't want anyone else to see this. At least not yet."

I nod. "We'll be alone."

"Okay. But I won't let you touch it. It took me hours to fix it after the last time."

I agree with a bob of my head. "If we can't identify anyone from the video, maybe we can find out where it's broadcast from. I heard once that if you determine that, there's a way to backtrack - "

"By cross referencing with a cell tower location to get the ESN." Ryan finishes with a flourish of his right hand. "I know that. The only problem is that we need someone with access to telephone company records."

It's my turn to shoot him a sideways glance. "I know someone who can get those records for us."

He doesn't ask whom. "Then we've got them," he says. "Because I know where the videos are broadcast from."

"You do? Where?"

"From Trish's house."

"Are you sure?"

Ryan nods. "Trish told me the guys would make the videos and send them out to a website. They get sold on the Internet through a site called "With Sexual Freedom For All." Catchy name, huh? They claim the videos come from overseas and the "actors" are all over eighteen. Since it's not a big operation, and there's no violent stuff, no one has ever bothered to check."

"You know a lot about this."

He sniffs. "I learned. I've been trying to hack into the telephone company myself. I'm good, but not that good yet. And I've had to be careful so I wouldn't get caught. But if you know someone who has access to the records, we can track down who owns the computer."

For the first time, his voice has a touch of hopeful optimism. He's quiet for a minute, and then he asks softly, "Is Trish really all right? How did she take the news of her mom's death? It's been all over the TV."

And that reminds me of the news conference Carolyn's mother has scheduled for this afternoon. I glance at my watch. "Trish is fine, but, Ryan, we're going back to my apartment. Trish's grandmother is holding a news conference in about fifteen minutes. I don't want to miss it."

I hang a U-turn and head downtown. It's tight, but we manage to make it to the apartment with five minutes to spare. I try to prepare Ryan for what he's likely to hear. But I suspect his natural, youthful skepticism isn't deep-seated enough to accept that Trish's grandmother could possibly believe her capable of murder.

Mrs. Bernard's television persona is quite different than the one she presented to Detective Harris and me. Her face is composed but drawn in a frown of anxious concern. She's wearing a quiet dark suit, an open-collared cream blouse, and a pearl necklace at her throat. She's alone at the microphone, although there is someone standing behind her and to the left. If I had to guess, I'd bet the guy is her lawyer. He looks the part with carefully slicked back hair and an expensive suit. We missed any introduction and tune in just as she starts to speak.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice. I appreciate the Mayor allowing me this forum. This is a very sad day for my family. My daughter, Carolyn Delaney, was viciously murdered last night. She led a troubled life, but she had a pure, sweet spirit. That spirit allowed her to be taken advantage of. I believe it led to her death. Her daughter, Trish Delaney, is only thirteen. But, unlike her mother, she is a hard, desperate soul. Carolyn, as a single mother determined to make it on her own, did the best she could to raise Trish. She refused help from us, her parents. She put herself through school and became a nurse. She wanted to give Trish the kind of life any child deserves. But some children cannot or will not respond to the most basic parent-child relationship. Trish ran away, got involved in drugs, and now, this."

Her voice falters. She pauses, recomposes herself, and continues. "You will never know how it breaks my heart to come before you and admit that I believe my own granddaughter had a part in her mother's death. But sorrowfully, I do. And the plea I'm making now is to you, Trish. Please, please give yourself up. You need help. We, your family, will see that you get it. Come forward. Don't let the nightmare drag on."

She steps back from the microphone and the man behind her comes to the front, holding up a hand to stem the barrage of questions hurled at them from the reporters gathered below. "Mrs. Bernard will not take questions at this time. You have copies of the prepared remarks. Thank you for your time."

Then the two of them are hustled back up the steps by uniformed policemen and into the City Administration Building. I snap off the television and turn to Ryan.

His face is so blighted with disbelief that it breaks my heart. "She thinks Trish did it? What kind of grandmother would say things like that?"

I could answer that question for Ryan, but calling her a "fucking bitch" doesn't seem appropriate. Instead, I roll my shoulders and exercise a modicum of adult restraint.

"She's not a very nice lady, Ryan. We can't do anything about that. What we can do is find out who that computer belongs to and get those men. You and I both know they are the ones who killed Carolyn and probably Barbara Franco."

I don't add the possibility that Barbara's death might have been caught on film. The FBI's allegations that it could have been offered as a snuff film is something I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around. I can't imagine how it would affect Ryan.

His jaw sets. "But what will happen to Trish? She can't be made to go live with that woman, can she? There has to be somebody else who can help her."

There is. But I can't tell Ryan yet. I have to have those DNA tests for my family to legally make a claim for Trish's guardianship. In my heart, though, it gives me a little peace to know we will be able to protect Trish from her grandmother. I also realize I've accepted what Sorrel told me.

She'd better be right.

So, unable to share any of that, I point to the backpack. "First things first, Ryan. Let me see those files. Maybe I can catch something you didn't."

He looks skeptical at that, but he doesn't voice any objection. He pulls the laptop out of his backpack and sets it up on the coffee table in front of the couch. He cues it up and swivels it around to face me.

"I can't watch this again. There are ten files. Each was released and sold separately. The first one is the most recent. They are in reverse chronological order. Hit 'enter' to start and hit the 'next' icon on the bottom of the screen to go from one to the other." He throws me a narrowed eye look of warning. "Just those buttons. Nothing else."

His tone is dry and detached, but his face betrays grim condemnation. I scour my head for something to offer him as a distraction while I go through the files. "Would you like to watch television?" It's the only thing I can come up with.

He shakes his head. "No. I have homework. I can do that. I would like a drink, though."

"Great. There's Coke in the fridge. Help yourself." I jab a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

He disappears while I steel myself to start the most despicable chore I have ever had to face. Before I can bring myself to hit the key, though, he's back. He has a can in his hand and a frown on his face.

"You don't have any food in there. Don't you ever eat?"