Back Spin
Author: Harlan Coben
Date: 1997-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Thrillers; Suspense; Mystery; Thriller; Crime; Mystery Thriller; sports; Adult; Humor
Description: Kidnappers have snatched the teenage son of super-star golfer Linda Coldren and her husband, Jack, an aging pro, at the height of the U.S. Open. To help get the boy back, sports agent Myron Bolitar goes charging after clues and suspects from the Main Line mansions to a downtown cheaters' motel—and back in time to a U.S. Open twenty-three years ago, when Jack Coldren should have won, but didn't. Suddenly Myron finds him self surrounded by blue bloods, criminals, and liars. And as one family's darkest secrets explode into murder, Myron finds out just how rough this game can get. In novels that c
Publisher: Dell
Rights: Copyright © 2006 by Harlan Coben

Table of Contents

Promise Me

No Second Chance

Just One Look

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Promise Me

A Dutton Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2006 by Harlan Coben

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN: 1-101-12860-7

A DUTTON BOOK®

Dutton Books first published by The Dutton Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Dutton and the “D” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

For Charlotte, Ben, Will, and Eve.
You’re a handful, but you will always be my world.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

The missing girl—there had been unceasing news reports, always flashing to that achingly ordinary school portrait of the vanished teen, you know the one, with the rainbow-swirl background, the girl’s hair too straight, her smile too self-conscious, then a quick cut to the worried parents on the front lawn, microphones surrounding them, Mom silently tearful, Dad reading a statement with quivering lip—that girl, that missing girl, had just walked past Edna Skylar.

Edna froze.

Stanley, her husband, took two more steps before realizing that his wife was no longer at his side. He turned around. “Edna?”

They stood near the corner of Twenty-first Street and Eighth Avenue in New York City. Street traffic was light this Saturday morning. Foot traffic was heavy. The missing girl had been headed uptown.

Stanley gave a world-weary sigh. “What now?”

“Shh.”

She needed to think. That high school portrait of the girl, the one with the rainbow-swirl background . . . Edna closed her eyes. She needed to conjure up the image in her head. Compare and contrast.

In the photograph, the missing girl had long, mousy-brown hair. The woman who’d just walked by—woman, not girl, because the one who’d just walked by seemed older, but maybe the picture was old too—was a redhead with a shorter, wavy cut. The girl in the photograph did not wear glasses. The one who was heading north up Eighth Avenue had on a fashionable pair with dark, rectangular frames. Her clothes and makeup were both more—for a lack of a better word—adult.

Studying faces was more than a hobby with Edna. She was sixty-three years old, one of the few female physicians in her age group who specialized in the field of genetics. Faces were her life. Part of her brain was always working, even when far away from her office. She couldn’t help it—Dr. Edna Skylar studied faces. Her friends and family were used to the probing stare, but strangers and new acquaintances found it disconcerting.

So that was what Edna had been doing. Strolling down the street. Ignoring, as she often did, the sights and sounds. Lost in her own personal bliss of studying the faces of passersby. Noting cheek structure and mandibular depth, inter-eye distance and ear height, jaw contours and orbital spacing. And that was why, despite the new hair color and style, despite the fashionable glasses and adult makeup and clothing, Edna had recognized the missing girl.

“She was walking with a man.”

“What?”

Edna hadn’t realized that she’d spoken out loud.

“The girl.”

Stanley frowned. “What are you talking about, Edna?”

That picture. That achingly ordinary school portrait. You’ve seen it a million times. You see it in a yearbook and the emotions start to churn. In one fell swoop, you see her past, you see her future. You feel the joy of youth, you feel the pain of growing up. You can see her potential there. You feel the pang of nostalgia. You see her years rush by, college maybe, marriage, kids, all that.

But when that same photograph is flashed on your evening news, it skewers your heart with terror. You look at that face, at that tentative smile, at the droopy hair and slumped shoulders, and your mind goes to dark places it shouldn’t.

How long had Katie—that was the name, Katie—how long had she been missing?

Edna tried to remember. A month probably. Maybe six weeks. The story had only played locally and not for all that long. There were those who believed that she was a runaway. Katie Rochester had turned eighteen a few days before the disappearance—that made her an adult and thus lowered the priority a great deal. There was supposed trouble at home, especially with her strict albeit quivering-lipped father.

Maybe Edna had been mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t her.

One way to find out.

“Hurry,” Edna said to Stanley.

“What? Where are we going?”

There was no time to reply. The girl was probably a block ahead by now. Stanley would follow. Stanley Rickenback, an ob-gyn, was Edna’s second husband. Her first had been a whirlwind, a larger-than-life figure too handsome and too passionate and, oh yeah, an absolute ass. That probably wasn’t fair, but so what? The idea of marrying a doctor—this was forty years ago—had been a fun novelty for Husband One. The reality, however, had not sat as well with him. He had figured that Edna would outgrow the doc phase once they had children. Edna didn’t—just the opposite, in fact. The truth was—a truth that had not escaped her children—Edna loved doctoring more than motherhood.

She rushed ahead. The sidewalks were crowded. She moved into the street, staying close to the curb, and sped up. Stanley tried to follow. “Edna?”

“Just stay with me.”

He caught up. “What are we doing?”

Edna’s eyes searched for the red hair.

There. Up ahead on the left.

She needed to get a closer look. Edna broke into a full-fledged sprint now, a strange sight in most places, a nicely dressed woman in her mid-sixties sprinting down the street, but this was Manhattan. It barely registered a second glance.

She circled in front of the woman, trying not to be too obvious, ducking behind taller people, and when she was in the right place, Edna spun around. The possible-Katie was walking toward her. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Edna knew.

It was her.

Katie Rochester was with a dark-haired man, probably in his early thirties. They were holding hands. She did not seem too distressed. She seemed, in fact, up until the point where their eyes met anyway, pretty content. Of course that might not mean anything. Elizabeth Smart, that young girl who’d been kidnapped out in Utah, had been out in the open with her kidnapper and never tried to signal for help. Maybe something similar was playing here.

Edna wasn’t buying it.

The redheaded possible-Katie whispered something to the dark-haired man. They picked up their pace. Edna saw them veer right and down the subway stairs. The sign read c and e trains. Stanley caught up to Edna. He was about to say something, but he saw the look on her face and kept still.

“Come on,” she said.

They hurried around the front and started down the stairs. The missing woman and the dark-haired man were already through the turnstile. Edna started toward it.

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a MetroCard.”

“I do,” Stanley said.

“Let me have it. Hurry.”

Stanley plucked the card from his wallet and handed it to her. She scanned it, moved through the turnstile, handed it back to him. She didn’t wait. They’d gone down the stairs to the right. She started that way. She heard the roar of an incoming train and hurried her steps.

The brakes were squeaking to a halt. The subway doors slid open. Edna’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She looked left and right, searching for the red hair.

Nothing.

Where was that girl?

“Edna?” It was Stanley. He had caught up to her.

Edna said nothing. She stood on the platform, but there was no sign of Katie Rochester. And even if there was, what then? What should Edna do here? Does she hop on the train and follow them? To where? And then what? Find the apartment or house and then call the police. . . .

Someone tapped her shoulder.

Edna turned. It was the missing girl.

For a long time after this, Edna would wonder what she saw in the girl’s expression. Was there a pleading look? A desperation? A calmness? Joy, even? Resolution? All of them.

They just stood and stared at each other for a moment. The bustling crowd, the indecipherable static on the speaker, the swoosh of the train—it all disappeared, leaving just the two of them.

“Please,” the missing girl said, her voice a whisper. “You can’t tell anybody you saw me.”

The girl stepped onto the train then. Edna felt a chill. The doors slid closed. Edna wanted to do something, do anything, but she couldn’t move. Her gaze remained locked on the girl’s.

“Please,” the girl mouthed through the glass.

And then the train disappeared into the dark.

CHAPTER 2

There were two teenage girls in Myron’s basement.

That was how it began. Later, when Myron looked back on all the loss and heartbreak, this first series of what-ifs would rise up and haunt him anew. What if he hadn’t needed ice. What if he’d opened his basement door a minute earlier or a minute later. What if the two teenage girls—what were they doing alone in his basement in the first place?—had spoken in whispers so that he hadn’t overheard them.

What if he had just minded his own business.

From the top of the stairs, Myron heard the girls giggling. He stopped. For a moment he considered closing the door and leaving them alone. His small soiree was low on ice, not out of it. He could come back.

But before he could turn away, one of the girls’ voices wafted smoke-like up the stairwell. “So you went with Randy?”

The other: “Oh my God, we were like so wasted.”

“From beer?”

“Beer and shots, yeah.”

“How did you get home?”

“Randy drove.”

At the top of the stairs, Myron stiffened.

“But you said—”

“Shh.” Then: “Hello? Is someone there?”

Caught.

Myron took the stairs in a trot, whistling as he went. Mr. Casual. The two girls were sitting in what used to be Myron’s bedroom. The basement had been “finished” in 1975 and looked it. Myron’s father, who was currently lollygagging with Mom in some condo near Boca Raton, had been big on two-sided tape. The adhesive wood paneling, a look that aged about as well as the Betamax, had started to give. In some spots the concrete walls were now visible and noticeably flaking. The floor tiles, fastened down with something akin to Elmer’s Glue, were buckling. They crunched beetle-like when you stepped on them.

The two girls—one Myron had known her whole life, the other he had just met today—looked up at him with wide eyes. For a moment no one spoke. He gave them a little wave.

“Hey, girls.”

Myron Bolitar prided himself on big opening lines.

The girls were both high school seniors, both pretty in that coltish way. The one sitting on the corner of his old bed—the one he had met for the first time an hour ago—was named Erin. Myron had started dating Erin’s mother, a widow and freelance magazine writer named Ali Wilder, two months ago. This party, here at the house Myron had grown up in and now owned, was something of a “coming out” party for Myron and Ali as a couple.

The other girl, Aimee Biel, mimicked his wave and tone. “Hey, Myron.”

More silence.

He first saw Aimee Biel the day after she was born at St. Barnabas Hospital. Aimee and her parents, Claire and Erik, lived two blocks away. Myron had known Claire since their years together at Heritage Middle School, less than half a mile from where they now gathered. Myron turned toward Aimee. For a moment he fell back more than twenty-five years. Aimee looked so much like her mother, had the same crooked, devil-may-care grin, it was like looking through a time portal.

“I was just getting some ice,” Myron said. He pointed toward the freezer with his thumb to illustrate the point.

“Cool,” Aimee said.

“Very cool,” Myron said. “Ice cold, in fact.”

Myron chuckled. Alone.

With the stupid grin still on his face, Myron looked over at Erin. She turned away. That had been her basic reaction today. Polite and aloof.

“Can I ask you something?” Aimee said.

“Shoot.”

She spread her hands. “Was this really your room growing up?”

“Indeed it was.”

The two girls exchanged a glance. Aimee giggled. Erin did likewise.

“What?” Myron said.

“This room . . . I mean, could it possibly be lamer?”

Erin finally spoke. “It’s like too retro to be retro.”

“What do you call this thing?” Aimee asked, pointing below her.

“A beanbag chair,” Myron said.

The two girls giggled some more.

“And how come this lamp has a black lightbulb?”

“It makes the posters glow.”

More laughs.

“Hey, I was in high school,” Myron said, as if that explained everything.

“Did you ever bring a girl down here?” Aimee asked.

Myron put his hand to his heart. “A true gentleman never kisses and tells.” Then: “Yes.”

“How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many girls did you bring down here?”

“Oh. Approximately”—Myron looked up, drew in the air with his index finger—“carry the three . . . I’d say somewhere between eight and nine hundred thousand.”

That caused rip-roaring laughter.

“Actually,” Aimee said, “Mom says you used to be real cute.”

Myron arched an eyebrow. “Used to be?”

Both girls high-fived and fell about the place. Myron shook his head and grumbled something about respecting their elders. When they quieted down, Aimee said, “Can I ask you something else?”

“Shoot.”

“I mean, seriously.”

“Go ahead.”

“Those pictures of you upstairs. On the stairwell.”

Myron nodded. He had a pretty good idea where this was going. “You were on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”

“That I was.”

“Mom and Dad say you were like the greatest basketball player in the country.”

“Mom and Dad,” Myron said, “exaggerate.”

Both girls stared at him. Five seconds passed. Then another five.

“Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” Myron asked.

“Weren’t you, like, drafted by the Lakers?”

“The Celtics,” he corrected.

“Sorry, the Celtics.” Aimee kept him pinned with her eyes. “And you hurt your knee, right?”

“Right.”

“Your career was over. Just like that.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“So like”—Aimee shrugged—“how did that feel?”

“Hurting my knee?”

“Being a superstar like that. And then, bam, never being able to play again.”

Both girls waited for his answer. Myron tried to come up with something profound.

“It sucked big-time,” he said.

They both liked that.

Aimee shook her head. “It must have been the worst.”

Myron looked toward Erin. Erin had her eyes down. The room went quiet. He waited. She eventually looked up. She looked scared and small and young. He wanted to take her in his arms, but man, would that ever be the wrong move.

“No,” Myron said softly, still holding Erin’s gaze. “Not even close to the worst.”

A voice at the top of the stairs shouted down, “Myron?”

“I’m coming.”

He almost left then. The next big what-if. But the words he’d overheard at the top of the stairs—Randy drove—kept rattling in his head. Beer and shots. He couldn’t let that go, could he?

“I want to tell you a story,” Myron began. And then he stopped. What he wanted to do was tell them about an incident from his high school days. There had been a party at Barry Brenner’s house. That was what he wanted to tell them. He’d been a senior in high school—like them. There had been a lot of drinking. His team, the Livingston Lancers, had just won the state basketball tournament, led by All-American Myron Bolitar’s forty-three points. Everyone was drunk. He remembered Debbie Frankel, a brilliant girl, a live wire, that sparkplug who was always animated, always raising her hand to contradict the teacher, always arguing and taking the other side and you loved her for it. At midnight Debbie came over and said good-bye to him. Her glasses were low on her nose. That was what he remembered most—the way her glasses had slipped down. Myron could see that Debbie was wasted. So were the other two girls who would pile into that car.

You can guess how the story ends. They took the hill on South Orange Avenue too fast. Debbie died in the crash. The smashed-up car was put on display in front of the high school for six years. Myron wondered where it was now, what they’d eventually done to that wreck.

“What?” Aimee said.

But Myron didn’t tell them about Debbie Frankel. Erin and Aimee had undoubtedly heard other versions of the same story. It wouldn’t work. He knew that. So he tried something else.

“I need you to promise me something,” Myron said.

Erin and Aimee looked at him.

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out two business cards. He opened the top drawer and found a pen that still worked. “Here are all my numbers—home, business, mobile, my place in New York City.”

Myron scribbled on the cards and passed one to each of them. They took the cards without saying a word.

“Please listen to me, okay? If you’re ever in a bind. If you’re ever out drinking or your friends are drinking or you’re high or stoned or I don’t care what. Promise me. Promise me you’ll call me. I’ll come get you wherever you are. I won’t ask any questions. I won’t tell your parents. That’s my promise to you. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I don’t care how late. I don’t care how far away you are. I don’t care how wasted. Twenty-four-seven. Call me and I’ll pick you up.”

The girls said nothing.

Myron took a step closer. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. “Just please . . . please don’t ever drive with someone who’s been drinking.”

They just stared at him.

“Promise me,” he said.

And a moment later—the final what-if?—they did.

CHAPTER 3

Two hours later, Aimee’s family—the Biels—were the first to leave. Myron walked them to the door. Claire leaned close to his ear. “I heard the girls were down in your old room.”

“Yep.”

She gave him a wicked grin. “Did you tell them—?”

“God, no.”

Claire shook her head. “You’re such a prude.”

He and Claire had been good friends in high school. He’d loved her free spirit. She acted like—for lack of a more appropriate term—a guy. When they’d go to parties, she’d try to pick someone up, usually with more success because, hey, she was an attractive girl. She’d liked muscle-heads. She’d go with them once, maybe twice, and then move on.

Claire was a lawyer now. She and Myron had messed around once, down in that very basement, on a holiday break senior year. Myron had been much more uptight about it. The next day, there had been no awkwardness for Claire. No discomfort, no silent treatment, no “maybe we should discuss what happened.”

No encore either.

In law school Claire had met her husband, “Erik with a K.” That was how he always introduced himself. Erik was thin and tightly wound. He rarely smiled. He almost never laughed. His tie was always wonderfully Windsored. Erik with a K was not the man Myron had figured Claire would end up with, but they seemed to work. Something about opposites attract, he guessed.

Erik gave him a firm handshake, made sure that there was eye contact. “Will I see you on Sunday?”

They used to play in a pickup basketball game on Sunday mornings, but Myron had stopped going months ago. “I won’t be there this week, no.”

Erik nodded as though Myron had said something profound and started out the door. Aimee smothered a laugh and waved. “Nice talking to you, Myron.”

“Same here, Aimee.”

Myron tried to give her a look that said, “Remember the promise.” He didn’t know if it worked, but Aimee did give him a small nod before heading down the path.

Claire kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear again. “You look happy.”

“I am,” he said.

Claire beamed. “Ali’s great, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“Am I the greatest matchmaker ever?”

“Like something out of a bad road production of Fiddler,” he said.

“I’m not rushing things. But I am the greatest, aren’t I? It’s okay, I can take it. I’m the best ever.”

“We’re still talking about matchmaking, right?”

“Fresh. I know I’m the best at the other.”

Myron said, “Eh.”

She punched his arm and left. He watched her walk away, shook his head, smiled. In a sense, you are always seventeen years old and waiting for your life to begin.

Ten minutes later, Ali Wilder, Myron’s new lady love, called for her children. Myron walked them all to the car. Jack, the nine-year-old boy, proudly wore a Celtics uniform with Myron’s old number on it. It was the next step in hip-hop fashion. First there had been the retro uniforms of your favorite greats. Now, at a Web site called Big-Time-Losahs.com or something like that, they sold uniforms for players who became has-beens or never-weres, players who went bust.

Like Myron.

Jack, being only nine years old, didn’t get the irony.

When they reached the car, Jack gave Myron a big hug. Unsure how to play this, Myron hugged back but kept it brief. Erin stayed back. She gave him a half-nod and slipped into the backseat. Jack followed his big sister. Ali and Myron stood and smiled at each other like a pair of newly dating doofs.

“This was fun,” Ali said.

Myron was still smiling. Ali looked up at him with these wonderful green-brown eyes. She had red-blond hair and there were still remnants of childhood freckles. Her face was wide and her smile just held him.

“What?” she said.

“You look beautiful.”

“Man, you are smooth.”

“I don’t want to brag, but yes. Yes, I am.”

Ali looked back at the house. Win—real name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III—stood with arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. “Your friend Win,” she said. “He seems nice.”

“He’s not.”

“I know. I just figured him being your best friend and all, I’d say that.”

“Win is complicated.”

“He’s good-looking.”

“He knows.”

“Not my type though. Too pretty. Too rich-preppy-boy.”

“And you prefer macho he-men,” Myron said. “I understand.”

She snickered. “Why does he keep looking at me like that?”

“My guess? He’s probably checking out your ass.”

“Good to know somebody is.”

Myron cleared his throat, glanced away. “So you want to have dinner together tomorrow?”

“That would be nice.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Ali put her hand on his chest. Myron felt something electric in the touch. She stood on tiptoes—Myron was six-four—and kissed his cheek. “I’ll cook for you.”

“Really?”

“We’ll stay in.”

“Great. So it’ll be, what, like a family-type thing? Get to know the kids more?”

“The kids will be spending the night at my sister’s.”

“Oh,” Myron said.

Ali gave him a hard look and slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Oh,” Myron said again.

She arched an eyebrow. “And you didn’t want to brag about being smooth.”

Then she drove off. Myron watched the car disappear, the dorky smile still on his face. He turned and walked back to the house. Win had not moved. There had been many changes in Myron’s life—his parents’ moving down south, Esperanza’s new baby, the fate of his business, even Big Cyndi—but Win remained a constant. Some of the ash-blond hair around the temples had grayed a bit, but Win was still the über-WASP. The patrician lockjaw, the perfect nose, the hair parted by the gods—he stank, deservedly so, of privilege and white shoes and golfer’s tan.

“Six-point-eight,” Win said. “Round it up to a seven.”

“Excuse me?”

Win raised his hand, palm down, tilted it back and forth. “Your Ms. Wilder. If I’m being generous, I give her a seven.”

“Gee, that means a lot. Coming from you and all.”

They moved back into the house and sat in the den. Win crossed his legs in that perfect-crease way of his. His expression was permanently set on haughty. He looked pampered and spoiled and soft—in the face anyway. But the body told another story. He was all knotted, coiled muscle, not so much wiry as, if you will, barbed-wiry.

Win steepled his fingers. Steepling looked right on Win. “May I ask a question?”

“No.”

“Why are you with her?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I want to know what precisely you see in Ms. Ali Wilder.”

Myron shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have invited you.”

“Ah, but you did. So let me elaborate.”

“Please don’t.”

“During our years at Duke, well, there was the delectable Emily Downing. Then, of course, your soul mate for the next ten-plus years, the luscious Jessica Culver. There was the brief fling with Brenda Slaughter and alas, most recently, the passion of Terese Collins.”

“Is there a point?”

“There is.” Win opened the steeple, closed it again. “What do all these women, your past loves, have in common?”

“You tell me,” Myron said.

“In a word: bodaciousness.”

“That’s a word?”

“Smoking-hot honeys,” Win continued with the snooty accent. “Each and every one of them. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate Emily a nine. That would be the lowest. Jessica would be a so-hot-she-singes-your-eyeballs eleven. Terese Collins and Brenda Slaughter, both near-tens.”

“And in your expert opinion . . .”

“A seven is being generous,” Win finished for him.

Myron just shook his head.

“So pray tell,” Win said, “what is the big attraction?”

“Are you for real?”

“I am indeed.”

“Well, here’s a news flash, Win. First off, while it’s not really important, I disagree with your awarded score.”

“Oh? So how would rate Ms. Wilder?”

“I’m not getting into that with you. But for one thing, Ali has the kind of looks that grow on you. At first you think she’s attractive enough, and then, as you get to know her—”

“Bah.”

“Bah?”

“Self-rationalization.”

“Well, here’s another news flash for you. It’s not all about looks.”

“Bah.”

“Again with the bah?”

Win re-steepled his fingers. “Let’s play a game. I’m going to say a word. You tell me the first thing that pops in your head.”

Myron closed his eyes. “I don’t know why I discuss matters of the heart with you. It’s like talking about Mozart with a deaf man.”

“Yes, that’s very funny. Here comes the first word. Actually it’s two words. Just tell me what pops in your head: Ali Wilder.”

“Warmth,” Myron said.

“Liar.”

“Okay, I think we’ve discussed this enough.”

“Myron?”

“What?”

“When was the last time you tried to save someone?”

The usual faces flashed strobelike through Myron’s head. He tried to block them out.

“Myron?”

“Don’t start,” Myron said softly. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Have you?”

He thought now about Ali, about that wonderful smile and the openness of her face. He thought about Aimee and Erin in his old bedroom down in the basement, about the promise he had forced them to make.

“Ali doesn’t need rescuing, Myron.”

“You think that’s what this is about?”

“When I say her name, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

“Warmth,” Myron said again.

But this time, even he knew he was lying.

Six years.

That was how long it had been since Myron had played superhero. In six years he hadn’t thrown a punch. He hadn’t held, much less fired, a gun. He hadn’t threatened or been threatened. He hadn’t cracked wise with steroid-inflated pituitary glands. He hadn’t called Win, still the scariest man he knew, to back him up or get him out of trouble. In the past six years, none of his clients had been murdered—a real positive in his business. None had been shot or arrested—well, except for that prostitution beef out in Las Vegas, but Myron still claimed that was entrapment. None of his clients or friends or loved ones had gone missing.

He had learned his lesson.

Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You’re not Batman, and Win is not a psychotic version of Robin. Yes, Myron had saved some innocents during his quasi-heroic days, including the life of his own son. Jeremy, his boy, was nineteen now—Myron couldn’t believe that either—and was serving in the military in some undisclosed spot in the Middle East.

But Myron had caused damage too. Look what had happened to Duane and Christian and Greg and Linda and Jack. . . . But mostly, Myron could not stop thinking about Brenda. He still visited her grave too frequently. Maybe she would have died anyway, he didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t his fault.

The victories have a tendency to wash off you. The destruction—the dead—stay by your side, tap you on the shoulder, slow your step, haunt your sleep.

Either way, Myron had buried his hero complex. For the past six years, his life had been quiet, normal, average—boring, even.

Myron rinsed off the dishes. He semi-lived in Livingston, New Jersey, in the same town—nay, the same house—where he was raised. His parents, the beloved Ellen and Alan Bolitar, performed aliya, returning to their people’s homeland (south Florida) five years ago. Myron bought the house as both an investment, a good one, in fact, and so that his folks would have a place to return to when they migrated back during the warmer months. Myron spent about a third of his time living in this house in the burbs and two-thirds rooming with Win at the famed Dakota apartment building on Central Park West in New York City.

He thought about tomorrow night and his date with Ali. Win was an idiot, no question about that, but as usual his questions had scored a hit, if not a bull’s-eye. Forget that looks stuff. That was utter nonsense. And forget the hero complex stuff too. That wasn’t what this was about. But something was holding him back and yes, it had to do with Ali’s tragedy. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake it.

As for the hero stuff, making Aimee and Erin promise to call him—that was different. It doesn’t matter who you are—the teenage years are hard. High school is a war zone. Myron had been a popular kid. He was a Parade All-American basketball player, one of the top recruits in the country, and, to trot out a favorite cliché, a true scholar-athlete. If anyone should have had it easy in high school, it would be someone like Myron Bolitar. But he hadn’t. In the end, no one gets out of those years unscathed.

You just need to survive adolescence. That’s all. Just get through it.

Maybe that was what he should have said to the girls.

CHAPTER 4

The next morning Myron headed into work.

His office was on the twelfth floor of the Lock-Horne Building—as in Win’s name—on Park Avenue and Fifty-second Street in midtown Manhattan. When the elevator opened, Myron was greeted with a big sign—a new addition to the place—that read

MB REPS
in some funky font. Esperanza had come up with the new logo. The M stood for Myron. The B for Bolitar. The Reps came from the fact that they were in the business of representation. Myron had come up with the name by himself. He would often pause after telling people that and wait for the applause to die down.

Originally, when they just worked in the sports field, the firm was called MB SportsReps instead of MB Reps. Over the past five years the company had diversified, representing actors, authors, and celebrities of various stripes. Ergo the clever shortening of the name. Getting rid of the excess, cutting away the fat. Yep, that was MB Reps right down to the name.

Myron heard the baby cry. Esperanza must be in already. He poked his head into her office.

Esperanza was breast-feeding. He immediately looked down.

“Uh, I’ll come back later.”

“Stop being an ass,” Esperanza said. “You’d think you’ve never seen a breast before.”

“Well, it’s been a while.”

“And certainly not one this spectacular,” she added. “Sit.”

At first, MB SportsReps had just been just Myron the super-agent and Esperanza the receptionist/secretary/Girl Friday. You may remember Esperanza during her years as the sexy, lithe professional wrestler named Little Pocahontas. Every Sunday morning on Channel 11 here in the New York area, Esperanza would take to the ring, donning a feathered headband and drool-inducing bikini of pseudosuede. Along with her partner, Big Chief Mama, known in real life as Big Cyndi, they held the intercontinental tag-team championship belt for FLOW, the Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling. The wrestling organization had originally wanted to call itself the Beautiful Ladies Of Wrestling, but the network had trouble with the ensuing acronym.

Esperanza’s current title at MB Reps was senior vice president, but she pretty much ran the sports division now.

“Sorry I missed your coming-out party,” Esperanza said.

“It wasn’t a coming-out party.”

“Whatever. Hector here had a cold.”

“Is he better now?”

“He’s fine.”

“So what’s going on here?”

“Michael Discepolo. We need to get his contract done.”

“The Giants still dragging their feet?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’ll be a free agent,” Myron said. “I think that’s probably a good move, what with the way he’s been playing.”

“Except Discepolo is a loyal guy. He’d rather sign.”

Esperanza pulled Hector away from her nipple and put him on the other breast. Myron tried not to look away too suddenly. He never quite knew how to play it when a woman breast-fed in front of him. He wanted to be mature about it, but what exactly did that mean? You don’t stare, but you don’t divert your eyes either. How do you mine the area between those two?

“I have some news,” Esperanza said.

“Oh?”

“Tom and I are getting married.”

Myron said nothing. He felt a funny twinge.

“Well?”

“Congrats.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m surprised, that’s all. But really, I think that’s great. When’s the big day?”

“Three weeks from Saturday. But let me ask you something. Now that I’m marrying the father of my baby, am I still a fallen woman?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Damn, I like being a fallen woman.”

“Well, you still had the baby out of wedlock.”

“Good point. I could run with that.”

Myron looked at her.

“What’s wrong?”

“You, married.” He shook his head.

“I was never big on commitment, was I?”

“You change partners like a cineplex changes movies.”

Esperanza smiled. “True.”

“I don’t even remember you staying with the same gender for more than, what, a month?”

“The wonders of bisexuality,” Esperanza said. “But it’s different with Tom.”

“How so?”

“I love him.”

He said nothing.

“You don’t think I can do it,” she said. “Stay true to one person.”

“I never said that.”

“Do you know what bisexual means?”

“Of course,” Myron said. “I dated a lot of bisexual women—I’d mention sex, the girl would say, ‘Bye.’ ”

Esperanza just looked at him.

“Okay, old joke,” he said. “It just . . .” Myron sort of shrugged.

“I like women and I like men. But if I make a commitment, it’s to a person, not a gender. Make sense?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Now tell me what’s wrong with you and this Ali Wilder.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Win said you two haven’t done the deed yet.”

“Win said that?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Win just came in here and said that?”

“First he made a comment about my increased cup size since giving birth, then yes, he told me that you’ve been dating this woman for almost two months and haven’t done the nasty yet.”

“What makes him think that?”

“Body language.”

“He said that?”

“Win is good when it comes to body language.”

Myron shook his head.

“So is he right?”

“I’m having dinner at Ali’s house tonight. The kids are staying with her sister.”

“She made this plan?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t . . . ?” With Hector still feeding, Esperanza still managed to gesture the point.

“We haven’t.”

“Man.”

“I’m waiting for a signal.”

“Like what, a burning bush? She invited you to her house and told you the kids would be away for the night.”

“I know.”

“That’s the international signal for Jump My Bones.”

He said nothing.

“Myron?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a widow—not a cripple. She’s probably terrified.”

“That’s why I’m taking it slow.”

“That’s sweet and noble, but stupid. And it’s not helping.”

“So you’re suggesting . . . ?”

“A major bone jump, yes.”

CHAPTER 5

Myron arrived at Ali’s at seven P.M.

The Wilders lived in Kasselton, a town about fifteen minutes north of Livingston. Myron had gone through a strange ritual before leaving his house. Cologne or no cologne? That one was easy: no cologne. Tighty-whities or boxers? He chose something between the two, that hybrid that was either tight boxers or long tighties. Boxer briefs, the package said. And he chose them in gray. He wore a Banana Republic tan pullover with a black T-shirt underneath. The jeans were from the Gap. Slip-on loafers from the Tod’s outlet store adorned his size-fourteen feet. He couldn’t be more American Casual if he tried.

Ali opened the door. The lights behind her were low. She wore a black dress with a scooped front. Her hair was pinned back. Myron liked that. Most men, they liked it when the hair came down. Myron had always been a fan of keeping it off the face.

He stared at her for another moment and then said, “Whoa.”

“I thought you said you were smooth.”

“I’m holding back.”

“But why?”

“If I go all out in the smooth department,” Myron said, “women all over the tri-state area begin to disrobe. I need to harness the power.”

“Lucky for me then. Come on in.”

He had never made it past her foyer before. Ali walked to the kitchen. His stomach knotted. There were family photographs on the wall. Myron did a quick scan. He spotted Kevin’s face. He was in at least four different photographs. Myron didn’t want to stare, but his gaze got caught on an image of Erin. She was fishing with her dad. Her smile was heartbreaking. Myron tried to picture the girl in his basement smiling like that, but it wouldn’t hold.

He looked back at Ali. Something crossed her face.

Myron sniffed the air. “What are you cooking?”

“I’m making Chicken Kiev.”

“Smells great.”

“You mind if we talk first?”

“Sure.”

They headed into the den. Myron tried to keep his head about him. He looked around for more pictures. There was a framed wedding photo. Ali’s hair was too big, he thought, but maybe that was the look then. He thought that she was prettier now. That happens with some women. There was also a photograph of five men in matching black tuxedos with bow ties. The groomsmen, Myron figured. Ali followed his gaze. She walked over and picked up the group shot.

“This one is Kevin’s brother,” she said, pointing to the man second on the right.

Myron nodded.

“The other men worked at Carson Wilkie with Kevin. They were his best friends.”

Myron said, “Were they—”

“All dead,” she said. “All married, all had children.”

The elephant in the room—it was as if all hands and fingers were suddenly pointing at it.

“You don’t have to do this,” Myron said.

“Yeah, Myron, I do.”

They sat down.

“When Claire first set us up,” she began, “I told her that you’d have to raise the subject of 9/11. Did she tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “How was I supposed to do that exactly? Hi, how are you, I hear you’re a 9/11 widow, do you want Italian or maybe Chinese?”

Ali nodded. “Fair enough.”

There was a grandfather clock in the corner, a huge ornate thing. It chose then to start chiming. Myron wondered where Ali had gotten it, where she had gotten everything in this house, how much of Kevin was watching them now, in this house, in his house.

“Kevin and I started dating when we were juniors in high school. We decided to take time off during our freshman year of college. I was going to NYU. He would be off at Wharton. It would be the mature thing to do. But when we came home for Thanksgiving, and we saw each other . . .” She shrugged. “I’ve never been with another man. Ever. There, I said it. I don’t know if we did it right or wrong. Isn’t that weird? I think we sorta learned together.”

Myron sat there. She was no more than a foot away from him. He wasn’t sure of the right move here—the story of his life. He put his hand close to hers. She picked it up and held it.

“I don’t know when I first realized I was ready to start dating. It took me longer than most of the widows. We talk about it, of course—the widows, I mean. We talk a lot. But one day I just said to myself, okay, now maybe it’s time. I told Claire. And when she suggested you, do you know what I thought?”

Myron shook his head.

“He’s out of my league, but maybe this will be fun. I thought—this is going to sound stupid and please remember I really didn’t know you at all—that you’d be a good transition.”

“Transition?”

“You know what I mean. You were a pro athlete. You probably had a lot of women. I thought maybe, well, it would be a fun fling. A physical thing. And then, afterwards, maybe I’d find someone nice. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Myron said. “You just wanted me for my body.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“I feel so cheap,” he said. “Or is it thrilled? Let’s go with thrilled.”

That made her smile. “Please don’t take offense.”

“No offense taken.” Then: “Hussy.”

She laughed. The sound was melodic.

“So what happened to your plan?” he asked.

“You weren’t what I expected.”

“That a good thing or bad?”

“I don’t know. You used to date Jessica Culver. I read that in a People magazine.”

“I did.”

“Was it serious?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a great writer.”

Myron nodded.

“She’s also stunning.”

“You’re stunning.”

“Not like that.”

He was going to argue, but he knew that it would sound too patronizing.

“When you asked me out, I figured that you were looking for something, I don’t know, different.”

“Different how?” he asked.

“Being a 9/11 widow,” she said. “The truth is, and I hate to admit this, but it gives me something of a warped celebrity.”

He did know. He thought about what Win had said, about that first thing that pops in your head when you hear her name.

“So I figured—again not knowing you, just knowing that you were this good-looking pro athlete who dates women who look like supermodels—I figured that I might be an interesting notch on the belt.”

“Because you were a 9/11 widow?”

“Yes.”

“That’s pretty sick.”

“Not really.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s like I said. There’s a weird sort of celebrity attached. People who wouldn’t give me the time of day suddenly wanted to meet me. It still happens. About a month ago, I started playing in this new tennis league at the Racket Club. One of the women—this rich snob who wouldn’t let me cut through her yard when we first moved to town—comes up to me and she’s making the poo-poo face.”

“The poo-poo face?”

“That’s what I call it. The poo-poo face. It looks like this.”

Ali demonstrated. She pursed her lips, frowned, and batted her eyes.

“You look like Donald Trump being sprayed with mace.”

“That’s the poo-poo face. I get it all the time since Kevin died. I don’t blame anyone. It’s natural. But this woman with the poo-poo face comes up to me and she takes both of my hands in hers and looks me in the eyes and has this whole earnest thing going on so that I want to scream, and she says, ‘Are you Ali Wilder? Oh, I so wanted to contact you. How are you doing?’ You get the point.”

“I do.”

She looked at him.

“What?”

“You’ve turned into the dating version of the poo-poo face.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You keep telling me I’m beautiful.”

“You are.”

“You met me three times when I was married.”

Myron said nothing.

“Did you think I was beautiful then?”

“I try not to think that way about married women.”

“Do you even remember meeting me?”

“Not really, no.”

“And if I looked like Jessica Culver, even if I were married, you’d have remembered.”

She waited.

“What do you want me to say here, Ali?”

“Nothing. But it’s time to stop treating me like the poo-poo face. It doesn’t matter why you first started dating me. It matters why you’re here now.”

“Can I do that?”

“Do what?”

“Can I tell you why I’m here now?”

Ali swallowed and for the first time she looked unsure of herself. She made a go-ahead gesture with her hand.

He dove in. “I’m here because I really like you—because I may be confused about a lot of things and maybe you’re making a good point about the poo-poo face, but the fact is, I’m here right now because I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about you all the time and when I do, I have this goofy smile on my face. It looks like this.” Now it was his turn to demonstrate. “So that’s why I’m here, okay?”

“That,” Ali said, trying to hold back a smile, “is a really good answer.”

He was about to crack wise, but he held back. With maturity comes restraint.

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to kiss me. I want you to hold me. I want you to take me upstairs and make love to me. I want you to do it with no expectations because I don’t have any. I could dump you tomorrow and you could dump me. It doesn’t matter. But I’m not fragile. I’m not going to describe the hell of the past five years, but I’m stronger than you’ll ever know. If this relationship continues after tonight, you’re the one who’ll have to be strong, not me. This is a no-obligation offer. I know how valiant and noble you want to be. But I don’t want that. All I want tonight is you.”

Ali leaned toward him and kissed him on the lips. First gently then with more hunger. Myron felt a surge go through him.

She kissed him again. And Myron felt lost.

An hour later—or maybe it was only twenty minutes—Myron collapsed and rolled onto his back.

“Well?” Ali said.

“Wow.”

“Tell me more.”

“Let me catch my breath.”

Ali laughed, snuggled closer.

“My limbs,” he said. “I can’t feel my limbs.”

“Not a thing?”

“A little tingle maybe.”

“Not so little. And you were pretty good yourself.”

“As Woody Allen once said, I practice a lot when I’m alone.”

She put her head on his chest. His racing heart started to slow. He stared at the ceiling.

“Myron?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll never leave my life. He’ll never leave Erin and Jack either.”

“I know.”

“Most men can’t handle that.”

“I don’t know if I can either.”

She looked at him and smiled.

“What?”

“You’re being honest,” she said. “I like that.”

“No more poo-poo face?”

“Oh, I wiped that off twenty minutes ago.”

He pursed his lips, frowned, and batted his eyes. “But wait, it’s back.”

She put her head back on his chest.

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“He’ll never leave my life,” she said. “But he’s not here now. Right now I think it’s just the two of us.”

CHAPTER 6

On the third floor of St. Barnabas Medical Center, Essex County investigator Loren Muse rapped on a door that read edna skylar, md, geneticist.

A woman’s voice said, “Come in.”

Loren turned the knob and entered. Skylar stood. She was taller than Loren, but most people were. Skylar crossed the room, hand extended. They both offered up firm handshakes and plenty of eye contact. Edna Skylar nodded in a sisterhood way to her. Loren had seen it before. They were both in professions still dominated by men. That gave them a bond.

“Won’t you please have a seat?”

They both sat. Edna Skylar’s desk was immaculate. There were manila folders, but they were stacked without any papers peeking out. The office was standard issue, dominated by a picture window that offered up a wonderful view of a parking lot.

Dr. Skylar stared intently at Loren Muse. Loren didn’t like it. She waited a moment. Skylar kept staring.

Loren said, “Problem?”

Edna Skylar smiled. “Sorry, bad habit.”

“What’s that?”

“I look at faces.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not important. Well, maybe it is. That’s how I got into this predicament.”

Loren wanted to get to it. “You told my boss that you have information on Katie Rochester?”

“How is Ed?”

“He’s good.”

She smiled warmly. “He’s a nice man.”

“Yeah,” Loren said, “a prince.”

“I’ve known him a long time.”

“He told me.”

“That’s why I called Ed. We had a long talk about the case.”

“Right,” Loren said. “And that’s why he sent me here.”

Edna Skylar looked off, out the window. Loren tried to guess her age. Mid-sixties probably, but she wore it well. Dr. Skylar was a handsome woman, short gray hair, high cheekbones, knew how to sport a beige suit without coming across as too butch or overly feminine.

“Dr. Skylar?”

“Could you tell me something about the case?”

“Excuse me?”

“Katie Rochester. Is she officially listed as missing?”

“I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”

Edna Skylar’s eyes moved slowly back to Loren Muse. “Do you think she met up with foul play—”

“I can’t really discuss that.”

“—or do you think she ran away? When I talked to Ed, he seemed pretty sure she was a runaway. She took money out of an ATM in midtown, he said. Her father is rather unsavory.”

“Prosecutor Steinberg told you all that?”

“He did.”

“So why are you asking me?”

“I know his take,” she said. “I want yours.”

Loren was about to protest some more, but Edna Skylar was again staring with too much intensity. She scanned Skylar’s desk for family photographs. There were none. She wondered what to make of that and decided nothing. Skylar was waiting.

“She’s eighteen years old,” Loren tried, treading carefully.

“I know that.”

“That makes her an adult.”

“I know that too. And what about the father? Do you think he abused her?”

Loren wondered how to play this. The truth was, she didn’t like the father, hadn’t from the get-go. RICO said that Dominick Rochester was mobbed up and maybe that was part of it. But there was something to reading a person’s grief. On the one hand, everyone reacts differently. It was true that you really couldn’t tell guilt based on someone’s reaction. Some killers cried tears that’d put Pacino to shame. Others were beyond robotic. Same with the innocent. It was like this: You’re with a group of people, a grenade is thrown in the middle of the crowd, you never know who is going to dive on it and who is going to dive for cover.

That said, Katie Rochester’s father . . . there was something off about his grief. It was too fluid. It was like he was trying on different personas, seeing which one would look best for the public. And the mother. She had the whole shattered-eye thing going on, but had that come from devastation or resignation? It was hard to tell.

“We have no evidence of that,” Loren said in the most noncommittal tone she could muster.

Edna Skylar did not react.

“These questions,” Loren went on. “They’re a bit bizarre.”

“That’s because I’m still not sure what to do.”

“About?”

“If a crime has been committed, I want to help. But . . .”

“But?”

“I saw her.”

Loren Muse waited a beat, hoping she’d say more. She didn’t. “You saw Katie Rochester?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“It’ll be three weeks on Saturday?”

“And you’re just telling us now?”

Edna Skylar was looking out at the parking lot again. The sun was setting, the rays slicing in through the venetian blinds. She looked older in that light.

“Dr. Skylar?”

“She asked me not to say anything.” Her gaze was still on the lot.

“Katie did?”

Still looking off, Edna Skylar nodded.

“You talked to her?”

“For a second maybe.”

“What did she say?”

“That I couldn’t tell anybody that I saw her.”

“And?”

“And that was it. A moment later she was gone.”

“Gone?”

“On a subway.”

The words came easier now. Edna Skylar told Loren the whole story, how she’d been studying faces while walking in New York, how she spotted the girl despite the appearance change, how she followed her down into the subway, how she’d vanished into the dark.

Loren wrote it all down, but fact was, this figured into what she’d believed from the beginning. The kid was a runaway. As Ed Steinberg had already told Skylar, there had been an ATM withdrawal at a Citibank in midtown near the time she vanished. Loren had seen the bank video. The face had been covered by a hood, but it was probably the Rochester girl. The father had clearly been on the over-strict side. That was how it always was with the runaways. The too-liberal parents, their kids often got hooked on drugs. The too-conservative, their kids were the runaways with the sex issues. Might be a stereotype to break it down like that, but Loren had seen very few cases that broke those rules.

She asked a few more follow-up questions. There was nothing that they could really do now. The girl was eighteen. There was no reason, from this description, to suspect foul play. On TV, the feds get involved and put a team on it. That doesn’t happen in real life.

But Loren felt a niggling at the base of her brain. Some would call it intuition. She hated that. Hunches . . . that didn’t really work either. She wondered what Ed Steinberg, her boss, would want to do. Nothing, probably. Their office was busy working with the U.S. Attorney on two cases, one involving a possible terrorist and the other a Newark politician on the take.

With their resources so limited, should they pursue what appeared to be an obvious runaway? It was a tough call.

“Why now?” Loren asked.

“What?”

“Three weeks, you didn’t say anything. What made you change your mind?”

“Do you have children, Investigator Muse?”

“No.”

“I do.”

Loren again looked at the desk, at the credenza, at the wall. No family pictures. No sign of children or grandchildren. Skylar smiled, as if she understood what Muse was doing.

“I was a lousy mother.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I was, shall we say, laissez-faire. When in doubt, I’d let it go.”

Loren waited.

“That,” Edna Skylar said, “was a huge mistake.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I. But this time . . .” Her voice faded away. She swallowed, looked down at her hands before turning her gaze to Loren. “Just because everything looks okay, maybe it’s not. Maybe Katie Rochester needs help. Maybe this time I should do more than just let it go.”

The promise in the basement came back to haunt Myron at exactly 2:17 a.m.

Three weeks had passed. Myron was still dating Ali. It was the day of Esperanza’s wedding. Ali came as his date. Myron gave away the bride. Tom—real name Thomas James Bidwell III—was Win’s cousin. The wedding was small. Strangely enough, the groom’s family, charter members of the Daughters of the American Revolution, was not thrilled with Tom’s marriage to a Bronx-born Latina named Esperanza Diaz. Go figure.

“Funny,” Esperanza said.

“What’s that?”

“I always thought I’d marry for money, not love.” She checked herself in the mirror. “But here I am, marrying for love and getting money.”

“Irony is not dead.”

“Good thing. You’re going to Miami to see Rex?”

Rex Storton was an aging movie star they were repping. “I’m flying down tomorrow afternoon.”

Esperanza turned away from the mirror, spread her arms, and gave him a dazzling smile. “Well?”

She was a vision. Myron said, “Wow.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

“Come on then. Let’s get me hitched.”

“Let’s.”

“One thing first.” Esperanza pulled him aside. “I want you to be happy for me.”

“I am.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I know.”

Esperanza looked into his face. “We’re still best friends,” she said. “You understand that? You, me, Win, Big Cyndi. Nothing has changed.”

“Sure it has,” Myron said. “Everything has changed.”

“I love you, you know.”

“And I love you.”

She smiled again. Esperanza was always so damned beautiful. She had that whole peasant-blouse fantasy thing going on. But today, in that dress, the word luminous was simply too weak. She had been so wild, such a free spirit, had insisted that she would never settle down with one person like this. But here she was, with a baby, getting married. Even Esperanza had grown up.

“You’re right,” she said. “But things change, Myron. And you’ve always hated change.”

“Don’t start with that.”

“Look at you. You lived with your parents into your mid-thirties. You own your childhood home. You still spend most of your time with your college roommate, who, let’s face it, can’t change.”

He put up his hand. “I get the point.”

“Funny though.”

“What?”

“I always thought you’d be the first to get married,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Win, well, like I said, let’s not even go there. But you always fell in love so easily, especially with that bitch, Jessica.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Whatever. Anyway, you were the one who bought the American dream—get married, have two-point-six kids, invites friends to barbecues in the backyard, the whole thing.”

“And you never did.”

Esperanza smiled. “Weren’t you the one who taught me, Men tracht und Gott lacht”?

“Man, I love it when you shiksas speak Yiddish.”

Esperanza put her hand through the crook of his arm. “That can be a good thing, you know.”

“I know.”

She took a deep breath. “Shall we?”

“You nervous?”

Esperanza looked at him. “Not even a little.”

“Then onward.”

Myron walked her down the aisle. He thought it would be a flattering formality, standing in for her late father, but when Myron gave Esperanza’s hand to Tom, when Tom smiled and shook his hand, Myron started to well up. He stepped back and sat down in the front row.

The wedding was not so much an eclectic mix as a wonderful collision. Win was Tom’s best man while Big Cyndi was Esperanza’s maid of honor. Big Cyndi, her former tag-team wrestling partner, was six-six and comfortably north of three hundred pounds. Her fists looked like canned hams. She had not been sure what to wear—a classic peach maid of honor dress or a black leather corset. Her compromise: peach leather with a fringed hem, sleeveless so as to display arms with the relative dimensions and consistency of marble columns on a Georgian mansion. Big Cyndi’s hair was done up in a mauve Mohawk and pinned on the top was a little bride-and-groom cake decoration.

When trying on the, uh, dress, Big Cyndi had spread her arms and twirled for Myron. Ocean tides altered course, and solar systems shifted. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Mauve with peach?”

“It’s very hip, Mr. Bolitar.”

She always called him Mister; Big Cyndi liked formality.

Tom and Esperanza exchanged vows in a quaint church. White poppies lined the pews. Tom’s side of the aisle was dressed in black and white—a sea of penguins. Esperanza’s side had so many colors, Crayola sent a scout. It looked like the Halloween parade in Greenwich Village. The organ played beautiful hymns. The choir sang like angels. The setting could not have been more serene.

For the reception, however, Esperanza and Tom wanted a change of pace. They rented out an S&M nightclub near Eleventh Avenue called Leather and Lust. Big Cyndi worked there as a bouncer and sometimes, very late at night, she took to the stage for an act that boggled the imagination.

Myron and Ali parked in a lot off the West Side Highway. They passed a twenty-four-hour porn shop called King David’s Slut Palace. The windows were soaped up. There was a big sign on the door that read now under new management.

“Whew.” Myron pointed to the sign. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Ali nodded. “The place had been so mismanaged before.”

When they ducked inside Leather and Lust, Ali walked around as though she were at the Louvre, squinting at the photos on the wall, checking out the devices, the costumes, the bondage material. She shook her head. “I am hopelessly naïve.”

“Not hopelessly,” Myron said.

Ali pointed at something black and long that resembled human intestines.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Dang if I know.”

“Are you, uh, into . . . ?”

“Oh no.”

“Too bad,” Ali said. Then: “Kidding. So very much kidding.”

Their romance was progressing, but the reality of dating someone with young kids had set in. They hadn’t spent another full night together since that first. Myron had only offered up brief hellos to Erin and Jack since that party. They weren’t sure how fast or slow they should go in their own relationship, but Ali was pretty adamant that they should go slow where it concerned the kids.

Ali had to leave early. Jack had a school project she’d promised to help him with. Myron walked her out, deciding to stay in the city for the night.

“How long will you be in Miami?” Ali asked.

“Just a night or two.”

“Would it make you retch violently if I say I’ll miss you?”

“Not violently, no.”

She kissed him gently. Myron watched her drive off, his heart soaring, and then he headed back to the party.

Since he planned on sleeping in anyway, Myron started drinking. He was not what one would call a great drinker—he held his liquor about as well as a fourteen-year-old girl—but tonight, at this wonderful albeit bizarre celebration, he felt in the mood to imbibe. So did Win, though it took far more to get him buzzed. Cognac was mother’s milk to Win. He rarely showed the effects, at least on the outside.

Tonight it didn’t matter. Win’s stretch limo was already waiting. It would take them back uptown.

Win’s apartment in the Dakota was worth about a billion dollars and had a décor that reminded one of Versailles. When they arrived, Win carefully poured himself an obscenely priced vintage port, Quinta do Noval Nacional 1963. The bottle had been decanted several hours ago because, as Win explained, you must give vintage port time to breathe before consumption. Myron normally drank a chocolate Yoo-hoo, but his stomach was not in the mood. Plus the chocolate wouldn’t have time to breathe.

Win snapped on the TV, and they watched Antiques Roadshow. A snooty woman with a lazy drawl had brought in a hideous bronze bust. She started telling the appraiser a story about how Dean Martin in 1950 offered her father ten thousand dollars for this wretched hunk of metal, but her daddy, she said with an insistent finger-point and matching smirk, was too wily for that. He knew that it must be worth a fortune. The appraiser nodded patiently, waited for the woman to finish, and then he lowered the boom:

“It’s worth about twenty dollars.”

Myron and Win shared a quiet high five.

“Enjoying other people’s misery,” Win said.

“We are pitiful,” Myron said.

“It’s not us.”

“No?”

“It’s this show,” Win said. “It illuminates so much that is wrong with our society.”

“How so?”

“People aren’t satisfied just to have their trinket be worth a fortune. No, it is better, far better, if they bought it on the cheap from some unsuspecting rube. No one considers the feelings of the unsuspecting yard salesman who was cheated, who lost out.”

“Good point.”

“Ah, but there’s more.”

Myron smiled, sat back, waited.

“Forget greed for the moment,” Win went on. “What really upsets us is that everybody but everybody lies on Antiques Roadshow.”

Myron nodded. “You mean when the appraiser asks, ‘Do you have any idea what it’s worth?’ ”

“Precisely. He asks that same question every time.”

“I know.”

“And Mr. or Mrs. Gee-Whiz act like the question caught them totally off guard—as if they’d never seen the show before.”

“It’s annoying,” Myron agreed.

“And then they say something like, ‘Gasp-oh-gasp, I never thought of that. I have no idea what it might be worth.’ ” Win frowned. “I mean, please. You dragged your two-ton granite armoire to some impersonal convention center and waited in line for twelve hours—but you never, ever, not in your wildest dreams wondered what it might be worth?”

“A lie,” Myron agreed, feeling the buzz. “It’s up there with ‘Your call is very important to us.’ ”

“And that,” Win said, “is why we love when a woman like that gets slammed. The lies. The greed. The same reason why we love the boob on Wheel of Fortune who knows the solution but always goes for the extra spin and hits Bankrupt.”

“It’s like life,” Myron pronounced, feeling the booze.

“Do tell.”

But then the door’s intercom buzzed.

Myron felt his stomach drop. He checked his watch. It was one-thirty in the morning. Myron just looked over at Win. Win looked back, his face a placid pool. Win was still handsome, too handsome, but the years, the abuse, the late nights of either violence or, as with tonight, sex, were starting to show just a little.

Myron closed his eyes. “Is that a . . . ?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, rose. “I wish you’d told me.”

“Why?”

They’d been down that road before. There was no answer to that one.

“She’s from a new place on the Upper West Side,” Win said.

“Yeah, how convenient.”

Without another word Myron headed down the corridor toward his bedroom. Win answered the door. As much as it depressed him, Myron took a peek. The girl was young and pretty. She said, “Hi!” with a forced lilt in her voice. Win did not reply. He beckoned her to follow him. She did, teetering on too-high heels. They vanished down the corridor.

As Esperanza had noted, some things refuse to change—no matter how much you’d like them to.

Myron closed the door and collapsed onto the bed. His head swam from drink. The ceiling spun. He let it. He wondered if he was going to get sick. He didn’t think so. He pushed thoughts of the girl out of his head. She left him easier than the girls used to, a change in him that was definitely not for the better. He didn’t hear any noises—the room Win used (not his bedroom, of course) was soundproof—and eventually Myron closed his eyes.

The call came in on his cell phone.

Myron had it set on vibrate-ring. It rattled against his night table. He woke from his half-sleep and reached for it. He rolled over, and his head screamed. That was when he saw the bedside digital clock.

2:17 a.m.

He did not check the caller ID before he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he croaked.

He heard the sob first.

“Hello?” he said again.

“Myron? It’s Aimee.”

“Aimee.” Myron sat up. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“You said I could call.” There was another sob. “Anytime, right?”

“Right. Where are you, Aimee?”

“I need help.”

“Okay, no problem. Just tell me where you are.”

“Oh God . . .”

“Aimee?”

“You won’t tell, right?”

He hesitated. He flashed to Claire, Aimee’s mother. He remembered Claire at this age and felt a funny pang.

“You promised. You promised you wouldn’t tell my parents.”

“I know. Where are you?”

“Promise you won’t tell?”

“I promise, Aimee. Just tell me where you are.”

CHAPTER 7

Myron threw on a pair of sweats.

His brain was a little hazy. There was still some of the drink in him. The irony did not escape him—he had told Aimee to call him because he didn’t want her to get in a car with somebody who’d drank, and here he was, slightly tipsy. He tried to step back and judge his sobriety. He figured that he was okay to drive, but isn’t that what every drinker thinks?

He debated asking Win, but Win was otherwise preoccupied. Win had also drunk even more, despite the sober façade. Still, he shouldn’t just rush out, should he?

Good question.

The fine wooden floors in the corridor had recently been redone. Myron decided quickly to test his sobriety. He walked along one plank as though it were a straight line, as though a cop had pulled him over. He passed, but again Myron was, all modesty aside, pretty damned coordinated. He could probably pass that test whilst wasted.

Still, what choice did he have here? Even if he found someone else to drive at this hour, how would Aimee react to him showing up with a stranger? He, Myron, had been the one to make her promise to call him if such a situation were to arise. He had been the one who jammed his card with all the phone numbers into her hand. He had been the one, as Aimee had just pointed out, who swore complete confidentiality.

He had to go himself.

His car was in a twenty-four-hour lot on Seventieth Street. The gate was closed. Myron rang the bell. The attendant grudgingly pressed the button and the gate ascended.

Myron was not a big-car guy, and thus he still drove a Ford Taurus, which he dubbed the “Chick Magnet.” A car got him from point A to point B. Period. More important to him than horsepower and V6 was having radio controls on the steering wheel, so he could constantly flip stations.

He pressed Aimee’s number on the cell phone. She answered in a small voice.

“Hello?”

“I’m on my way.”

Aimee did not reply.

“Why don’t you stay on the line?” he said. “Just so I know you’re okay.”

“My battery is almost dead. I want to save the power.”

“I should be there in ten, fifteen minutes tops,” Myron said.

“From Livingston?”

“I was staying in the city.”

“Oh, that’s good. See you soon.”

She disconnected the call. Myron checked the car clock: 2:30 a.m. Aimee’s parents must be worried sick. He hoped that she’d already called Claire and Erik. He was tempted to place the call himself, but no, that wasn’t part of how this worked. When she got in the car, he’d encourage her to do it.

Aimee’s location, he’d been surprised to hear, was midtown Manhattan. She told him that she’d wait on Fifth Avenue by Fifty-fourth. That was pretty much Rockefeller Center. What was strange about that, about an eighteen-year-old girl in the Big Apple imbibing in that area, was that midtown was dead at night. During the week, this place hustled with enterprise. On weekend days, you had the tourist trade. But on a Saturday night, there were few people on the street. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but as he hit Fifth Avenue in the upper Fifties, midtown was taking a serious nap.

He got caught at a traffic light on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-second Street. The door handle jangled, and then Aimee opened the door and slipped into the back.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You okay?”

From behind him a small voice said, “I’m fine.”

“I’m not a chauffeur, Aimee. Sit up front.”

She hesitated, but she did as he asked. When she closed the passenger door, Myron turned to face her. Aimee stared straight out the front window. Like most teens, she’d splattered on too much makeup. The young don’t need makeup, especially that much. Her eyes were red and raccoon-like. She was dressed in something teenage-tight, like a thin wrapping of gauze, the kind of thing that, even if you had the figure, you couldn’t carry past the age of maybe twenty-three.

She looked so much like her mother had at that age.

“The light’s green,” Aimee said.

He started driving. “What happened?”

“Some people were drinking too much. I didn’t want to drive with them.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

Again Myron knew that midtown was not a young-people hot spot. Most hung out in bars on the Upper East Side or maybe down in the Village. “Where were you drinking?”

“Is that important?”

“I’d like to know.”

Aimee finally turned toward him. Her eyes were wet. “You promised.”

He kept driving.

“You promised you wouldn’t ask any questions, remember?”

“I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

“I am.”

Myron made a right, cutting across town. “I’ll take you home then.”

“No.”

He waited.

“I’m staying with a friend.”

“Where?”

“She lives in Ridgewood.”

He glanced at her, brought his eyes back to the road. “In Bergen County?”

“Yes.”

“I’d rather take you home.”

“My parents know I’m staying at Stacy’s.”

“Maybe you should call them.”

“And say what?”

“That you’re okay.”

“Myron, they think I’m out with my friends. Calling them would only make them worry.”

She had a point, but Myron didn’t like it. His gas light went on. He’d need to fill up. He headed up the West Side Highway and over the George Washington Bridge. He stopped at the first gas station on Route 4. New Jersey was one of only two states that did not allow you to pump your own gas. The attendant, wearing a turban and engrossed in a Nicholas Sparks novel, was not thrilled to see him.

“Ten dollars’ worth,” Myron told him.

He left them alone. Aimee started sniffling.

“You don’t look drunk,” Myron began.

“I didn’t say I was. It was the guy who was driving.”

“But you do look,” he continued, “like you’ve been crying.”

She did that teen thing that might have been a shrug.

“Your friend Stacy. Where is she now?”

“At her house.”

“She didn’t go into the city with you?”

Aimee shook her head and turned away.

“Aimee?”

Her voice was soft. “I thought I could trust you.”

“You can.”

She shook her head again. Then she reached for the door and pulled the handle. She started to get out. Myron reached for her. He grabbed her left wrist a little harder than he meant to.

“Hey,” she said.

“Aimee . . .”

She tried to pull away. Myron kept a grip on the wrist.

“You’re going to call my parents.”

“I just need to know you’re okay.”

She pulled at his fingers, trying to get free. Myron felt her nails on his knuckles.

“Let go of me!”

He did. She jumped out of the car. Myron started after her, but he was still wearing his seat belt. The shoulder harness snapped him back. He unbuckled and got out. Aimee was stumbling up the highway with her arms crossed defiantly.

He jogged up to her. “Please get back in the car.”

“No.”

“I’ll drive you, okay?”

“Just leave me alone.”

She stormed off. Cars whizzed by. Some honked at her. Myron followed.

“Where are you going?”

“I made a mistake. I should have never called you.”

“Aimee, just get back in the car. It’s not safe out here.”

“You’re going to tell my parents.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

She slowed down and then stopped. More cars zoomed by on Route 4. The gas station attendant looked at them and spread his arms in a what-gives gesture. Myron held up a finger indicating that they needed a minute.

“I’m sorry,” Myron said. “I’m just concerned for your welfare. But you’re right. I made a promise. I’ll keep it.”

Aimee still had her arms crossed. She squinted at him, again as only a teenager can. “Swear?”

“I swear,” he said.

“No more questions?”

“None.”

She trudged back to the car.

Myron followed. He gave the attendant his credit card, and they drove off.

Aimee told him to take Route 17 North. There were so many malls, so many shopping centers, that it almost seemed as though it were one continuous strip. Myron remembered how his father, whenever they would drive past the Livingston Mall, would shake his head and point and moan, “Look at all the cars! If the economy is so bad, why are there so many cars? The lot’s full! Look at them all.”

Myron’s mother and father were currently ensconced in a gated community outside of Boca Raton. Dad had finally sold the warehouse in Newark and now spent his days marveling at what most people had been doing for years: “Myron, have you been to a Staples? My God, they have every kind of pen and paper there. And the price clubs. Don’t even get me started. I bought eighteen screwdrivers for less than ten dollars. We go, we buy so much stuff, I always tell the man at the checkout counter, I say—oh, he laughs at this, Myron—I always say, ‘I just saved so much money, I’m going bankrupt.’ ”

Myron cast a glance at Aimee. He remembered his own teenage years, the war that is adolescence, and thought about how many times he’d deceived his own parents. He’d been a good kid. He never got in trouble, got good grades, was lofted high because of his basketball skills, but he’d hidden stuff from his parents. All kids do. Maybe it was healthy. The kids who are watched all the time, who are under constant parental surveillance—those were the ones who eventually freaked out. You need an outlet. You have to leave kids room to rebel. If not, the pressure just builds until . . .

“Take that exit over there,” Aimee said. “Linwood Avenue West.”

He did as she asked. Myron did not really know this area. New Jersey is a series of hamlets. You only knew yours well. He was an Essex County boy. This was Bergen. He felt out of his element. When they stopped at a traffic light he sighed and leaned back, and used the move to take a good hard look at Aimee.

She looked young and scared and helpless. Myron thought about that last one for a moment. Helpless. She turned and met his eyes, and there was a challenge there. Was helpless a fair assessment? Stupid as it might be to think about it, how much of a role was sexism playing here? Play the chauvinism card for a moment. If Aimee was a guy, a big high school football jock, for example, would he be this worried?

The truth was, he was indeed treating her differently because she was a girl.

Was that right—or was he getting mired in some politically correct nonsense?

“Take the next right, then a left at the end of the road.”

He did. Soon they were deep in the tangle of houses. Ridgewood was an old albeit large village—tree-lined streets, Victorians, curvy roads, hills and valleys. Jersey geography. The suburbs were puzzle pieces, interconnected, parts jammed into other parts, few smooth boundaries or right angles.

She led him up a steep road, down another, a left, then a right, then another right. Myron obeyed on autopilot, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind tried to conjure up the right words to say. Aimee had been crying earlier tonight—he was sure of that. She looked somewhat traumatized, but at her age, isn’t everything a trauma? She probably had a fight with her boyfriend, the basement-mentioned Randy. Maybe ol’ Randy dumped her. Guys did that in high school. They got off on breaking hearts. Made them a big man.

He cleared his throat and aimed for casual: “Are you still dating that Randy?”

Her reply: “Next left.”

He took it.

“The house is over there, on the right.”

“At the end of the cul-de-sac?”

“Yes.”

Myron pulled up to it. The house was hunkered down, totally dark. There were no streetlights. Myron blinked a few times. He was still tired, still more foggy-brained than he should be from the earlier festivities. He flashed to Esperanza for a moment, to how lovely she looked, and, selfish as it sounded, he wondered again how this marriage would change things.

“It doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” he said.

“Stacy’s probably asleep.” Aimee pulled a key out. “Her bedroom is by the back door. I always just let myself in.”

Myron shifted into park and turned off the ignition. “I’ll walk with you.”

“No.”

“How will I know you got in okay?”

“I’ll wave.”

Another car pulled down the street behind them. The headlights hit Myron via the rearview mirror. He shaded his eyes. Odd, he thought, two cars on this road at this time of night.

Aimee snagged his attention. “Myron?”

He looked at her.

“You can’t tell my parents about this. They’ll freak, okay?”

“I won’t tell.”

“Things—” She stopped, looked out the window toward the house. “Things aren’t so great with them right now.”

“With your parents?”

She nodded.

“You know that’s normal, right?”

She nodded again.

He knew that he had to tread gently here. “Can you tell me more?”

“Just . . . this will only strain things more. If you tell, I mean. Just don’t, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Keep your promise.”

And with that, Aimee was out the door. She jogged toward the gate leading to the back. She disappeared behind the house. Myron waited. She came back out to the gate. She smiled now and waved that everything was just fine. But there was something there, something in the wave, something that didn’t quite add up.

Myron was about to get out of the car, but Aimee stopped him with a shake of her head. Then she slipped back into the yard, the night swallowing her whole.

CHAPTER 8

In the days that followed, when Myron looked back at that moment, at the way Aimee smiled and waved and vanished into the dark, he would wonder what he’d felt. Had there been a premonition, an uneasy feeling, a twinge at the base of his subconscious, something warning him, something that he just couldn’t shake?

He didn’t think so. But it was hard to remember.

He waited another ten minutes on that cul-de-sac. Nothing happened.

So Myron came up with a plan.

It took a while to find his way out. Aimee had led him into this suburban thicket, but maybe Myron should have dropped bread crumbs on the way. He worked rat-in-a-maze–style for twenty minutes until he stumbled upon Paramus Road, which led eventually to a main artery, the Garden State Parkway.

But now, Myron had no plans to return to the apartment in New York.

It was a Saturday night—well, Sunday morning now—and if he went to the house in Livingston instead, he could play basketball the next morning before heading to the airport for his flight to Miami.

And, Myron knew, Erik, Aimee’s father, played every Sunday without fail.

That was Myron’s immediate, if not pathetic, plan.

So, early in the morning—too early, frankly—Myron rose and put on his shorts and T-shirt, dusted off the old knee brace, and drove over to the gym at Heritage Middle School. Before he headed inside, Myron tried Aimee’s cell phone. It went immediately to her voice mail, her tone so sunny and, again, teenage, complete with a “Like, leave your message.”

He was about to put the phone down when it buzzed in his hand. He checked the caller ID. Nothing.

“Hello?”

“You’re a bastard.” The voice was muffled and low. It sounded like a young man, but it was hard to know. “Do you hear me, Myron? A bastard. And you will pay for what you did.”

The call disconnected. Myron hit star sixty-nine and waited to hear the number. A mechanical voice gave it to him. Local area code, yes, but otherwise the number was wholly unfamiliar. He stopped the car and jotted it down. He’d check it out later.

When Myron ducked into his school, it took a second to adjust to the artificial light, but as soon he did, the familiar ghosts popped up. The gym had the stale smell of every other middle school gym. Someone dribbled a ball. A few guys laughed. The sounds were all the same—all tainted by that hollow echo.

Myron hadn’t played in months because he didn’t like these sort of white-collar pickup games. Basketball, the game itself, still meant so much to him. He loved it. He loved the feel of the ball on his fingertips, the way they would find the grooves on the jump shot, the arch as the ball headed for the rim, the backspin on it, the positioning for the rebound, the perfect bounce pass. He loved the split-second decision making—pass, drive, shoot—the sudden openings that lasted tenths of a second, the way the world slowed down so that you could split the seam.

He loved all that.

What he did not love was the middle-age machismo. The gym was filling up with Masters of the Universe, the wannabe alpha males who, despite the big house and fat wallet and penis-compensating sports car, still needed to beat someone at something. Myron had been competitive in his youth. Too competitive perhaps. He had been a nutjob for winning. This was, he had learned, not always a wonderful quality, though it often separated the very good from the greats, the near-pros from the pros: this desire—no, need—to better another man.

But he had outgrown it. Some of these guys—a minority for certain, but enough—had not.

When they saw Myron, the former NBA player (no matter for how short a time), they saw their chance to prove what real men they were. Even now. Even when most of them were north of forty. And when the skills are slower but the heart still hungers for glory, it can get physical and downright ugly.

Myron scanned the gym and found his reason for being there.

Erik warmed up at the far basket. Myron jogged over and called out to him.

“Erik, hey, how’s it going?”

Erik turned and smiled at him. “Good morning, Myron. Nice to see you show up.”

“I’m usually not much of a morning guy,” Myron said.

Erik tossed him the ball. Myron took a shot. It clanged off the rim.

“Late night?” Erik asked.

“Very.”

“You’ve looked better.”

“Gee, thanks,” Myron said. Then: “So how are things?”

“Fine, you?”

“Good.”

Someone shouted out and the ten guys jogged toward center court. That was how it was. If you wanted to play in the first group, you have to be one of the first ten to arrive. David Rainiv, a brilliant numbers guy and CFO of some Fortune 500 company, always made up teams. He had a knack for balancing the talent and forming competitive matchups. No one questioned his decisions. They were final and binding.

So Rainiv divided up the sides. Myron was matched up against a young guy who stood six-seven. This was a good thing. The theory of men having Napoleon complexes may be debatable in the real world but not in pickup games. Little guys wanted to harm big guys—show them up in an arena usually dominated by size.

But sadly, today the exception proved the rule. The six-seven kid was all elbows and anger. He was athletic and strong but had little basketball talent. Myron did his best to keep his distance. The truth was, despite his knee and age, Myron could score at will. For a while that was what he did. It just came so naturally. It was hard to go easy. But eventually he pulled back. He needed to lose. More men had come in. It was winners-stay-on. He wanted to get off the court so he could talk to Erik.

So after they won the first three games, Myron threw one.

His teammates were not pleased when Myron dribbled off his own foot, thus losing the game. Now they’d have to sit out. They bemoaned the moment but relished the fact that they’d had a great streak going. Like it mattered.

Erik had a water bottle, of course. His shorts matched his shirt. His sneakers were neatly laced. His socks came up to the exact same spot on both ankles, both having the same size roll. Myron used the water fountain and sat next to him.

“So how’s Claire?” Myron tried.

“Fine. She does a Pilates-yoga mix now.”

“Oh?”

Claire had always been into some exercise craze or another. She’d gone through the Jane Fonda leggings, the Tae Bo kicks, the Soloflex.

“That’s where she is now,” Erik said.

“Taking a class?”

“Yes. During the week, she takes one at six thirty in the morning.”

“Yikes, that’s early.”

“We’re early risers.”

“Oh?” Myron saw an opening and took it. “And Aimee?”

“What about Aimee?”

“Does she get up early too?”

Erik frowned. “Hardly.”

“So you’re here,” Myron said, “and Claire is working out. Where’s Aimee?”

“She slept at a friend’s last night.”

“Oh?”

“Teenagers,” he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

“Trouble?”

“You have no idea.”

“Oh?”

Again with the Oh.

Erik said nothing.

“What kind?” Myron asked.

“Kind?”

Myron wanted to say Oh again, but he feared going to the well once too often. “Trouble. What kind of trouble?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Is she sullen?” Myron said, again trying to sound nonchalant. “Does she not listen? Does she stay up late, blow off school, spend too much time on the Internet, what?”

“All of the above,” Erik said, but now his words came out even slower, even more measured. “Why do you ask?”

Back up, Myron thought. “Just making conversation.”

Erik frowned. “Making conversation usually consists of bemoaning the local teams.”

“It’s nothing,” Myron said. “It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“The party at my house.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know, seeing Aimee like that, I just started thinking about how tough those teenage years are.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed. On the court someone had called a foul and someone was protesting the call. “I didn’t touch you!” a guy with a mustache and elbow pads shouted. Then the name-calling began—something else you never outgrow on a basketball court.

Erik’s eyes were still on the court. “Did Aimee say anything to you?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like anything. I remember you were in the basement with her and Erin Wilder.”

“Right.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

“Nothing. They were just goofing on me about how dated the room was.”

Now he looked at Myron. Myron wanted to look away, but he held on. “Aimee can be,” Erik said, “rebellious.”

“Like her mother.”

“Claire?” He blinked. “Rebellious?”

Oh man, he should learn to shut his mouth.

“In what way?”

Myron went for the politician response: “It depends on what you mean by rebellious, I guess.”

But Erik didn’t let it slide. “What did you mean by it?”

“Nothing. It’s a good thing. Claire had edge.”

“Edge?”

Shut up, Myron. “You know what I mean. Edge. Good edge. When you first saw Claire—that very first second—what attracted you to her?”

“Many things,” he said. “But edge was not one of them. I had known a lot of girls, Myron. There are those you want to marry and those you just want, well, you know.”

Myron nodded.

“Claire was the one you wanted to marry. That was the first thing I thought when I saw her. And yes, I know how it sounds. But you were her friend. You know what I mean.”

Myron tried to look noncommittal.

“I loved her so much.”

Loved, Myron thought, keeping quiet this time. He’d said loved, not love.

As if reading his mind, Erik added, “I still do. Maybe more than ever.”

Myron waited for the “but.”

Erik smiled. “You heard the good news, I assume?”

“About?”

“Aimee. In fact, we owe you a great big thank-you.”

“Why’s that?”

“She got accepted to Duke.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

“We just heard two days ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“Your recommendation letter,” he said. “I think it pushed her over the line.”

Myron said, “Nah,” though there was probably more truth in Erik’s statement than Erik knew. Myron had not only written that letter, but he also had called one of his old teammates, who now worked in admissions.

“No, really,” Erik went on. “There’s so much competition to get into the top schools. Your recommendation carried a lot of weight, I’m sure. So thank you.”

“She’s a good kid. It was my pleasure.”

The game ended. Erik rose. “Ready?”

“I think I’m done for today,” Myron said.

“Hurting, eh?”

“A little.”

“We’re getting older, Myron.”

“I know.”

“There are more aches and pains now.”

Myron nodded.

“Seems to me you have a choice when things hurt,” Erik said. “You can sit out—or you can try to play through the pain.”

Erik jogged away, leaving Myron to wonder if he’d still been talking about basketball.

CHAPTER 9

Back in the car, Myron’s cell phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. Again nothing.

“Hello?”

“You’re a bastard, Myron.”

“Yeah, I got that the first time. Do you have any new material or are we going to follow up with that original line about me paying for what I’ve done?”

Click.

Myron shrugged it off. Back in the days when he used to play superhero, he had been a rather well-connected fellow. It was time to see if that still held. He checked his cell phone’s directory. The number for Gail Berruti, his old contact from the telephone company, was still there. People think it’s unrealistic how private eyes in TV can get phone records with a snap. The truth is, it was beyond easy. Every decent private eye has a source in the phone company. Think about how many people work for Ma Bell. Think how many of them wouldn’t mind making an extra buck or two. The going rate had been five hundred dollars per billing statement, but Myron imagined the price had gone up in the past six years.

Berruti wasn’t in—she was probably off for the weekend—but he left a message.

“This is a voice from your past,” Myron began.

He asked Berruti to get back to him with the trace on the phone number. He tried Aimee’s cell phone again. It went to her voice mail. When he got home, he headed to the computer and Googled the number. Nothing came up. He took a quick shower and then checked his e-mail. Jeremy, his sorta-son, had written him an e-mail from overseas:

Hey, Myron—

We’re only allowed to say that we’re in the Persian Gulf area. I’m doing well. Mom sounds crazy. Give her a call if you can. She still doesn’t understand. Dad doesn’t either, but at least he pretends he does. Thanks for the package.

We love getting stuff.

I got to go. I’ll write more later, but I might be out of touch for a while. Call Mom, okay?

Jeremy

Myron read it again and then again, but the words didn’t change. The e-mail, like most of Jeremy’s, said nothing. He didn’t like that “out of touch” part. He thought about parenting, how he had missed so much of it, all of it really, and how this kid, his son, fit into his life now. It was working, he thought, at least for Jeremy. But it was hard. The kid was the biggest what-could-have-been, the biggest if-only-I’d-known, and most of the time, it just plain hurt.

Still staring at the message, Myron heard his cell phone. He cursed under his breath, but this time the caller ID told him it was the divine Ms. Ali Wilder.

Myron smiled as he answered it. “Stallion Services,” he said.

“Sheesh, suppose it was one of my kids on the phone.”

“I’d pretend to be a horse seller,” he said.

“A horse seller?”

“Whatever they call people who sell horses.”

“What time is your flight?”

“Four o’clock.”

“You busy?”

“Why?”

“The kids will be out of the house for the next hour.”

“Whoa,” he said.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Are you suggesting a little righteous nookie?”

“I am.” Then: “Righteous?”

“It’ll take me some time to get there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’ll have to be a quickie.”

“Isn’t that your specialty?” she said.

“Now that hurt.”

“Only kidding. Stallion.”

He brayed. “That’s horse-speak for ‘I’m on my way.’ ”

“Righteous,” she said.

But when he knocked on her door, Erin answered it. “Hey, Myron.”

“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed.

He glanced behind her. Ali shrugged a sorry at him.

Myron stepped inside. Erin ran upstairs. Ali came closer. “She got in late and didn’t feel like going to drama club.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

“We could stand in a corner and neck,” she said.

“Can I cop a feel?”

“You better.”

He smiled.

“What?” she said.

“I was just thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“Something Esperanza said to me yesterday,” Myron said. “Men tracht und Gott lacht.”

“Is that German?”

“Yiddish.”

“What does it mean?”

“Man plans, God laughs.”

She repeated it. “I like that.”

“Me too,” he said.

He hugged her then. Over her shoulder, he saw Erin at the top of the stairs. She was not smiling. Myron’s eyes met hers and again he thought about Aimee, about how the night had swallowed her whole, and about the promise he had sworn to keep.

CHAPTER 10

Myron had time before his flight.

He grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks in the center of town. The barista who took his order had the trademark sullen attitude. As he handed Myron the drink, lifting it to the counter as though it were the weight of the world, the door behind them opened with a bang. The barista rolled his eyes as they entered.

There were six of them today, trudging in as though through deep snow, heads down, a variety of shakes. They sniffled and touched their faces. The four men were unshaven. The two women smelled like cat piss.

They were mental patients. For real. They spent most nights at Essex Pines, a psychiatric facility in the neighboring town. Their leader—wherever they walked, he stayed in front—was named Larry Kidwell. His group spent most days wandering through town. Livingstonites referred to them as the Town Crazies. Myron uncharitably thought of them as a bizarre rock group: Lithium Larry and the Medicated Five.

Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.

“Hey, Myron,” he said too loudly.

“What’s happening, Larry?”

“Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”

Myron nodded. “I hear you.”

Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of his Indiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.

Myron started heading for the door. “Take it easy, Larry.”

“You too, Myron.” He reached out to shake Myron’s hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes—wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes—on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry’s. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.

“The next planet,” Larry whispered, “it might be yours. Yours alone.”

“That’s great to know, thanks.”

“No!” Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. “The planet. It’s slither moon. It’s out to get you, you know what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t ignore this.”

He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man’s agitation.

“It’s okay, Larry.”

“Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither.”

The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry’s tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He’d been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father’s alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.

Then it all came apart.

What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry’s life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone wrong.

The doctor’s diagnosis: a chemical imbalance.

Who knows how you get cancer? It was the same thing with Larry. He simply had a mental disease. It started as mild OCD, then became more severe, and then, try as they might, no one could stop his slide. By his sophomore year Larry was setting up rat traps so he could eat them. He became delusional. He dropped out of Yale. Then there were suicide attempts and major hallucinations and problems of all sorts. Larry broke into someone’s house because the “Clyzets from planet three hundred twenty-six” were trying to lay a nest there. The family was home at the time.

Larry Kidwell has been in and out of psych institutes ever since. Supposedly, there are moments when Larry is entirely lucid, and it is so painful for him, realizing what he has become, that he rips at his own face—ergo the scars—and cries out in such agony that they immediately sedate him.

“Okay,” Myron said. “Thanks for the warning.”

Myron headed out the door, shook it off. He hit Chang’s Dry Cleaning next door. Maxine Chang was behind the counter. She looked, as always, exhausted and overworked. There were two women about Myron’s age at the counter. They were talking about their kids and colleges. That was all anybody talked about right now. Every April, Livingston became a snow globe of college acceptances. The stakes, if you were to listen to the parents, could not have been higher. These weeks—those thick-or-thin envelopes that arrived in their mailboxes—decided how happy and successful their offspring would be for the rest of their lives.

“Ted is wait-listed at Penn but he made Lehigh,” one said.

“Do you believe Chip Thompson got into Penn?”

“His father.”

“What? Oh wait, he’s an alum, right?”

“He gave them a quarter million dollars.”

“I should have known. Chip had terrible boards.”

“I heard they hired a pro to write his essays.”

“I should have done that for Cole.”

Like that. On and on.

Myron nodded at Maxine. Maxine Chang usually had a big smile for him. Not today. She shouted, “Roger!”

Roger Chang came out of the back. “Hey, Myron.”

“What’s up, Roger?”

“You wanted the shirts boxed this time, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Maxine,” one of the women said, “did Roger hear from schools yet?”

Maxine barely looked up. “He made Rutgers,” she said. “Wait-listed at others.”

“Wow, congratulations.”

“Thank you.” But she didn’t seem thrilled.

“Maxine, won’t he be the first in your family to go to college?” the other woman said. Her tone could only have sounded more patronizing if she’d been petting a dog. “How wonderful for you.”

Maxine wrote up the ticket.

“Where is he wait-listed?”

“Princeton and Duke.”

Hearing his alma mater made Myron think again about Aimee. He flashed back to Larry and his spooky planet talk. Myron wasn’t one for bad omens or any of that, but he didn’t feel like poking the fates in the eye either. He debated trying Aimee’s phone again, but what would be the point? He thought back over last night, replayed it in his head, wondered how he could have done it differently.

Roger—Myron had forgotten that the kid was already a high school senior—came back and handed him the box of shirts. Myron took them, told Roger to put them on his account, headed out the door. He still had time before his flight.

So he drove to Brenda’s grave.

The cemetery still overlooked a schoolyard. That was what he could still not get over. The sun shone hard as it always seemed to when he visited, mocking his gloom. He stood alone. There were no other visitors. A nearby backhoe dug a hole. Myron remained still. He lifted his head and let the sun shine on his face. He could still feel that—the sun on his face. Brenda, of course, could not. Would never again.

A simple thought, but there you go.

Brenda Slaughter had only been twenty-six when she died. Had she survived, she’d have turned thirty-four in two weeks. He wondered where she’d be if Myron had kept his promise. He wondered if she’d be with him.

When she died, Brenda was in the middle of her residency in pediatric medicine. She was six-foot-four, stunning, African-American, a model. She was about to play pro basketball, the face and image that would launch the new women’s league. There had been threats made. So Myron had been hired by the league owner to protect her.

Nice job, All-Star.

He stood and stared down and clenched his fists. He never talked to her when he came here. He didn’t sit and try to meditate or any of that. He didn’t conjure up the good or her laugh or her beauty or her extraordinary presence. Cars whizzed by. The schoolyard was silent. No kids were out playing. Myron did not move.

He did not come here because he still mourned her death. He came because he didn’t.

He barely remembered Brenda’s face anymore. The one kiss they shared . . . when he conjured it up he knew it was more imagination than memory. That was the problem. Brenda Slaughter was slipping away from him. Soon it would be as though she never existed. So Myron didn’t come here for comfort or to pay his respects. He came because he still needed to hurt, needed the wounds to stay fresh. He still wanted to be outraged because moving on—feeling at peace with what happened to her—was too obscene.

Life goes on. That was a good thing, right? The outrage flickers and slowly leaks away. The scars heal. But when you let that happen, your soul goes dead a little too.

So Myron stood there and clenched his fists until they shook. He thought about the sunny day they buried her—and the horrible way he had avenged her. He summoned up the outrage. It came at him like a force. His knees buckled. He tottered, but he stayed upright.

He had messed up with Brenda. He had wanted to protect her. He had pushed too hard—and in doing so he had gotten her killed.

Myron looked down at the grave. The sun was still warm on him, but he felt the shiver travel down his back. He wondered why he chose today of all days to visit, and then he thought about Aimee, about pushing too hard, about wanting to protect, and with one more shiver, he thought—no, he feared—that maybe, somehow, he had let it all happen again.

CHAPTER 11

Claire Biel stood by the kitchen sink and stared at the stranger she called a husband. Erik was eating a sandwich carefully, his tie tucked into his shirt. There was a newspaper perfectly folded into one quarter. He chewed slowly. He wore cuff links. His shirt was starched. He liked starch. He liked everything ironed. In his closet his suits were hung four inches apart from one another. He didn’t measure to achieve this. It just happened. His shoes, always freshly polished, were lined up like something in a military procession.

Who was this man?

Their two youngest daughters, Jane and Lizzie, were both wolfing down PB&J on white bread. They chatted through their sticky mouths. They made noise. Their milk sloshed into small spills. Erik kept reading. Jane asked if they could be excused. Claire said yes. They both darted toward the door.

“Stop,” Claire said.

They did.

“Plates in the sink.”

They sighed and did the eye-roll—though they were only nine and ten, they had learned from the best, their older sister. They trudged back as though through the deep snow of the Adirondacks, lifted plates that must have seemed like boulders, and somehow scaled the mountain toward the sink.

“Thank you,” Claire said.

They took off. The room was quiet now. Erik chewed quietly.

“Is there any more coffee?” he asked.

She poured some. He crossed his legs, careful not to crease his trousers. They had been married for nineteen years, but the passion had slipped out the window in under two. They were treading water now, had been treading for so long that it no longer seemed that difficult. Oldest cliché in the book was about how fast time went by, but it was true. It didn’t seem like the passion had been gone that long. Sometimes, like right now, she could look at him and remember a time when just seeing him would take her breath away.

Still not glancing up, Erik asked, “Have you heard from Aimee?”

“No.”

He straightened his arm to pull back the sleeve, checked his watch, arched an eyebrow. “Two in the afternoon.”

“She’s probably just waking up.”

“We might want to call.”

He didn’t move.

“By we,” Claire said, “do you mean me?”

“I’ll do it if you want.”

She reached for the phone and dialed their daughter’s cell phone. They’d gotten Aimee her own phone last year. Aimee had brought them an advertisement showing them that they could add a third line for ten dollars a month. Erik was unmoved. But, Aimee whined, all her friends—everyone!—had one, an argument that always always led Erik to remark, “We are not everyone, Aimee.”

But Aimee was ready for that. She quickly changed tracks and plucked on the parental-protection heartstrings: “If I had my own phone, I could always stay in touch. You could find me twenty-four-seven. And if there was ever an emergency . . .”

That had closed the sale. Mothers understood this basic truism: Sex and peer pressure may sell, but nothing sells like fear.

The call went to voice mail. Aimee’s enthusiastic voice—she had taped her message almost immediately after getting the phone—told Claire to, like, leave a message. The sound of her daughter’s voice, familiar as it was, made her ache, though she wasn’t sure for what exactly.

When the beep came, Claire said, “Hey, honey, it’s Mom. Just give me a call, okay?”

She hung up.

Erik still read his paper. “She didn’t answer?”

“Gee, what gave it away? Was it the part where I asked her to give me a call?”

He frowned at the sarcasm. “Her phone probably went dead.”

“Probably.”

“She always forgets to charge it,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Whose house was she sleeping over? Steffi’s, right?”

“Stacy.”

“Right, whatever. Maybe we should call Stacy.”

“Why?”

“I want her home. She has that project due on Thursday.”

“It’s Sunday. She just got into college.”

“So you think she should slack off now?”

Claire handed him the portable. “You call.”

“Fine.”

She gave him the number. He pressed the digits and put the phone to his ear. In the background, Claire heard her younger daughters giggle. Then one shouted, “I do not!” When the phone was picked up, Erik cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, this is Erik Biel. I’m Aimee Biel’s father. I was wondering if she was there right now.”

His face didn’t change. His voice didn’t change. But Claire saw his grip on the phone tighten and she felt something deep in her chest give way.

CHAPTER 12

Myron had two semicontradictory thoughts about Miami. One, the weather was so beautiful he should move down here. Two, sun—there was too much sun down here. Everything was too bright. Even in the airport Myron found himself squinting.

This was not a problem for Myron’s parents, the beloved Ellen and Al Bolitar, who wore those oversize sunglasses that looked suspiciously like welder’s goggles, though without the style. They both waited for him at the airport. Myron had told them not to, that he would get a taxi, but Dad had insisted. “Don’t I always pick you up from the airport? Remember when you came back from Chicago after that big snowstorm?”

“That was eighteen years ago, Dad.”

“So? You think I forgot how to go?”

“And that was Newark Airport.”

“Eighteen minutes, Myron.”

Myron’s eyes closed. “I remember.”

“Exactly eighteen minutes.”

“I remember, Dad.”

“That’s how long it took me to get from the house to Terminal A at Newark Airport. I used to time it, remember?”

“I do, yes.”

So here they were, both of them, at the airport with dark suntans and fresh liver spots. When Myron came down the escalator, Mom ran over and wrapped her arms around her boy as if this were a POW homecoming in 1974. Dad stayed in the background with that satisfied smile. Myron hugged her back. Mom felt smaller. That was how it was down here. Your parents withered and got smaller and darker, like giant shrunken heads.

Mom said, “Let’s get your luggage.”

“I have it here.”

“That’s it? Just that one bag?”

“I’m only down for a night.”

“Still.”

Myron watched her face, checked her hands. When he saw the shake was more pronounced, he felt the thud in his chest.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

Mom shook her head. “You’ve always been the worst liar. Remember that time I walked in on you and Tina Ventura and you said nothing was going on? You think I didn’t know?”

Junior year of high school. Ask Mom and Dad what they did yesterday, they won’t remember. Ask them about anything from his youth, and it’s like they studied replays at night.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Got me.”

“Don’t be such a smart guy. And that reminds me.”

They reached Dad. Myron kissed him on the cheek. He always did. You never outgrow that. The skin felt loose. The smell of Old Spice was still there, but it was fainter than usual. There was something else there, some other smell, and Myron thought it was the smell of the old. They started for the car.

“Guess who I ran into?” Mom said.

“Who?”

“Dotte Derrick. Remember her?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. She had that thing, that what-you-call-it, in her yard.”

“Oh, right. Her. With that thing.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but this was easier.

“So anyway, I saw Dotte the other day and we start talking. She and Bob moved down here four years ago. They have a place in Fort Lauderdale, but Myron, it’s really run-down. I mean, it hasn’t been kept up at all. Al, what’s the name of Dotte’s place? Sunshine Vista, something like that, right?”

“Who cares?” Dad said.

“Thanks, Mr. Helpful. Anyway, that’s where Dotte lives. And this place is awful. So run-down. Al, isn’t Dotte’s place run-down?”

“The point, El,” Dad said. “Get to the point.”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there. Where was I?”

“Dotte Something,” Myron said.

“Derrick. You remember her, right?”

“Very well,” Myron said.

“Right, good. Anyway, Dotte still has cousins up north. The Levines. Do you remember them? No reason you should, forget it. Anyway, one of the cousins lives in Kasselton. You know Kasselton, right? You used to play them in high school—”

“I know Kasselton.”

“Don’t get snappy.”

Dad spread his arms to the sky. “The point, El. Get to the point.”

“Right, sorry. You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. So to make a long story short—”

“No, El, you’ve never made a long story short,” Dad said. “Oh, you’ve made plenty of short stories long. But never, ever, have you made a long story short.”

“Can I talk here, Al?”

“Like anyone could stop you. Like a large gun or big army tank—like even that could stop you.”

Myron couldn’t help but smile. Ladies and gents, meet Ellen and Alan Bolitar or, as Mom liked to say, “We’re El Al—you know, like the Israeli airline?”

“So anyway, I was talking to Dotte about this and that. You know, the usual. The Ruskins moved out of town. Gertie Schwartz had gall stones. Antonietta Vitale, such a pretty thing, she married some millionaire from Montclair. That kind of thing. And then Dotte told me—Dotte told me this, by the way, not you—Dotte said you’re dating someone.”

Myron closed his eyes.

“Is it true?”

He said nothing.

“Dotte said you were dating a widow with six children.”

“Two children,” Myron said.

Mom stopped and smiled.

“What?”

“Gotcha.”

“Huh?”

“If I said two children, you might have just denied it.” Mom pointed an aha finger up in the air. “But I knew if I said six, you’d react. So I caught you.”

Myron looked at his father. His father shrugged. “She’s been watching a lot of Matlock lately.”

“Children, Myron? You’re dating a woman with children?”

“Mom, I’m going to say this as nicely as I can: Butt out.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Funny Guy. When children are involved, you can’t just go on your merry way. You need to think about the repercussions on them. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Do you understand the meaning of ‘butt out’?”

“Fine, do what you want.” Now she did the mock surrender. Like mother, like son. “What do I care?”

They continued walking—Myron in the middle, Dad on his right, Mom on his left. That was how they always walked. The pace was slower now. That didn’t bother him much. He was more than willing to slow down so they could keep up.

They drove to the condo and parked in the designated spot. Mom purposely took the long path past the swimming pool, so she could introduce Myron to a dizzying array of condo owners. Mom kept saying, “You remember meeting my son?” and Myron faked remembering them back. Some of the women, many in their upper seventies, were too-well built. As Dustin Hoffman had been advised in The Graduate, “Plastics.” Just a different kind. Myron had nothing against cosmetic surgery, but past a certain age, discriminatory or not, it creeped him out.

The condo was also too bright. You’d think as you got older you’d want less light, but no. His parents actually kept on the welder sunglasses for the first five minutes. Mom asked if he was hungry. He was smart enough to answer yes. She had already ordered a sloppy joe platter—Mom’s cooking would be deemed inhumane at Guantánamo Bay—from a place called Tony’s, which was “just like the old Eppes Essen’s” at home.

They ate, they talked, Mom kept trying to wipe the small bits of cabbage that got stuck in the corners of Dad’s mouth, but her hand shook too badly. Myron met his father’s eye. Mom’s Parkinson’s was getting worse, but they wouldn’t talk to Myron about it. They were getting old. Dad had a pacemaker. Mom had Parkinson’s. But their first duty was still to shield their son from all that.

“When do you have to leave for your meeting?” Mom asked.

Myron checked his watch. “Now.”

They said good-byes, did the hug-n-kiss thing again. When he pulled away, he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if they were going to hold off the enemy on their own while he drove to safety. Having aging parents sucked; but as Esperanza, who lost both parents young, often pointed out, it was better than the alternative.

Once in the elevator, Myron checked his cell phone. Aimee had still not called him back. He tried her number again and was not surprised when it went to voice mail. Enough, he thought. He would just call her house. See what’s what.

Aimee’s voice came to him: “You promised . . .”

He dialed Erik and Claire’s home number. Claire answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Myron.”

“Hi.”

“What’s happening?”

“Not much,” Claire said.

“I saw Erik this morning”—man, was it really the same day?—“and he told me about Aimee getting accepted to Duke. So I wanted to offer up my congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Is she there?”

“No, not right now.”

“Can I call her later?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Myron changed gears. “Everything okay? You sound a little distracted.”

He was about to say more but again Aimee’s words—“You promised you wouldn’t tell my parents”—floated down to him.

“Fine, I guess,” Claire said. “Look, I gotta go. Thanks for writing that recommendation letter.”

“No big deal.”

“Very big deal. The kids ranked four and seven in her class both applied and didn’t get in. You were the difference.”

“I doubt it. Aimee’s a great candidate.”

“Maybe, but thanks anyway.”

There was a grumbling noise in the background. Sounded like Erik.

In his mind, there was Aimee’s voice again: “Things aren’t so great with them right now.” Myron was trying to think of something else to say, a follow-up question maybe, when Claire hung up the phone.

Loren Muse had landed a fresh homicide case—double homicide, actually, two men shot outside a nightclub in East Orange. Rumor was that the killings were a hit carried out by John “The Ghost” Asselta, a notorious hitman who’d actually been born and raised in the area. Asselta had been quiet for the past few years. If he was back, they were about to be very busy.

Loren was reviewing the ballistics report when her private line rang. She picked up and said, “Muse.”

“Guess who?”

She smiled. “Lance Banner, you old dog. Is that you?”

“It is.”

Banner was a police officer in Livingston, New Jersey, the suburb where they’d both grown up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You still investigating Katie Rochester’s disappearance?”

“Not really,” she said.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, there’s no evidence of violence. For another, Katie Rochester is over eighteen.”

“Just barely.”

“In the eyes of the law, eighteen might as well be eighty. So officially we don’t even have an investigation going on.”

“And unofficially?”

“I met with a doctor named Edna Skylar.” She recounted Edna’s story, using almost the same words she’d used when she’d told her boss, county prosecutor Ed Steinberg. Steinberg had sat there for a long while before predictably concluding: “We don’t have the resources to go after such a maybe.”

When she finished, Banner asked, “How did you get the case in the first place?”

“Like I said, there was no case, really. She’s of age, no signs of violence, you know the drill. So no one was assigned. Jurisdiction is questionable anyway. But the father, Dominick, he made a lot of noise with the press, you probably saw it, and he knew someone who knows someone, and that led to Steinberg. . . .”

“And that led to you.”

“Right. The key word being led. As in past tense.”

Lance Banner asked, “Do you have ten minutes to spare?”

“Did you hear about that double homicide in East Orange?”

“I did.”

“I’m the lead.”

“As in the present tense of led?”

“You got it.”

“I figured that,” Banner said. “It’s why I’m only asking for ten minutes.”

“Important?” she asked.

“Let’s just say”—he stopped, thinking of the word—“very odd.”

“And it involves Katie Rochester’s disappearance?”

“Ten minutes max, Loren. That’s all I’m asking for. Heck, I’ll take five.”

She checked her watch. “When?”

“I’m in the lobby of your building right now,” he said. “Can you get us a room?”

“For five minutes? Sheesh, your wife wasn’t kidding about your bedroom stamina.”

“Dream on, Muse. Hear that ding? I’m stepping into the elevator. Get the room ready.”

Livingston police detective Lance Banner had a crew cut. He was big with features and a build that made you think of right angles. Loren had known him since elementary school and she still couldn’t get that image out of her head, of what he looked like back then. That’s how it is with kids you grew up with. You always see them as second-graders.

Loren watched him hesitate when he entered, unsure how to greet her—a kiss on the cheek or a more professional handshake. She took the lead and pulled him toward her and kissed his cheek. They were in an interrogation room, and they both headed for the interrogator seat. Banner pulled up, raised both hands, sat across from her.

“Maybe you should Mirandize me,” he said.

“I’ll wait until I have enough for an arrest. So what have you got on Katie Rochester?”

“No time for chitchat, eh?”

She just looked at him.

“Okay, okay, let’s get to it then. Do you know a woman named Claire Biel?”

“No.”

“She lives in Livingston,” Banner said. “She would have been Claire Garman when we were kids.”

“Still no.”

“She was older than us anyway. Four, five years probably.” He shrugged. “I was just checking.”

“Uh-huh,” Loren said. “Do me a favor, Lance. Pretend I’m your wife and skip the foreplay.”

“Fine, here it is. She called me this morning. Claire Biel. Her daughter went out last night and hasn’t come home.”

“How old is she?”

“She just turned eighteen.”

“Any sign of foul play?”

He made a face suggesting an inner debate. Then: “Not yet.”

“So?”

“So normally we wait a little. Like you said on the phone—over eighteen, no signs of violence.”

“Like with Katie Rochester.”

“Right.”

“But?”

“I know the parents a little. Claire was in school with my older brother. They live in the neighborhood. They’re concerned, of course. But on the face of it, well, you figure the kid is just messing around. She got accepted to college the other day. Made Duke. Her first choice. She goes out partying with her friends. You know what I’m saying.”

“I do.”

“But I figure, what’s the harm in doing a little checking, right? So I do the easiest thing. Just to satisfy the parents that their girl—her name is Aimee, by the way—that Aimee is okay.”

“So what did you do?”

“I ran her credit card number, see if Aimee made any charges or used an ATM.”

“And?”

“Sure enough. She took out a thousand dollars, the max, at an ATM machine at two in the morning.”

“You get the video from the bank?”

“I did.”

Loren knew that this was done in seconds now. You didn’t have an old-fashioned tape anymore. The videos are digital and could be e-mailed and downloaded almost instantaneously.

“It was Aimee,” he said. “No question about it. She didn’t try to hide her face or anything.”

“So?”

“So you figure it’s a runaway, right?”

“Right.”

“A slam dunk,” he went on. “She took the money and is doing a little partying, whatever. Blowing off steam at the end of her senior year.” Banner looked off.

“Come on, Lance. What’s the problem?”

“Katie Rochester.”

“Because Katie did the same thing? Used an ATM before disappearing?”

He tilted his head back and forth in a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. His eyes were still far away. “It’s not just that she did the same thing as Katie,” he said. “It’s that she did the exact same thing.”

“I’m not following.”

“The ATM machine Aimee Biel used was located in Manhattan—more specifically”—he slowed his words now—“at a Citibank on Fifty-second Street and Sixth Avenue.”

Loren felt the chill begin at the base of her skull and travel south.

Banner said, “That’s the same one Katie Rochester used, right?”

She nodded and then she said something truly stupid: “Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be,” he agreed.

“You got anything else?”

“We’re just starting, but we pulled the logs on her cell phone.”

“And?”

“She made a phone call right after she took out the money.”

“To whom?”

Lance Banner leaned back and crossed his legs. “Do you remember a guy a few years ahead of us—big basketball star named Myron Bolitar?”

CHAPTER 13

Down in Miami, Myron dined with Rex Storton, a new client, at some super-huge restaurant Rex had picked out because a lot of people walked by. The restaurant was one of those chains like Bennigans or TGI Fridays or something equally universal and awful.

Storton was an aging actor, a one-time superstar who was looking for the indie role that would launch him out of Miami’s Loni Anderson Dinner Theater and back into the upper echelon of La-La Land. Rex was resplendent in a pink polo with the collar turned up, white pants that a man his age just shouldn’t involve himself with, and a shiny gray toupee that looked good when you weren’t sitting directly across the table from it.

For years Myron had represented professional athletes only. When one of his basketball players wanted to cross over and do movies, Myron started meeting actors. A new branch of the business took root, and now he handled the Hollywood clients almost exclusively, leaving the sports management stuff to Esperanza.

It was strange. As an athlete himself, one would think that Myron would relate more to those in a similar profession. He didn’t. He liked the actors more. Most athletes are singled out right away, at fairly young ages, and elevated to godlike status from the get-go. Athletes are in the lead clique at school. They get invited to all the parties. They nab all the hot girls. Adults fawn. Teachers let them slide.

Actors are different. Many of them had started out at the opposite end of the spectrum. Athletics rule in most towns. Actors were often the kids who couldn’t make the team and were looking for another activity. They were often too small—ever meet an actor in real life and notice that they’re tiny?—or uncoordinated. So they back into acting. Later, when stardom hits them, they are not used to the treatment. They’re surprised by it. They’re somewhat more appreciative. In many cases—no, not all—it makes them more humble than their athletic counterparts.

There were other factors, of course. They say that actors take to the stage to fill a void of emptiness only applause can fill. Even if true, it made thespians somewhat more anxious to please. While athletes were used to people doing their bidding and came to believe it was their due in life, actors came to that from a position of insecurity. Athletes need to win. They need to beat you. Actors need only your applause and thus your approval.

It made them easier to work with.

Again this was a complete generalization—Myron was an athlete, after all, and did not consider himself difficult—but like most generalizations, there was something to it.

He told Rex about the indie role as, to quote the pitch, “a geriatric, cross-dressing car thief, but with a heart.” Rex nodded. His eyes continuously scanned the room, as if they were at a cocktail party and he was waiting for someone more important to come in. Rex always kept one eye toward the entrance. This was how it was with actors. Myron repped one guy who was world-renowned for detesting the press. He had battled with photographers. He had sued tabloids. He had demanded his privacy. Yet whenever Myron ate dinner with him, the actor always chose a seat in the center of the room, facing the door, and whenever someone would enter, he’d look up, just for a second, just to make sure he was recognized.

His eyes still moving, Rex said, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Do I have to wear a dress?”

“For some scenes, yes.”

“I’ve done that before.”

Myron arched an eyebrow.

“Professionally, I mean. Don’t be a wiseass. And it was tastefully done. The dress must be something tasteful.”

“So, what, nothing with a plunging neckline?’

“Funny, Myron. You’re a scream. Speaking of which, do I have to do a screen test?”

“You do.”

“Chrissakes, I’ve made eighty films.”

“I know, Rex.”

“He can’t look at one of them?”

Myron shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

“You like the script?”

“I do, Rex.”

“How old is this director?’

“Twenty-two.”

“Jesus. I was already a has-been by the time he was born.”

“They’ll pay for a flight to L.A.”

“First class?”

“Coach, but I think I can get you a business upgrade.”

“Ah, who am I kidding? I’d sit on the wing in only my girdle if the role was right.”

“That’s the spirit.”

A mother and daughter came over and asked Rex for his autograph. He smiled grandly and puffed out his chest. He looked at the obvious mother and said, “Are you two sisters?”

She giggled as she left.

“Another happy customer,” Myron said.

“I aim to please.”

A buxom blonde came by for an autograph. Rex kissed her a little too hard. After she sashayed away, Rex held up a piece of paper. “Look.”

“What is it?”

“Her phone number.”

“Terrific.”

“What can I say, Myron? I love women.”

Myron looked up and to his right.

“What?”

“I’m just wondering,” Myron said, “how your prenup will hold up.”

“Very funny.”

They ate some chicken from a deep fryer. Or maybe it was beef or shrimp. Once in the deep fryer, it all tasted the same. Myron could feel Rex’s eyes on him.

“What?” Myron said.

“It’s sort of tough to admit this,” Rex said, “but I’m only alive when I’m in the spotlight. I’ve had three wives and four kids. I love them all. I enjoyed my time with them. But the only time I feel really myself is when I’m in the spotlight.”

Myron said nothing.

“Does that sound pathetic to you?”

Myron shrugged.

“You know what else?”

“What?”

“In their heart of hearts, I think most people are like that. They crave fame. They want people to recognize them and stop them on the streets. People say it’s a new thing, what with the reality TV crap. But I think it’s always been that way.”

Myron studied his pitiful food.

“You agree?”

“I don’t know, Rex.”

“For me, the spotlight has dimmed a touch, you know what I’m saying? It’s faded bit by bit. I was lucky. But I’ve met some one-hit wonders. Man, they’re never happy. Not ever again. But me, with the slow fade, I could get used to it. And even now, people still recognize me. It’s why I eat out every night. Yeah, that’s awful to say, but it’s true. And even now, when I’m in my seventies, I still dream about clawing my way back to that brightest of spotlights. You know what I’m saying?”

“I do,” Myron said. “It’s why I love you.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re honest about it. Most actors tell me it’s just about the work.”

Rex made a scoffing noise. “What a load of crap. But it’s not their fault, Myron. Fame is a drug. The most potent. You’re hooked, but you don’t want to admit it.” Rex gave him the twinkly smile that used to melt the girls’ hearts. “And what about you, Myron?”

“What about me?”

“Like I said, there’s this spotlight, right? For me it faded slowly. But for you, top college basketball player in the country, on your way to a big pro career . . .”

Myron waited.

“. . . and then, flick”—Rex snapped his fingers—“lights out. When you’re only, what, twenty-one, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-two,” Myron said.

“So how did you cope? And I love you too, sweetums. So tell me the truth.”

Myron crossed his legs. He felt his face flush. “Are you enjoying the new show?”

“What, the dinner theater gig?”

“Yes.”

“It’s dog crap. It’s worse than stripping on Route 17 in Lodi, New Jersey.”

“And you know this from personal experience?”

“Stop trying to change the subject. How did you cope?”

Myron sighed. “Most would say I coped amazingly well.”

Rex lifted his palm to the sky and curled his fingers as if to say, Come on, come on.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

Rex thought about it. “What did you do first?”

“After the injury?”

“Yes.”

“Rehab. Lots of rehab.”

“And once you realized that your basketball days were over . . . ?”

“I went back to law school.”

“Where?”

“Harvard.”

“Very impressive. So you went to law school. Then what?”

“You know what, Rex. I got my JD, opened up a sports agency, grew into a full-service agency that now represents actors and writers too.” He shrugged.

“Myron?”

“What?”

“I asked for the truth.”

Myron picked up his fork, took a bite, chewed slowly. “The lights didn’t just go out, Rex. I had a full-fledged power outage. A lifetime blackout.”

“I know that.”

“So I needed to push past it.”

“And?”

“And that’s it.”

Rex shook his head and smiled.

“What?”

“Next time,” Rex said. He picked up his fork. “You’ll tell me next time.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“But you love me, remember?”

By the time they finished dinner and drinks, it was late. Drinking for a second night in a row. Myron Bolitar, lush of the stars. He made sure that Rex was safely back in his residence before heading to his parents’ condo. He had a key. He slipped it in quietly so as to not awaken Mom and Dad. He knew that it would do no good.

The TV was on. His father sat in the living room. When Myron entered, Dad faked like he was just waking up. He wasn’t. Dad always stayed awake until Myron came home. Didn’t matter what time Myron returned. Didn’t matter that Myron was now in his fourth decade.

Myron came up behind his father’s chair. Dad turned around and gave him the smile, the one he saved only for Myron, the one that told Myron that he was the single greatest creation in this man’s eyes and how could you beat that?

“Have fun?”

“Rex is a pretty cool guy,” Myron said.

“I used to like his movies.” His father nodded a few times too many. “Sit for a second.”

“What’s up?”

“Just sit, okay?”

He did. Myron folded his hands and put them in his lap. Like he was eight. “Is this about Mom?”

“No.”

“Her Parkinson’s is getting worse.”

“That’s how it is with Parkinson’s, Myron. It gets worse.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

“I think I should say something, at least.”

“Don’t. It’s better. And what would you say that your mother doesn’t already know?”

Now it was Myron’s turn to nod a few times too many. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing. I mean, your mother wants us to have a heart-to-heart.”

“What about?”

“Today’s New York Times.”

“Excuse me?”

“There was something in it. Your mother thinks you’ll be upset and that we should talk. But I don’t think I’m going to do that. I think what I’m going to do instead is hand you the newspaper and let you read it for yourself and leave you alone for a while. If you want to talk, you come and get me, okay? If not, I’ll give you your space.”

Myron frowned. “Something in The New York Times?”

“Sunday Styles section.” Dad stood and pointed with his chin toward the pile of Sunday papers. “Page sixteen. Good night, Myron.”

“Good night, Dad.”

His father moved down the hall. No need to tiptoe. Mom could sleep through a Judas Priest concert. Dad was the night watchman, Mom the sleepy princess. Myron stood. He picked up the Sunday Styles section, turned to page sixteen, saw the photo, and felt the stiletto pierce his heart.

The New York Times Sunday Styles was upscale gossip. The most well-read pages were for wedding announcements. And there, on page sixteen, in the top left-hand corner, was a photograph of a man with Ken-doll good looks and teeth that were too perfect to be capped. He had a Republican senator’s cleft chin, and his name was Stone Norman. The article said Stone ran and operated the BMV Investment Group, a highly successful financial enterprise specializing in major institutional trades.

Snore.

The engagement announcement said that Stone Norman and his wife-to-be would be married next Saturday at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan. A reverend would preside over the ceremony. Then the newlyweds would begin their lives together in Scarsdale, New York.

More snore. Stone Snore.

But none of that was what had pierced his heart. No, what did that, what really hurt and made the knees buckle, was the woman ol’ Stone was marrying, the one smiling with him in that photograph, a smile Myron still knew far too well.

For a moment Myron just stared. He reached out and brushed the bride-to-be’s face with his finger. Her biography stated that she was a best-selling writer who’d been nominated for both the PEN/Faulkner and National Book Award. Her name was Jessica Culver, and though it didn’t say so in the article, for more than a decade she had been the love of Myron Bolitar’s life.

He just sat and stared.

Jessica, the woman he’d been sure was his soul mate, was getting married to someone else.

He had not seen her since they broke up seven years ago. Life had gone on for him. It had, of course, gone on for her. Why should he be surprised?

He put down the paper, then picked it up again. A lifetime ago Myron had asked Jessica to marry him. She had said no. They stayed together on and off for the next decade. But in the end Myron wanted to get married, and Jessica didn’t. She pretty much scoffed at the bourgeois idea of it all—the suburbs, the picket fence, the children, the barbecues, the Little League games, the life Myron’s parents had led.

Except now Jessica was marrying big Stone Norman and moving to the über-suburb of Scarsdale, New York.

Myron carefully folded the paper and put it on the coffee table. He stood with a sigh and headed down the corridor. He flicked off the lights as he went. He passed his parents’ bedroom. The reading lamp was still on. His father faked a cough to let Myron know he was there.

“I’m fine,” he said out loud.

His father did not respond, and Myron was grateful. The man was like a master on the tightrope, managing the nearly impossible feat of showing he cared without butting in or interfering.

Jessica Culver, the love of his life, the woman he’d always believed was his destined soul mate, was getting married.

Myron wanted to sleep on that one. But sleep would not come.

CHAPTER 14

Time to talk to Aimee Biel’s parents.

It was six in the morning. County investigator Loren Muse sat on her floor cross-legged. She wore shorts, and the quasi-shag carpeting made her legs itch. Police files and reports were spread out everywhere. In the center was the timetable she’d made up.

A harsh snoring came from the other room. Loren had lived alone in this same crappy apartment for more than a decade now. They called them “garden” apartments, though the only thing that seemed to grow was a monotonous red brick. They were sturdy structures with the personality of prison cells, way stations for people on the way up or on the way down, or, for a very few, stuck in a sort of personal-life purgatory.

The snoring did not come from a boyfriend. Loren had one—a total loser named Pete—but her mother, the multimarried, once-desirable, now-flabby Carmen Valos Muse Brewster Whatever was between men and thus living with her. Her snoring had the phlegm of a lifelong smoker, mixed with a few too many years of cheap wine and tacky song.

Cracker crumbs dominated the counter. An open jar of peanut butter, the knife sticking out like Excalibur, stood in the middle like a watchtower. Loren studied the phone logs, the credit card charges, the E-ZPass reports. They painted an interesting picture.

Okay, Loren thought, let’s map this out.

- 1:56 A.M.: Aimee Biel uses the 52nd Street Citibank ATM machine—the same one used by Katie Rochester three months ago. Weird.

- 2:16 A.M.: Aimee Biel places a call to the Livingston residence of Myron Bolitar. The call lasts only seconds.

- 2:17 A.M.: Aimee places a call to a mobile phone registered to Myron Bolitar. The call lasts three minutes.

Loren nodded to herself. It seemed logical that Aimee Biel had first tried Bolitar’s home and when he didn’t answer—that would explain the brevity of the first call—she called his mobile.

Back to it:

- 2:21 A.M.: Myron Bolitar calls Aimee Biel. This call lasts one minute.

From what they’d been able to dig up, Bolitar often stayed in New York City at the Dakota apartment of a friend named Windsor Horne Lockwood III. Lockwood was known to police; despite a ritzy, Main Line upbringing, he was a suspect in several assaults and, yes, even a couple of homicides. The man had the craziest reputation Loren had ever seen. But again, that did not seem relevant to the case at hand.

The point here was, Bolitar was probably staying at Lockwood’s apartment in Manhattan. He kept his car in a nearby lot. According to the night attendant, Bolitar had taken the car out sometime around 2:30 A.M.

They had no proof yet, but Loren was fairly sure Bolitar had gone to midtown and picked up Aimee Biel. They were working on getting surveillance videos from the nearby businesses. Maybe Bolitar’s car would be on one. But for now, it seemed like a fairly likely conclusion.

More from the time line:

- 3:11 A.M.: There was a credit card charge on Bolitar’s Visa account from an Exxon gas station on Route 4 in Fort Lee, New Jersey, right off the George Washington Bridge.

- 3:55 A.M.: the E-ZPass on Bolitar’s car showed him heading south on the Garden State Parkway, crossing the Bergen County tolls.

- 4:08 A.M.: the E-ZPass hit the Essex County tolls, showing that Bolitar was still traveling south.

That was it on the tolls. He could have gotten off at Exit 145, which would lead him to his residence in Livingston. Loren drew the route out. It made no sense. You wouldn’t go up over the George Washington Bridge and then down the parkway. And even if you did, it wouldn’t take forty minutes to get to the Bergen toll. It would take at most, that time of night, twenty minutes.

So where had Bolitar gone?

She went back to her time line. There was a gap of more than three hours, but at 7:18 A.M., Myron Bolitar placed a call to Aimee Biel’s cell phone. No answer. He tries twice more that morning. No answer. Yesterday he called the Biels’ home number. That was the only call that lasted more than a few seconds. Loren wondered if he talked to the parents.

She picked up her phone and dialed Lance Banner.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Did you tell Aimee’s parents about Bolitar?”

“Not yet.”

“I think,” Loren said, “that now might be the time.”

Myron had a new morning routine. The first thing he did was grab the newspaper and check for war casualties. He looked at the names. All of them. He made sure that Jeremy Downing wasn’t listed. Then he went back and took the time to read every name again slowly. He read the rank and hometown and age. That was all they put. But Myron imagined that every dead kid listed was another Jeremy, was like that terrific nineteen-year-old kid who lives down your street, because, simple as it sounded, they were. For just a few minutes Myron imagined what that death meant, that this young, hopeful, dream-filled life was gone forever, what the parents must be thinking.

He hoped that our leaders did something similar. But he doubted it.

Myron’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It read SWEET CHEEKS. That was Win’s unlisted number. Myron clicked it on and said hello.

Without preamble, Win said, “Your flight arrives at one p.m.”

“You work for the airlines now?”

“Work for the airlines,” Win repeated. “Good one.”

“So what’s up?”

“Work for the airlines,” Win said again. “Wait, just let me savor that line for a moment. Work for the airlines. Hilarious.”

“You done?”

“Hold on, let me get a pen so I can write that one down. Work. For. The. Airlines.”

Win.

“You done now?”

“Let me try again: Your flight arrives at one p.m. I will meet you at the airport. I have two tickets to the Knicks game. We will sit courtside, probably next to Paris Hilton or Kevin Bacon. Personally, I’m pulling for Kevin.”

“You don’t like the Knicks,” Myron said.

“True.”

“In fact, you don’t like going to basketball games. So why . . . ?” Myron saw it. “Damn.”

Silence.

“Since when do you read the Styles Section, Win?”

“One o’clock. Newark Airport. See you then.”

Click.

Myron hung up the phone and couldn’t help but smile. That Win. What a guy.

He headed into the kitchen. His father was up and making breakfast. He said nothing about Jessica’s upcoming nuptials. Mom, however, jumped from her chair, rushed over to him, gave him a look that suggested a terminal illness, asked if he was all right. He assured her that he was fine.

“I haven’t seen Jessica in seven years,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”

His parents both nodded in a way that suggested that they were humoring him.

A few hours later he took off for the airport. He had tossed and turned, but in the end he really was all right with it. Seven years. They had been over for seven years. And while Jessica had been the one with the upper hand throughout most of their time together, Myron had been the one who’d finally put an end to it.

Jessica was the past. He took out his cell phone and called Ali—the present.

“I’m at Miami airport,” he said.

“How was your trip?”

Hearing Ali’s voice filled him with warmth. “It was good.”

“But?”

“But nothing. I want to see you.”

“How about around two? The kids will be out, I promise.”

“What have you got in mind?” he asked.

“The technical term would be—hold on, let me check my thesaurus—‘a nooner.’ ”

“Ali Wilder, you little vixen.”

“That I am.”

“I can’t make it at two. Win is taking me to see the Knicks.”

“How about immediately following the game?” she asked.

“Man, I hate it when you play hard to get.”

“I’ll take that as yes.”

“Very much so.”

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You sound a little funny.”

“I’m trying to sound very funny.”

“Then don’t try so hard.”

There was an awkward moment. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. But it was too soon. Or maybe, with what he’d learned about Jessica, the timing was wrong. You don’t want to say something like that for the first time for the wrong reason.

So instead he said, “They’re boarding my flight.”

“See you soon, handsome.”

“Wait, if I get there in the evening, will it still be a ‘nooner’? Wouldn’t it be an ‘evening-er’?”

“That would take too long to say. I don’t want to waste any time.”

“And on that note . . .”

“Stay safe, handsome.”

Erik Biel sat alone on the couch while his wife, Claire, chose a chair. Loren noticed that. One would think that a couple in a situation like this would sit next to each other, draw comfort from each other. The body language here suggested that both wanted to be as far away from the other as possible. It could mean a rift in the relationship. Or it could mean that this experience was so raw that even tenderness—especially tenderness—would sting like hell.

Claire Biel had served them tea. Loren really hadn’t wanted any, but she learned that most people relaxed if you allow them to be in control of something, of anything, if you allow them to do something mundane or domestic. So she had accepted. Lance Banner, who remained standing behind her, had declined.

Lance was letting her take the lead. He knew them. That might help for some questioning, but she’d get the ball rolling. Loren took a sip of the tea. She let the silence work them a little—let them be the first to speak. Some might view it as cruel. It wasn’t, if it helped find Aimee. If Aimee were found okay, it would be quickly forgotten. If she weren’t, the discomfort from silence would be nothing compared to what they would then endure.

“Here,” Erik Biel said, “we made a list of her close friends and their phone numbers. We’ve already called all of them. And her boyfriend, Randy Wolf. We spoke to him too.”

Loren took her time looking over the names.

“Have there been any developments?” Erik asked.

Erik Biel was, Loren thought, the poster boy for uptight. The mother, Claire, well, you could see the missing kid etched into her face. She hadn’t slept. She was a mess. But Erik, with his starched dress shirt and tie and recently shaved face, somehow looked more harried. He was trying so hard to keep it together that you just knew that there would be no slow fray here. When it came apart, it would be ugly and maybe permanent.

Loren handed the paper to Lance Banner. She turned and sat up straight. She kept her eyes on Erik’s face as she dropped the bomb: “Do either of you know a man named Myron Bolitar?”

Erik frowned. Loren moved her gaze toward the mother. Claire Biel looked as if Loren had asked if she could lick their toilet.

“He’s a family friend,” Claire Biel said. “I’ve known him since junior high.”

“Did he know your daughter?”

“Of course. But what does—”

“What sort of relationship did they have?”

“Relationship?”

“Yes. Your daughter and Myron Bolitar. What sort of relationship did they have?”

For the first time since they’d entered the house, Claire slowly turned and looked to her husband for guidance. Erik too turned toward his wife. They both wore the faces of someone who’d been smacked in the gut by a two-by-four.

Erik finally spoke. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Biel. I’m asking you a question. How well did your daughter know Myron Bolitar?”

Claire: “Myron is a family friend.”

Erik: “He wrote Aimee a recommendation letter for her college application.”

Claire nodded with vigor. “Right. Like that.”

“Like what?”

They didn’t respond.

Loren kept her voice even. “Do they ever see each other?”

“See each other?”

“Yes. Or talk on the phone. Or maybe e-mail.” Then Loren added: “Without you two present.”

Loren wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Erik Biel’s spine got even straighter. “What the hell are you saying?”

Okay, Loren thought. They didn’t know. This was no act. It was time to shift gears, check their honesty. “When was the last time either of you spoke to Mr. Bolitar?”

“Yesterday,” Claire said.

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. Early afternoon, I think.”

“Did you call him or did he call you?”

“He called here,” Claire said.

Loren glanced at Lance Banner. Score one for the mom. That matched up with the phone records.

“What did he want?”

“To congratulate us.”

“What about?”

“Aimee got accepted to Duke.”

“Anything else?”

“He asked if he could speak to her.”

“To Aimee?”

“Yes. He wanted to congratulate her.”

“What did you say?”

“That she wasn’t home. And then I thanked him for writing the recommendation.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he’d call her back.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Loren let that sit.

Claire Biel said, “You can’t think Myron has anything to do with this.”

Loren just stared at her, letting the silence soak in, giving her a chance to keep talking. She didn’t disappoint.

“You have to know him,” Claire went on. “He’s a good man. I’d trust him with my life.”

Loren nodded and then looked at Erik. “And you, Mr. Biel?”

His eyes were out of focus.

Claire said, “Erik?”

“I saw Myron yesterday,” he said.

Loren sat up. “Where?”

“At the middle school gym.” His voice was a dull ache. “There’s pickup basketball there on Sundays.”

“What time would this have been?”

“Seven thirty. Maybe eight.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

Loren glanced back at Lance. He nodded slowly. He’d caught it too. Bolitar couldn’t have gotten home much before five, six in the morning. A few hours later, he goes off to play basketball with the missing girl’s father?

“Do you play with Mr. Bolitar every Sunday?”

“No. I mean, he used to play a bit. But he hadn’t been there in months.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Erik’s nod was slow.

“Wait a second,” Claire said. “I want to know why you’re asking us so many questions about Myron. What does he have to do with any of this?”

Loren ignored her, keeping her gaze on Erik Biel. “What did you two talk about?”

“Aimee, I guess.”

“What did he say?”

“He tried to be subtle about it.”

Erik explained that Myron Bolitar had approached him and that they started talking about exercising and waking up early and then he segues into asking about Aimee, about where she was, about how troublesome teenagers could often be. “His tone was strange.”

“How so?”

“He wanted to know how she was trouble. I remember he asked if Aimee was sullen, if she spent too much time on the Internet, things like that. I remember thinking it was a little odd.”

“How did he look?”

“Like hell.”

“Tired? Unshaven?”

“Both.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Claire Biel said. “We have a right to know why you’re asking all these questions.”

Loren looked up at her. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you, Mrs. Biel?”

“I am.”

“So help me out here: Where in the law does it say I have to tell you anything?”

Claire opened her mouth, closed it. Unduly harsh, Loren thought, but playing good cop/bad cop—it’s not just for the perps. Witnesses too. She didn’t like it, but it was damn effective.

Loren looked back at Lance. Lance picked up his cue. He coughed into his fist. “We have some information linking Aimee with Myron Bolitar.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of information?”

“The night before last, at two A.M., Aimee called him. First at home. Then on his cell phone. We know Mr. Bolitar then picked up his car from a garage in the city.” Lance continued to explain the time line. Claire’s face drained of color. Erik’s hands tightened into fists.

When Lance finished, when they were still too dazed to ask follow-up questions, Loren leaned forward. “Is there any way that there may have been more between Myron and Aimee than family friends?”

“Absolutely not,” Claire said.

Erik closed his eyes. “Claire . . .”

“What?” she snapped. “You can’t possibly believe that Myron would get involved—”

“She called him right before . . .” He shrugged. “Why would Aimee call him? Why wouldn’t he say something about that when I saw him at the gym?”

“I don’t know, but the idea”—she stopped, snapped her fingers—“wait, Myron’s dating a friend of mine, as a matter of fact. Ali Wilder. An adult woman, thank you very much. A lovely widow with two kids of her own. The idea that Myron could possibly . . .”

Erik squeezed his eyes shut.

Loren said, “Mr. Biel?”

His voice was soft. “Aimee hasn’t been herself lately.”

“How so?”

Erik’s eyes were still shut. “We both dismissed it as normal teenage stuff. But the last few months, she’s been secretive.”

“That is normal, Erik,” Claire said.

“It’s gotten worse.”

Claire shook her head. “You still think of her as your little girl. That’s all it is.”

“You know it’s more than that, Claire.”

“No, Erik, I don’t.”

He closed his eyes again.

“What is it, Mr. Biel?” Loren asked.

“Two weeks ago I tried to access her computer.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to read her e-mail.”

His wife glared at him, but he didn’t see it—or maybe he didn’t care. Loren pushed ahead.

“So what happened?”

“She changed her password. I couldn’t get on.”

“Because she wanted privacy,” Claire said. “You think that’s unusual? I had a diary when I was a kid. I kept it locked with a key and still hid it. So what?”

Erik went on. “I called our Internet provider. I’m the bill payer with the master account. So they gave me the new password. Then I went online to check her e-mails.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “They were gone. All of them. She’d deleted every one of them.”

“She knew you’d snoop,” Claire said. Her tone was a blend of anger and defensiveness. “She was just guarding against it.”

Erik spun toward her. “Do you really believe that, Claire?”

“Do you really believe that she’s having an affair with Myron?”

Erik did not reply.

Claire spun back toward Loren and Lance. “Have you asked Myron about the calls?”

“Not yet.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Claire started for her purse. “Let’s go now. He’ll straighten this out.”

“He’s not in Livingston,” Loren said. “In fact, he flew down to Miami, not long after he played ball with your husband.”

Claire was about to ask something else, but she stopped. For the first time, Loren could see the doubt crawl into her face. Loren decided to use that. She rose.

“We’ll be in touch,” Loren said.

CHAPTER 15

Myron sat on the plane and thought about his old love, Jessica. Shouldn’t he be happy for her?

She had always been fiery to the point of a pain the ass. His mother and Esperanza hadn’t liked her. His father, like a great TV anchor, played it neutral. Win yawned. In Win’s eyes, women were either doable or they weren’t. Jessica was most definitely doable, but after that . . . so what?

The women thought that Myron was blinded by Jessica’s beauty. She could write like a dream. She was two steps beyond passionate. But they were different. Myron wanted to live like his parents. Jessica sneered at that idyllic nonsense. It was a constant tension that both kept them apart and drew them to each other.

Now Jessica was marrying some Wall Street dude named Stone. Big Stone, Myron thought. Rolling Stone. The Stoner. Smokin’ Stone. The Stone Man.

Myron hated him.

What had become of Jessica?

Seven years, Myron. It changes a person.

But that much?

The plane landed. He checked his phone while the plane taxied toward the terminal. There was a text message from Win:

YOUR PLANE JUST LANDED. PLEASE FILL IN YOUR OWN WITTICISM ABOUT MY WORKING FOR THE AIRLINES. I’M WAITING BY THE LOWER LEVEL CURB.

The plane slowed as it approached the gate. The pilot asked everybody to stay in their seats with their belts fastened. Almost everybody ignored that request. You could hear the belts clack open. Why? What did people gain from that extra second? Was it that we just liked to defy rules?

He debated calling Aimee’s cell phone again. That might be overkill. How many calls could he make, after all? The promise had also been pretty clear. He would drive her anywhere. He would not ask questions. He would not tell her parents. It should hardly surprise him that after such a venture, Aimee would not want to talk to him for a few days.

He got off the plane and was starting toward the exit when he heard someone call out, “Myron Bolitar?”

He turned. There were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman had been the one who called his name. She was small, not much over five feet. Myron was six-four. He towered over her. She did not seem intimidated. The man with her sported a military cut. He also looked vaguely familiar.

The man had a badge out. The woman did not.

“I’m Essex County investigator Loren Muse,” she said. “This is Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”

“Banner,” Myron said automatically. “You Buster’s brother?”

Lance Banner almost smiled. “Yeah.”

“Good guy, Buster. I played hoops with him.”

“I remember.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Good, thanks.”

Myron did not know what was going on, but he’d had experience with law enforcement. Out of habit more than anything else, he reached for his cell phone and pressed the button. It was his speed dial. It would reach Win. Win would hit the mute button and listen in. This was an old trick of theirs, one Myron hadn’t employed in years, and yet there he was, with police officers, falling into the old routines.

From his past run-ins with the law, Myron had learned a few basic truisms that could be summed up thusly: Just because you haven’t done anything wrong doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble. Best to play it with that knowledge.

“We’d like you to come with us,” Loren Muse said.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“We won’t take much of your time.”

“I got Knicks tickets.”

“We’ll try not to interfere with your plans.”

“Courtside.” He looked at Lance Banner. “Celebrity row.”

“Are you refusing to come with us?”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No.”

“Then before I agree to go with you, I’d like you to tell me what it’s about.”

Loren Muse did not hesitate this time. “It’s about Aimee Biel.”

Whack. He should have seen it coming, but he didn’t. Myron staggered back a step. “Is she all right?”

“Why don’t you come with us?”

“I asked you—”

“I heard you, Mr. Bolitar.” She turned away from him now and started heading down toward the exit. “Why don’t you come with us so we can discuss this further?”

Lance Banner drove. Loren Muse rode shotgun. Myron sat in the backseat.

“Is she okay?” Myron asked.

They would not reply. He was being played, Myron knew that, but he didn’t much care. He wanted to know about Aimee. The rest was irrelevant.

“Talk to me, for crying out loud.”

Nothing.

“I saw her Saturday night. You know that already, right?”

They did not respond. He knew why. The ride was mercifully short. That explained their silence. They wanted his admissions on record. It was probably taking all of their willpower not to say anything, but soon they would have him in an interrogation room and put it all on tape.

They drove into the garage and led him to an elevator. They got off on the eighth floor. They were in Newark, the county courthouse. Myron had been here before. They brought him into an interrogation room. There was no mirror and thus no one-way glass. That meant a camera was doing the surveillance.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

Loren Muse tilted her head. “What makes you say that?”

“Don’t play these games with me, Muse.”

“Please have a seat.”

“Have you done any checking on me yet? Call Jake Courter, the sheriff in Reston. He’ll vouch for me. There are others.”

“We’ll get to that in a moment.”

“What happened to Aimee Biel?”

“You mind if we film this?” Loren Muse asked.

“No.”

“Do you mind signing a waiver?”

It was a Fifth Amendment waiver. Myron knew better than to sign it—he was a lawyer, for Chrissake—but he pushed past that. His heart hammered in his chest. Something had happened to Aimee Biel. They must think he either knew something or was involved. The faster this moved along and they eliminated him, the better for Aimee.

“Okay,” Myron said. “Now what happened to Aimee?”

Loren Muse spread her hands. “Who said anything happened to her?”

“You did, Muse. When you braced me at the airport. You said, ‘It’s about Aimee Biel.’ And because, while I don’t like to brag, I have amazing powers of deductions, I deduced that two police officers didn’t stop me and say it was about Aimee Biel because she sometimes pops her gum in class. No, I deduced that something must have happened to her. Please don’t shun me because I have this gift.”

“You finished?”

He was. He got nervous, he started talking.

Loren Muse took out a pen. There was already a notebook on her desk. Lance Banner stood and remained silent. “When was the last time you saw Aimee Biel?”

He knew better than to ask what happened again. Muse was going to play it her way.

“Saturday night.”

“What time?”

“I guess between two and three a.m.”

“So this would have been Sunday morning rather than Saturday night?”

Myron bit back the sarcastic rejoinder. “Yes.”

“I see. Where did you last see her?”

“In Ridgewood, New Jersey.”

She wrote that down on a legal pad. “Address?”

“I don’t know.”

Her pen stopped. “You don’t know?”

“That’s right. It was late. She gave me directions. I just followed them.”

“I see.” She sat back and dropped the pen. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

The door behind them flew open. All heads spun to the door. Hester Crimstein stomped in as though the very room had whispered an insult and she wanted to call it out. For a moment no one moved or said anything.

Hester waited a beat, spread her arms, put her right foot forward, and shouted, “Ta-da!”

Loren Muse raised an eyebrow. “Hester Crimstein?”

“We know each other, sweetie?”

“I recognize you from TV.”

“I’ll be happy to sign autographs later. Right now I want the camera off and I want you two”—Hester pointed at Lance Banner and Loren Muse—“out of here, so I can chat with my client.”

Loren stood. They were eye-to-eye, both about the same height. Hester had the frizzy hair. Loren tried to stare her down. Myron almost laughed. Some would call famed criminal attorney Hester Crimstein as mean as a snake, but most would consider that slanderous to the snake.

“Wait,” Hester said to Loren. “Wait for it. . . .”

“Excuse me?”

“Any second now, I’m going to pee in my pants. From fear, I mean. Just wait. . . .”

Myron said, “Hester . . .”

“Shh, you.” Hester shot him a glare and made a tsk-tsk noise. “Signing a waiver and talking without your lawyer. What kind of dope are you?”

“You’re not my lawyer.”

“Shh again, you.”

“I’m representing myself.”

“You know the expression ‘A man who represents himself has a fool for a client’? Change ‘fool’ to ‘total brain-dead numbskull.’ ”

Myron wondered how Hester had gotten there so quickly, but the answer was obvious. Win. As soon as Myron had hit his cell phone, as soon as Win heard the voices of the cops, he would have found Hester and gotten her there.

Hester Crimstein was one of the country’s top defense attorneys. She had her own cable show called Crimstein on Crime. They’d become friends when Hester had helped Esperanza with a murder rap a few years back.

“Hold up.” Hester looked back at Loren and Lance. “Why are you two still here?”

Lance Banner took a big step forward. “He just said you’re not his lawyer.”

“Your name again, handsome?”

“Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”

“Lance,” she said. “Like in what I use to get rid of a boil? Okay, Lance, here’s some advice: The step forward was a nice move, very commanding, but you need to stick out your chest more. Make your voice a little deeper and add a scowl. Like this: ‘Yo, chickie, he just said you’re not his lawyer.’ Try it.”

Myron knew that Hester wouldn’t simply go away. He also knew that he probably didn’t want her to. He wanted to cooperate, of course, get this over with, but he also wanted to know what the hell had happened to Aimee.

“She’s my lawyer,” Myron said. “Please give us a minute.”

Hester gave them a satisfied smirk that you know they both wanted to slap off her face. They turned for the doors. Hester gave them a five-finger toodle-oo wave. When they were both out the door, she closed it and looked up at the camera. “Turn it off now.”

“It probably is,” Myron said.

“Yeah, sure. Cops never play games with that.”

She took out her cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” he asked.

“Do you know why they have you in here?”

“It has something to do with a girl named Aimee Biel,” Myron said.

“That much I know already. But you don’t know what happened to her?”

“No.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I got my local investigator working on it. She’s the best, knows everybody in this office.” Hester put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, Hester here. What’s up? Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Hester listened without taking notes. A minute later, she said, “Thanks, Cingle. Keep digging and see what they got.”

Hester hung up. Myron shrugged a well? at her.

“This girl—her last name is Biel.”

“Aimee Biel,” Myron said. “What about her?”

“She’s missing.”

Myron felt the thump again.

“It seems she never came home on Saturday night. She was supposed to sleep at a friend’s house. She never arrived. Nobody knows what happened to her. Apparently there are phone records linking you to the girl. Other stuff too. My investigator is trying to find out what exactly.”

Hester sat down. She looked across the table at him. “So okay, bubbe, tell Aunt Hester everything.”

“No,” Myron said.

“What?”

“Look, you have two choices here. You can stay while I talk to them right now or I can fire you.”

“You should talk to me first.”

“We can’t waste the time. You have to let me tell them everything.”

“Because you’re innocent?”

“Of course I’m innocent.”

“And the police never ever ever arrest the wrong man.”

“I’ll risk it. If Aimee is in trouble, I can’t have them wasting time on me.”

“I disagree.”

“Then you’re fired.”

“Don’t get all Trump on me. I’m advising you, that’s all. You’re the client.”

She rose, opened the door, called them back in. Loren Muse moved past her and sat back down. Lance took his post in the corner. Muse was red-faced, probably upset with herself for not questioning him in the car before Hester’s arrival.

Loren Muse was about to say something, but Myron stopped her by raising his palm.

“Let’s get to it,” Myron said to them. “Aimee Biel is missing. I know that now. You’ve probably pulled our phone logs, so you know she called me around two in the morning. I’m not sure what else you have so far, so let me help you out. She asked for a ride. I picked her up.”

“Where?” Loren asked.

“Midtown Manhattan. Fifty-second and Fifth, I think. I took the Henry Hudson to the GWB. Do you have the credit card charge for the gas station?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know we stopped there. We continued down Route 4 to Route 17 and then to Ridgewood.” Myron saw a change in their posture. He had missed something, but he pressed on. “I dropped her off at a house on the end of a cul-de-sac. Then I drove home.”

“And you don’t remember the address, is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Anything else?”

“Like?”

“Like why did Aimee Biel call you in the first place?”

“I’m a friend of the family.”

“You must be a close friend.”

“I am.”

“So why you? I mean, first she called your house in Livingston. Then she went to your cell phone. Why did she call you and not her parents or an aunt or an uncle or even a school friend?” Loren lifted her palms to the sky. “Why you?”

Myron’s voice was soft. “I made her promise.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

He explained about the basement, about hearing the girls talk about driving with a drunk kid, about making them promise—and as he did, he could see their faces change. Even Hester’s. The words, the rationale, rang hollow in his own ears now, and yet he couldn’t put his finger on why. His explanation went on a little too long. He could hear the defensiveness in his voice.

When he was done, Loren asked, “Have you ever made this promise before?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“No other helpless or inebriated girls you volunteered to chauffeur around?”

“Hey!” Hester wouldn’t let that pass. “That’s a total mischaracterization of what he said. And the question was already asked and answered. Move on.”

Loren shifted in her seat. “How about young boys? You ever make any boys promise to call you?”

“No.”

“So just girls?”

“Just these two girls,” Myron said. “It wasn’t like I planned it.”

“I see.” Loren rubbed her chin. “How about Katie Rochester?”

Hester said, “Who’s that?”

Myron ignored that. “What about her?”

“Did you ever make Katie Rochester promise to call you when she was drunk?”

“Again that’s a total mischaracterization of what he said,” Hester jumped in. “He was trying to prevent them from drinking and driving.”

“Right, sure, he’s a hero,” Loren said. “Ever do anything like that with Katie Rochester?”

“I don’t even know Katie Rochester,” Myron said.

“But you’ve heard the name.”

“Yes.”

“In what context?”

“On the news. So what’s the deal, Muse—I’m a suspect in every missing persons case?”

Loren smiled. “Not every.”

Hester leaned toward Myron and whispered in his ear. “I don’t like this, Myron.”

Neither did he.

Loren continued: “So you’ve never met Katie Rochester?”

He couldn’t help his lawyer training. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Not to your knowledge. Then whose knowledge would it be?”

“Objection.”

“You know what I mean,” Myron said.

“How about her father, Dominick Rochester?”

“No.”

“Or her mother, Joan? Ever meet her?”

“No.”

“No,” Loren repeated, “or not to your knowledge?”

“I meet lots of people. I don’t remember them all. But the names ring no bells.”

Loren Muse looked down at the table. “You said you dropped Aimee off in Ridgewood?”

“Yes. At her friend Stacy’s.”

“At her friend’s?” That got Loren’s attention. “You didn’t mention that before.”

“I’m mentioning it now.”

“What’s Stacy’s last name?”

“Aimee didn’t say.”

“I see. Did you meet this Stacy?”

“No.”

“Did you walk Aimee to the front door?”

“No, I stayed in the car.”

Loren Muse faked a puzzled look. “Your promise to protect her didn’t extend from the car to the front door?”

“Aimee asked me to stay in the car.”

“Who opened the door to the house then?”

“Nobody.”

“Aimee just let herself in?”

“She said that Stacy was probably asleep and that she always lets herself in the back door.”

“I see.” Loren rose. “Let’s go then.”

“Where are you taking him?” Hester asked.

“To Ridgewood. Let’s see if we can find this cul-de-sac.”

Myron stood with her. “Can’t you just find Stacy’s address from Aimee’s parents?”

“We already know Stacy’s address,” Loren said. “The problem is, Stacy doesn’t live in Ridgewood. She lives in Livingston.”

CHAPTER 16

When Myron headed out of the interrogation room, he spotted Claire and Erik Biel in an office down the corridor. Even from the distance and through the reflection in the plate glass window, Myron could see the strain. He stopped.

“What’s the problem?” Loren Muse asked.

He gestured with his chin. “I want to talk to them.”

“And say what exactly?”

He hesitated.

“Do you want to waste time explaining yourself,” Loren Muse asked, “or do you want to help us find Aimee?”

She had a point. What would he say right now anyway? “I didn’t harm your daughter? I just drove her to some house in Ridgewood because I didn’t want her to drive with a drunk kid”? What good would that do?

Hester kissed him good-bye. “Keep your trap shut.”

He looked at her.

“Fine, whatever. Just call me if they arrest you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Myron took the elevator to the garage with Lance Banner and Loren Muse. Banner took one car and started out. Myron looked a question at Loren.

“He’s going ahead to get a local to accompany us.”

“Oh.”

Loren Muse moved over to a squad car, complete with the perp cage in the back. She opened the back door for Myron. He sighed and slid in. She took the driver’s seat. There was a laptop attached to the console. She started typing into it.

“So what now?” Myron asked.

“Can I have your mobile phone?”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

He handed it to her. She scanned through the call log and then dropped it on the front passenger’s seat.

“When exactly did you call Hester Crimstein?” she asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Then how—”

“Long story.”

Win would not want his name mentioned.

“It doesn’t look good,” she said. “Calling a lawyer so quickly.”

“I don’t much care how it looks.”

“No, I guess you don’t.”

“So what’s next?”

“We drive to Ridgewood. We try to figure out where you purportedly dropped off Aimee Biel.”

They started moving.

“I know you from somewhere,” Myron said.

“I grew up in Livingston. When I was a kid, I went to some of your high school basketball games.”

“That’s not it,” he said. He sat up. “Wait, did you handle that Hunter case?”

“I was”—she paused—“involved.”

“That’s it. The Matt Hunter case.”

“You know him?”

“I went to school with his brother Bernie. I was at his funeral.” He sat back. “So what’s next? Are you getting a warrant for my house, my car, what?”

“Both.” She checked her watch. “They’re being served now.”

“You’ll probably find evidence that Aimee was in both. I told you about the party, about being in my basement. And I told you I drove her the night before.”

“All very neat and convenient, yes.”

Myron closed his eyes. “Are you going to take my computer too?”

“Of course.”

“I have a lot of private correspondences on it. Client information.”

“They’ll be careful.”

“No, they won’t. Do me a favor, Muse. Inspect the computer yourself, okay?”

“You trust me? I’m almost flattered.”

“Okay, look, cards on the table,” Myron said. “I know I’m a good suspect.”

“Really? Why? Because you were the last person who saw her? Because you’re a single ex-jock who lives alone in his childhood home and picks up teenage girls at two in the morning?” She shrugged. “Why would you be a suspect?”

“I didn’t do it, Muse.”

She kept her eyes focused on the road.

“What is it?” Myron asked.

“Tell me about the gas station.”

“The . . .” And then he saw it. “Oh.”

“Oh what?”

“What do you have—a surveillance video or the attendant’s testimony?”

She said nothing.

“Aimee got mad at me because she thought I’d tell her parents.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Because I kept asking her questions—where she’d been, who she’d been with, what happened.”

“And you’d promised to take her wherever she wanted, no questions asked.”

“Right.”

“So why were you reneging?”

“I wasn’t reneging.”

“But?”

“She didn’t look right.”

“How’s that?”

“She wasn’t in a part of the city where kids would go to drink at that hour. She didn’t look drunk. I didn’t smell booze on her. She looked more upset than anything else. So I thought I’d try to find out why.”

“And she didn’t like that?”

“Right. So at the gas station, Aimee jumped out of the car. She wouldn’t get back in until I promised I wouldn’t ask any more questions or tell her parents. She said”—Myron frowned, hating to betray this sort of confidence—“she said that there were problems at home.”

“With Mom and Dad?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“That that was normal.”

“Man,” Loren said, “you are good. What other nuggets did you offer? ‘Time heals all wounds’?”

“Give me a break, Muse, will you?”

“You’re still my prime suspect, Myron.”

“No, I’m not.”

She lowered her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not this stupid. Neither am I.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve known about me since last night. So you made some calls. Who did you talk to?”

“You mentioned Jake Courter earlier.”

“You know him?”

Loren Muse nodded.

“And what did Sheriff Courter say about me?”

“That in the tri-state area, you’ve caused more ass discomfort than hemorrhoids.”

“But that I didn’t do it, right?”

She said nothing.

“Come on, Muse. You know I couldn’t be this stupid. Phone records, credit card charges, E-ZPass, an eyewitness at the gas station . . . it’s overkill. Plus you know my story will pan out. The phone records show that Aimee called me first. That fits in with what I’m telling you.”

They drove in silence for a while. The car radio buzzed. Loren picked it up. Lance Banner said, “I got a local with me. We’re good to go.”

“I’m almost there,” she said. Then to Myron: “What exit did you take—Ridgewood Avenue or Linwood?”

“Linwood.”

She repeated it into the microphone. She pointed at the green sign through the windshield. “Linwood Avenue West or East?”

“Whichever one says Ridgewood.”

“That would be west.”

He sat back. She took the ramp. “Do you remember how far away from here?”

“I’m not sure. We drove straight for a while. Then we started making a lot of turns. I don’t remember.”

Loren frowned. “You don’t hit me as the forgetful type, Myron.”

“Then I got you fooled.”

“Where were you before she called?”

“At a wedding.”

“Drink much?”

“More than I should have.”

“Were you drunk when she called?”

“I probably would have passed a Breathalyzer.”

“But you were, shall we say, feeling it?”

“Yes.”

“Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Like an Alanis Morissette song,” he said. “I have a question for you.”

“I’m not really into answering your questions, Myron.”

“You asked me if I knew Katie Rochester. Was that just routine—two missing girls—or do you have a reason to believe that their disappearances are related?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I just need to know—”

“Squat. You need to know squat. Now walk me through it again. Everything. What Aimee said, what you said, the phone calls, the drop-off, everything.”

He did. On the corner of Linwood Avenue, Myron noticed a Ridgewood police car slide in behind them. Lance Banner sat in the passenger seat.

“They coming along for jurisdiction?” Myron asked.

“More like protocol. Do you remember where you drove from here?”

“I think we turned right by that big pool.”

“Okay. I have a map up on the computer. We’ll try to find the cul-de-sacs and see what happens.”

Myron’s hometown of Livingston was nouveau and Jewish-y, former farmland converted into look-alike clusters of split-levels, with one big mall. Ridgewood was old Victorians and WASPy, lusher landscapes, and a true town center with restaurants and shops. The houses in Ridgewood were built in a variety of eras. Trees lined both sides of the streets, age tilting them toward the center to form a protective canopy. There was less sameness here.

Was this street familiar?

Myron frowned. He couldn’t say. Not much sameness during the day, but at night, it all looked woodsy. Loren headed down a cul-de-sac. Myron shook his head. Then another and another. The roads twisted seemingly without reason or plan, like something in an abstract painting.

More dead ends.

“You said before that Aimee didn’t seem drunk,” Loren said.

“That’s right.”

“How did she seem?”

“Distraught.” He sat up. “I was thinking that maybe she’d broken up with her boyfriend. I think his name is Randy. Have you talked to him yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I need to explain myself to you?”

“It’s not that, but a girl vanishes, you investigate—”

“There wasn’t an investigation. She’s of age, no signs of violence, missing only a few hours . . .”

“Enter me.”

“Exactly. Claire and Erik called her friends, of course. Randy Wolf, the boyfriend, wasn’t supposed to see her last night. He stayed home with his parents.”

Myron frowned. Loren Muse spotted it in the rearview mirror. “What?” she asked.

“Saturday night at the end of his senior year,” he said, “and Randy stays home with his mommy and daddy?”

“Do me a favor, Bolitar. Just look for the house, will you?”

As soon as she made the turn, Myron felt the pang of déjà vu. “On the right. At the end of the cul-de-sac.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Then: “Yeah. Yeah, this is it.”

She pulled up to it and parked. The Ridgewood police car parked behind them. Myron looked out the window. “Move up a few yards.”

Loren did as he asked. Myron kept his eyes on the house.

“Well?”

He nodded. “This is it. She opened that gate on the side of the house.” He almost added That was the last time I saw her, but he held back.

“Wait in the car.”

She got out. Myron watched. She headed over and talked to Banner and a cop with Ridgewood police logos on his uniform. They chatted and gestured toward the house. Then Loren Muse started up the walk. She rang the doorbell. A woman answered it. Myron couldn’t see her at first. Then she stepped outside. Nope, not familiar. She was slim. Her blond hair peeked out from a baseball cap. She looked like she’d just finished a workout.

The two women talked for a full ten minutes. Loren kept glancing back at Myron as if she feared he’d try to escape. Another minute or two passed. Loren and the woman shook hands. The woman went back inside and closed the door. Loren walked back to the car and opened the back door.

“Show me where Aimee walked.”

“What did she say?”

“What do you think she said?”

“That she never heard of Aimee Biel.”

Loren Muse touched her index finger to her nose and then pointed at him.

“This is the place,” Myron said. “I’m sure of it.”

Myron traced her path. He stopped at the gate. He remembered how Aimee had stood here. He remembered her wave, that there was something there, something that bugged him.

“I should have . . .” He stopped. No point. “She went in here. She disappeared from sight. Then she came back and waved that I should leave.”

“And you did?”

“Yes.”

Loren Muse looked in the backyard before she walked him back to another squad car. “They’ll drive you home.”

“Can I have my cell phone?”

She tossed it to him. Myron got into the back of the car. Banner started it up. Myron took hold of the door handle.

“Muse?”

“What?”

“There was a reason she picked this house,” Myron said.

He closed the door. They drove off in silence. Myron watched that gate, watched it grow smaller until finally it, like Aimee Biel, was gone.

CHAPTER 17

Dominick Rochester, the father of Katie, sat at the head of the dining room table. His three boys were there too. His wife, Joan, was in the kitchen. That left two empty chairs—hers and Katie’s. He chewed his meat and stared at the chair, as if willing Katie to appear.

Joan came out of the kitchen. She had a platter of sliced roast beef. He gestured toward his near-empty plate, but she was already on it. Dominick Rochester’s wife stayed home and took care of the house. None of that working-woman crap. Dominick wouldn’t have it.

He grunted a thank-you. Joan returned to her seat. The boys were all chowing down in silence. Joan smoothed her skirt and picked up her fork. Dominick watched her. She used to be so damned beautiful. Now she was glassy-eyed and meek. She hunched over in a permanent cower. She drank too much during the day, although she thought he didn’t know. No matter. She was still the mother of his children and kept in line. So he let it slide.

The phone rang. Joan Rochester leaped to her feet, but Dominick signaled her to sit with a wave of his hand. He wiped his face as though it were a windshield and rose from his seat. Dominick was a thick man. Not fat. Thick. Thick neck, thick shoulders, thick chest, thick arms and thighs.

The last name Rochester—he hated that. His father had changed it because he wanted to sound less ethnic. But his old man was a weakling and a loser. Dominick thought about changing it back, but that would look weak too. Like maybe he worried too much about what other people would think. In Dominick’s world, you never showed weakness. They had walked all over his father. Made him shut down his barbershop. Poked fun at him. His father thought he could rise above it. Dominick knew better.

You bust heads or you get your head busted. You don’t ask questions. You don’t reason with them—at least, not at first. At first, you bust heads. You bust heads and take licks until they respect you. Then you reason with them. You show them you’re willing to take a hit. You let them see you’re not afraid of blood, not even your own. You want to win, you smile right through your blood. That gets their attention.

The phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. The number was blocked, but most people who called here didn’t like people to know their business. He was still chewing when he lifted the receiver.

The voice on the other end said, “I have something for you.”

It was his contact at the county prosecutor’s office. He swallowed the meat. “Go ahead.”

“There’s another missing girl.”

That got his attention.

“She’s from Livingston too. Same age, same class.”

“Name?”

“Aimee Biel.”

The name didn’t mean anything to him, but he really didn’t know Katie’s friends very well. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Any of you know a girl named Aimee Biel?”

No one said anything.

“Hey, I asked a question here. She’d be Katie’s year.”

The boys shook their heads. Joan didn’t move. His eyes met hers. She shook her head slowly.

“There’s more,” his contact said.

“Like what?”

“They found a link to your daughter.”

“What kind of link?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been eavesdropping. But I think it has something to do with where they both went missing. Do you know a guy named Myron Bolitar?”

“The old basketball star?”

“Yeah.”

Rochester had seen him a few times. He also knew that Bolitar had had run-ins with some of Rochester’s nastier colleagues.

“What about him?”

“He’s involved.”

“How?”

“He picked up the missing girl in midtown Manhattan. That’s the last time she was seen. She used the same ATM as your Katie.”

He felt a jolt. “He what?”

Dominick’s contact explained a bit more, about how this Bolitar guy had driven Aimee Biel back over to Jersey, how a gas station attendant saw them arguing, and how she just disappeared.

“The police talk to him?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t think very much. He lawyered up.”

“He . . .” Dominick felt a red swirl build in his head. “Son of a bitch. Did they arrest him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not enough yet.”

“So, what, they just let him walk?”

“Yeah.”

Dominick Rochester didn’t say anything. He got very quiet. His family noticed. They all went very still, afraid to move. When he finally spoke again, his voice was so calm, his family held their breaths.

“Anything else?”

“That’s it for now.”

“Keep digging.”

Dominick hung up the phone. He turned toward the table. His whole family was watching him.

Joan said, “Dom?”

“It was nothing.”

He felt no need to explain. This didn’t involve them. It was his job to handle stuff like this. The father was the soldier, the one who kept vigil so that his family could sleep untroubled.

He headed to the garage. Once inside, he closed his eyes and tried to smother the rage. It wouldn’t happen.

Katie . . .

He eyed the metal baseball bat. He remembered reading about Bolitar’s injured knee. If he thought that hurt, if he thought a mere knee injury was pain . . .

He made some calls, did a little background. In the past, Bolitar had gotten in trouble with the Ache brothers, who ran New York. Bolitar was supposedly a tough guy, good with his fists, who hung out with a psycho named Windsor Something.

Taking on Bolitar would not be easy.

But it wouldn’t be all that difficult either. Not if Dominick got the best.

His cell phone was a throwaway, the kind you can buy in cash with a false name and toss away after you use up your minutes. No way to trace it back to him. He grabbed a fresh one off the shelf. For a moment he just held it and debated his next move. His breathing was labored.

Dominick had busted his share of heads in his day, but if he dialed this number, if he did indeed call the Twins, he was crossing a line he’d never gone near before.

He thought about his daughter’s smile. He thought about how she had to wear braces when she was twelve and how she wore her hair and the way she used to look at him, a long time ago, when she was a little girl and he was the most powerful man in the world.

Dominick pressed the digits. After this call, he would have to get rid of the phone. That was one of the Twins’ rules, and when it came to those two, it didn’t matter who you were, didn’t matter how tough or how hard you’d scraped to buy this fancy house in Livingston, you don’t mess around with the Twins.

The phone was answered on the second ring. No hello. No greeting at all. Just silence.

Dominick said, “I’m going to need both of you.”

“When?”

Dominick picked up the metal bat. He liked the weight of it. He thought about this Bolitar guy, this guy who drove off with a missing girl and then lawyered up, who was free now and probably watching TV or enjoying a nice meal.

No way you let that slide. Even if you gotta bring in the Twins.

“Now,” Dominick Rochester said. “I need you both now.”

CHAPTER 18

When Myron arrived back at his house in Livingston, Win was already there.

Win was sprawled out in a chaise lounge on the front lawn. His legs were crossed. He wore khakis sans socks, a blue shirt, a Lilly Pulitzer tie of dizzying green. Some people could wear anything and make it work. Win was one of those people.

He had his face tilted to the sun, eyes closed. He did not open them as Myron approached.

“Do you still want to go to the Knicks game?” Win asked.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“You mind if I take someone else then?”

“No.”

“I met a girl at Scores last night.”

“She’s a stripper?”

“Please.” Win held up a finger. “She’s an erotic dancer.”

“Career woman. Nice.”

“Her name is Bambi, I think. Or maybe Tawny.”

“Is that her real name?”

“Nothing about her is real,” Win said. “By the way, the police were here.”

“Searching the place?”

“Yes.”

“They take my computer?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Fret not. I arrived before them and backed up your personal files. Then I erased the hard drive.”

“You,” Myron said. “You’re good.”

“The best,” Win said.

“Where did you back it up?”

“USB hard drive on my key chain,” he said, dangling it, his eyes still closed. “Kindly move to the right a little. You’re blocking my sun.”

“Has Hester’s investigator learned anything new?”

“There was an ATM charge on young Ms. Biel’s card,” Win said.

“Aimee took out cash?’

“No, a library book. Yes, cash. Apparently, Aimee Biel picked up a thousand dollars at an ATM machine a few minutes before she called you.”

“Anything else?”

“Like?”

“They’re linking this to another disappearance. A girl named Katie Rochester.”

“Two girls disappearing from the same area. Of course they’re going to link them.”

Myron frowned. “I think there’s something else.”

Win opened one eye. “Trouble.”

“What?”

Win said nothing, just kept staring. Myron turned and followed his gaze and felt his stomach drop.

It was Erik and Claire.

For a moment no one moved.

Win said, “You’re blocking my sun again.”

Myron saw Erik’s face. There was rage there. Myron started toward them, but something made him stop. Claire put her hand on her husband’s arm. She whispered something in his ear. Erik closed his eyes. She stepped toward Myron, her head high. Erik stayed back.

Claire walked toward Myron’s door. He slid toward her.

Myron said, “You know I didn’t—”

“Inside.” Claire kept walking toward his front door. “I want you to tell me everything when we’re inside.”

Essex County prosecutor Ed Steinberg, Loren’s boss, was waiting for her when she got back to the office.

“Well?”

She filled him in. Steinberg was a big man, soft in the middle, but he had that wanna-squeeze-him, teddy-bear thing going on. Of course he was married. It had been so long since Loren had met a desirable man who wasn’t.

When she finished, Steinberg said, “I did a little more checking up on Bolitar. Did you know he and his friend Win used to do some work with the feds?”

“There were rumors,” she said.

“I spoke to Joan Thurston.” Thurston was the U.S. Attorney for the State of New Jersey. “A lot of it is hush-hush, I guess, but in sum, everyone thinks Win is several fries short of a Happy Meal—but that Bolitar is pretty straight.”

“That’s the vibe I got too,” Loren said.

“You believe his story?”

“Overall, yeah, I guess I do. It’s just too crazy. Plus, as he sort of pointed out himself, would a guy with his experience be dumb enough to leave so many clues behind?”

“You think he’s being framed?”

Loren made a face. “That doesn’t jibe much either. Aimee Biel called him herself. She’d have to be in on it, I guess.”

Steinberg folded his hands on his desk. His sleeves were rolled up. His forearms were big and covered with enough hair to count as fur. “Then odds are, what, she’s a runaway?”

“Odds are,” Loren said.

“And the fact that she used the same ATM as Katie Rochester?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Maybe they know each other.”

“Not according to either set of parents.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Steinberg said. “Parents don’t know bupkus about their kids. Trust me here, I had teenage daughters. The moms and dads who claim they know everything about their kids usually know the least.” He shifted in his chair. “Nothing found in the search of Bolitar’s home or car?”

“They’re still going through it,” Loren said. “But what can they find? We know she was in the house and in the car.”

“The locals handled the search?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s let the locals handle the rest of it. We really don’t even have a case yet anyway—the girl is of age, right?”

“Right.”

“Good, then it’s settled. Give it to the locals. I want you concentrating on these homicides in East Orange.”

Steinberg told her more about the case. She listened and tried to focus. This was a biggie, no doubt about it. A double murder. Maybe a major hit man back in the area. It was the kind of case she loved. It would take up all her time. She knew that. And she knew the odds. Aimee Biel had withdrawn cash before she called Myron. That meant that she had probably not been abducted, that she was probably just fine—and that either way, Loren Muse really shouldn’t be involved anymore.

They say worrying and grief makes you age, but with Claire Biel it was almost the opposite. Her skin was drawn tight around her cheekbones—so tight the blood seemed to stop flowing. There were no lines on her face. She was pale and almost skeletal.

Myron flashed back to an ordinary memory. Study hall, senior year. They would sit and talk and he would make her laugh. Claire was normally quiet, often subdued. She spoke with a soft voice. But when he got her going, when he worked in all her favorite routines from stupid movies, Claire would laugh so hard she’d start to cry. Myron wouldn’t stop. He loved her laugh. He loved to see the pure joy when she let go like that.

Claire stared at him. Every once in a while you try to trace your life back to a time like that, when everything was so good. You try to go back and figure out how it started and the path you’d taken and how you ended up here, if there was a moment you could go back to and somehow alter and poof, you wouldn’t be here, you’d be someplace better.

“Tell me,” Claire said.

He did. He started with the party at his house, overhearing Aimee and Erin in the basement, the promise, the late-night phone call. He went through it all. He told her about the stop at the gas station. He even told her about Aimee talking about how things weren’t great with her parents.

Claire’s posture stayed rigid. She said nothing. There was a quake near her lips. Every once in a while she would close her eyes. There would be a slight wince, as if she spotted a coming blow but was unwilling to defend herself from it.

Neither spoke when he finished. Claire did not ask any follow-up questions. She just stood there and looked very frail. Myron took a step toward her, but he could see right away it was the wrong move.

“You know I’d never hurt her,” he said.

She did not reply.

“Claire?”

“Do you remember that time we met up at Little Park by the circle?”

Myron waited a beat. “We met up there a lot, Claire.”

“At the playground. Aimee was three years old. The Good Humor truck came along. You bought her a Toasted Almond Fudge.”

“Which she hated.”

Claire smiled. “You remember?”

“I do.”

“Do you remember what I was like that day?”

He thought about it. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

“Aimee didn’t know her limits. She would try everything. She wanted to go on that high slide. There was a big ladder. She was too young for it. Or at least that’s what I thought. She was my first child. I was so afraid all the time. But I couldn’t stop her. So I let her climb the ladder, but I would stay right behind her, remember? You made a crack about it.”

He nodded.

“Before she was born, I swore I’d never be one of those overprotective parents. Swore it. But Aimee is climbing up this ladder and I’m right behind her, my hands poised behind her butt. Just in case. Just in case she slipped because wherever you are, even someplace as innocent as a playground, all a parent imagines is the worst. I kept picturing her tiny foot missing a step. I kept seeing her fingers slipping off those rails and her little body tipping back and then she’d land on her head wrong and her neck would be at a bad angle . . .”

Her voice faded away.

“So I stayed behind her. And I was ready for anything.”

Claire stopped and stared at him.

“I’d never hurt her,” Myron said.

“I know,” she said softly.

He should have felt relief at that. He didn’t. There was something in her tone, something that kept him on the hook.

“You wouldn’t harm her, I know that.” Her eyes flared up. “But you’re not blameless either.”

He had no idea what to say to that.

“Why aren’t you married?” she asked.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re one of the nicest, sweetest men I know. You love kids. You’re straight. So why aren’t you married yet?”

Myron held back. Claire was in shock, he told himself. Her daughter was missing. She was just lashing out.

“I think it’s because you bring destruction, Myron. Wherever you go, people get hurt. I think that’s why you’ve never been married.”

“You think—what?—that I’m cursed?”

“No, nothing like that. But my little girl is gone.” Her voice was slow now, one weighted word at a time. “You were the last to see her. You promised that you would protect her.”

He just stood there.

“You could have told me,” she said.

“I promised—”

“Don’t,” she said, holding up her hand. “That’s no excuse. Aimee wouldn’t have ever known. You could have pulled me aside and said, ‘Look, I told Aimee that she could call me if she had a problem.’ I’d have understood that. I’d have even liked it, because then I would have still been there for her, like with the ladder. I would have been able to protect her because that’s what a parent does. A parent, Myron, not a family friend.”

He wanted to defend himself, but the arguments wouldn’t come.

“But you didn’t do that,” she went on, her words raining down on him. “Instead you promised that you wouldn’t tell her parents. Then you drove her somewhere and dropped her off, but you didn’t watch out for her like I would have. Do you understand that? You didn’t take care of my baby. And now she’s gone.”

He said nothing.

“What are you going to do about that?” she asked.

“What?”

“I asked you what you’re going to do about it.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.” Suddenly Claire’s eyes seemed focused and clear. “The police are going to do one of two things. I can see it already. They’re backing away. Aimee took money out of an ATM machine before she called you. So they’re either going to dismiss her as a runaway or they’re going to think you were involved. Or both. You helped her run maybe. You’re her boyfriend. Either way, she’s eighteen. They’re not going to look hard. They’re not going to find her. They’ll have other priorities.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find her.”

“I don’t save people. You yourself pointed that out.”

“Then you better start now. My daughter is gone because of you. I hold you accountable.”

Myron shook his head. But she was having none of it.

“You made her promise. Right here in this house. You made her promise. Now you do the same, dammit. Promise me you’ll find my baby. Promise me you’ll bring her home.”

And a moment later—the truly final what-if?—Myron did.

CHAPTER 19

Ali Wilder had finally stopped thinking long enough about Myron’s impending visit to call her editor, a man she generously referred to as Caligula.

“I just don’t get this paragraph, Ali.”

She bit back a sigh. “What about it, Craig?” Craig was the name her editor used when he introduced himself, but Ali was sure his real name was Caligula.

Before 9/11, Ali had a solid job with a major magazine in the city. After Kevin’s death, there was no way she could keep it. Erin and Jack needed her home. She took a sabbatical and then became a freelance journalist, mostly writing for magazines. At first, everyone offered her jobs. She refused them out of what she now saw as stupid pride. She hated getting the “pity” assignments. She felt above it. She now regretted that.

Caligula cleared his throat, making a production about it, and read her paragraph out loud: “The closest town is Pahrump. Picture Pahrump, rhymes with dump, as what’s left on the road if a buzzard ate Las Vegas and spit out the bad parts. Tackiness as art form. A bordello is made to look like a White Castle restaurant, which seems like a bad pun. Signs with giant cowboys compete with signs for fireworks stores, casinos, trailer parks, and beef jerky. All the cheese is American singles.”

After a meaningful pause, Caligula said, “Let’s start with the last line.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You say that the only cheese in the town is American singles?”

“Yes,” Ali said.

“Are you sure?”

“Pardon me?”

“I mean, did you go to the supermarket?”

“No.” Ali started gnawing on a fingernail. “It’s not a statement of fact. I’m trying to give you a feel for the town.”

“By writing untruths?”

Ali knew where this was going. She waited. Caligula did not disappoint.

“How do you know, Ali, they don’t have some other kind of cheese in this town? Did you check all the supermarket shelves? And even if you did, did you consider the fact that maybe someone shops in a neighboring town and brings other cheese into Pahrump? Or that maybe they order by mail service? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Ali closed her eyes.

“We print that, about the American singles being the only cheese in town, and suddenly we get a call from the mayor and he says, ‘Hey, that’s not true. We have tons of varieties here. We have Gouda and Swiss and cheddar and provolone—’ ”

“I get the point, Craig.”

“ ‘And Roquefort and blue and mozzarella—’ ”

“Craig . . .”

“—and heck, what about cream?”

“Cream?”

“Cream cheese, for crying out loud. That’s a kind of cheese, right? Cream cheese. Even a hickville place would have cream cheese. You see?”

“Right, uh-huh.” More gnawing on the nail. “I see.”

“So that line has to go.” She could hear his pen go through it. “Now let’s talk about the line before that, the one about trailer parks and beef jerky.”

Caligula was short. Ali hated short editors. She used to joke about it with Kevin. Kevin had always been her first reader. His job was to tell her that whatever she had scribbled out was brilliant. Ali, like most writers, was insecure. She needed to hear his praise. Any criticism while she wrote paralyzed her. Kevin understood. So he would rave. And when she battled with her editors, especially those short of sight and stature like Caligula, Kevin always took her side.

She wondered if Myron would like her writing.

He had asked to see some of her pieces, but she’d been putting it off. The man had dated Jessica Culver, one of the top novelists in the country. Jessica Culver had been reviewed on the front page of The New York Times Book Review. Her books had been short-listed for every major literary award. And as if that weren’t enough, as if Jessica Culver didn’t have it all over Ali Wilder professionally, the woman was ridiculously gorgeous.

How could Ali possibly stack up against that?

The doorbell rang. She checked her watch. Too early for Myron.

“Craig, can I call you back?

Caligula sighed. “Fine, okay. In the meantime I’ll just tweak this a bit.”

She winced when he said that. There was an old joke about being left on a deserted island with an editor. You are starving. All you have left is a glass of orange juice. Days pass. You are near death. You are about to drink the juice when the editor grabs the glass from your hand and pees into it. You look at him, stunned. “There,” the editor says, handing you the glass. “It just needed a little tweaking.”

The bell rang again. Erin galloped down the stairs and yelled, “I’ll get it.”

Ali hung up. Erin opened the door. Ali saw her go rigid. She hurried her step.

There were two men at the door. They both held police badges.

“May I help you?” Ali said.

“Are you Ali and Erin Wilder?”

Ali’s legs went rubbery. No, this wasn’t a flashback of how she learned about Kevin. But there was still some sort of déjà vu here. She turned to her daughter. Erin’s face was white.

“I’m Livingston police detective Lance Banner. This is Kasselton detective John Greenhall.”

“What’s this about?”

“We’d like to ask you both a few questions, if we might.”

“What about?”

“Can we come in?”

“I’d like to know why you’re here first.”

Banner said. “We’d like to ask a few questions about Myron Bolitar.”

Ali nodded, trying to figure this through. She turned to her daughter. “Erin, head upstairs for a little while and let me talk to the officers, okay?”

“Actually, uh, ma’am?”

It was Banner.

“Yes?”

“The questions we want to ask,” he said, stepping through the door and motioning with his head toward Erin. “They’re for your daughter, not you.”

Myron stood in Aimee’s bedroom.

The Biel house was walking distance from his. Claire and Erik had driven ahead of him. Myron talked to Win a few minutes, asked him if he could help track down whatever the police had on both Katie Rochester and Aimee. Then he followed on foot.

When Myron entered the house, Erik was already gone.

“He’s driving around,” Claire said, leading him down the corridor. “Erik thinks if he goes to where she hangs out, he can find her.”

They stopped in front of Aimee’s door. Claire opened it.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Damned if I know,” Myron said. “Did Aimee know a girl named Katie Rochester?”

“That’s the other missing girl, right?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I asked her about it, you know, when she was on the news?”

“Right.”

“Aimee said she’d seen her around but she didn’t know her. Katie went to middle school at Mount Pleasant. Aimee went to Heritage. You remember how it is.”

He did. By the time they both got to high school, their cliques were solidified.

“Do you want me to call around and ask her friends?”

“That might be helpful.”

Neither of them moved for a moment.

Claire asked, “Should I leave you alone in here?”

“For now, yeah.”

She did. She closed the door behind her. Myron looked around. He had told the truth—he didn’t have a clue what he was looking for here—but he figured that it would be a good first step. This was a teenage girl. She had to keep secrets in her room, right?

It also felt right, being here. From the moment he’d made the promise to Claire, his entire perspective began to shift. His senses felt strangely attuned. It had been a while since he’d done this—investigate—but the memory muscle jumped in and took effect. Being in the girl’s room brought it all back to him. In basketball, you need to get into the zone to do your best. Doing this kind of thing, there was a similar feel. Being here, in the victim’s room, did that. Put him in the zone.

There were two guitars in the room. Myron didn’t know anything about instruments, but one was clearly electric, the other acoustic. There was a poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall. Guitar picks were encased in Lucite blocks. Myron read through them. They were collector’s picks. One belonged to Keith Richards—others to Nils Lofgren, Eric Clapton, Buck Dharma.

Myron almost smiled. The girl had good taste.

The computer was already on, a screen saver of a fish tank rolling by. Myron wasn’t a computer expert, but he knew enough to get started. Claire had given him Aimee’s password and told him about Erik going through the e-mail. He checked it anyway. He brought up AOL and signed on.

Yep, all the e-mail had been deleted.

He hit Windows Explorer and put her files in date order, to see what she had worked on most recently. Aimee had been writing songs. He thought about that, about this creative young woman, about where she was now. He scanned through the most recent word processing documents. Nothing special. He tried checking her downloads. There were some recent photographs. He opened them. Aimee with a bunch of school pals, he guessed. Nothing obviously special about them either, but maybe he’d have Claire take a look.

Teens, he knew, were huge with instant messaging online. From the relative calm of their computers, they had conversations with dozens of people sometimes at the same time. Myron knew plenty of parents who whined about this, but in his day, they’d spent hours tying up the phone gossiping with one another. Was IMing any worse?

He brought up her buddy list. There were at least fifty screen names like SpazaManiacJack11, MSGWatkins, and YoungThangBlaine742. Myron printed them out. He’d let Claire and Erik go through them with one of Aimee’s friends, see if there was a name that didn’t belong, that none of them knew about. It was a long shot, but it would keep them busy.

He let go of the computer mouse and started to search the old-fashioned way. The desk came first. He went through her drawers. Pens, papers, note cards, spare batteries, a smattering of computer software CDs. Nothing personal. There were several receipts from a place called Planet Music. Myron checked the guitars. They had Planet Music stickers on the back.

Big wow.

He moved to the next drawer. More nothing.

In the third drawer, Myron saw something that made him stop. He reached down and gently lifted it into view. He smiled. Protected in a plastic sleeve . . . it was Myron’s rookie basketball card. He stared at his younger self. Myron remembered the photo shoot. He had done several dumb poses—taking a jump shot, pretending to pass, the old-fashioned triple-threat position—but they’d settled for one of him bending down and dribbling. The background was an empty arena. In the picture he wore his green Boston Celtics jersey—one of maybe five times he got to wear it in his entire life. The card company had printed up several thousand before his injury. They were collector’s items now.

It was nice to know Aimee had one, though he wondered what the police might make of it.

He put it back in the drawer. His fingerprints would be on it now, but then again they would be all over the room. Didn’t matter. He pressed on. He wanted to find a diary. That was what you always saw in the movies. The girl writes a diary, and it talks about her secret boyfriend and double life and all that. That worked in fiction. It wasn’t happening for him in reality.

He hit an undergarments drawer. He felt yucky but he persevered. If she was going to hide anything, this could be the place. But there was nothing. Her tastes seemed on the wholesome side for a teenage girl. Tank tops were as bad as it got. Near the bottom, however, he found something particularly racy. He pulled it into view. There was a tag on it from a mall lingerie store called Bedroom Rendezvous. It was white, sheer, and looked like something out of a nurse fantasy. He frowned and wondered what to make of it.

There was a smattering of bobble-head dolls. An iPod with white earbuds was lounged out on the bed. He checked the tunes. She had Aimee Mann on there. He took that as a small victory. He’d given her Aimee Mann’s Lost in Space a few years back, thinking the first name might pique her interest. Now he could see that she had five of Aimee Mann’s CDs. He liked that.

There were photographs stuck onto a mirror. They were all group pictures—Aimee with a slew of girlfriends. There were two of the volleyball team, one in classic team pose, another a celebration shot taken after they’d won the counties. There were several pictures of her high school rock band, Aimee playing lead guitar. He looked at her face while she played. Her smile was heartbreaking, but what girl that age doesn’t have a heartbreaking smile?

He found her yearbook. He started paging through it. Yearbooks had come a long way since he’d graduated. For one thing, they included a DVD. Myron would watch it, he guessed, if he had the time. He looked up Katie Rochester’s entry. He’d seen that photograph before, on the news. He read about her. She’d miss hanging with Betsy and Craig and Saturday nights at the Ritz Diner. Nothing significant. He turned to Aimee Biel’s page. Aimee mentioned a whole bunch of her friends; her favorite teachers, Miss Korty and Mr. D; her volleyball coach, Mr. Grady; and all the girls on the team. She ended with, “Randy, you’ve made the past two years so special. I know we’ll be together always.”

Good ol’ Randy.

He checked out Randy’s entry. He was a good-looking kid with wild, almost Rastafarian curls. He had a soul patch and a big white smile. He talked mostly about sports in his write-up. He mentioned Aimee too, how much she’d “enriched” his time in high school.

Hmm.

Myron thought about that, looked again at the mirror, and for the first time wondered if perhaps he’d stumbled across a clue.

Claire opened the door. “Anything?”

Myron pointed to the mirror. “This.”

“What about it?”

“How often do you come in this room?”

She frowned. “A teenager lives here.”

“Would that mean rarely?”

“Pretty much never.”

“Does she do her own laundry?”

“She’s a teenager, Myron. She does nothing.”

“So who does it?”

“We have a live-in. Her name is Rosa. Why?”

“The photographs,” he said.

“What about them?”

“She has a boyfriend named Randy, right?”

“Randy Wolf. He’s a sweet kid.”

“And they’ve been together awhile?”

“Since sophomore year. Why?”

Again he gestured to the mirror. “There are no pictures of him. I looked all over the room. No photos of him anywhere. That’s why I was asking about when you were last in the room.” He looked back at her. “Did there used to be?”

“Yes.”

He pointed to several blank spots on the bottom of the mirror. “This all looks out of sequence, but I bet she removed the pictures from here.”

“But they just went to the prom together, what, three nights ago.”

Myron shrugged. “Maybe they had a big fight there.”

“You said Aimee looked emotional when you picked her up, right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe they’d just broken up,” Claire said.

“Could be,” Myron said. “Except she hasn’t been home since then, and the photographs on the mirror are gone. That would imply that they broke up at least a day or two before I picked her up. One more thing.”

Claire waited. Myron showed her the lingerie from Bedroom Rendezvous. “Have you seen this before?”

“No. You found it in here?”

Myron nodded. “Bottom of the drawer. It looks unworn. The tag is still on it.”

Claire went quiet.

“What?”

“Erik was telling the police how Aimee’s been acting strangely lately. I fought him on it, but the truth is, she has. She’s grown very secretive.”

“Do you know what else struck me about this room?”

“What?”

“Forgetting this lingerie—which might be relevant and might be nothing—the opposite of what you just said: There is almost nothing secretive in here. I mean, she’s a high school senior. There should be something, right?”

Claire considered that. “Why do you think that is?”

“It’s like she’s working hard to hide something. We need to check other places where she might have kept personal stuff, someplace that you and Erik wouldn’t think to snoop. Like her school locker maybe.”

“Should we do that now?”

“I think it’d be better to talk to Randy first.”

She frowned. “His father.”

“What about him?”

“His name is Jake. Big Jake, everyone calls him. He’s bigger than you. And the wife is a flirt. Last year Big Jake got into a fight at one of Randy’s football games. Beat this poor guy senseless in front of his kids. He’s a total putz.”

“Total?”

“Total.”

“Whew.” Myron pantomimed wiping the sweat off his brow. “A partial putz, I mind. A total putz—that’s my bag.”

CHAPTER 20

Randy Wolf lived in the new Laurel Road section. The brand-new estates of brushed brick had more square footage than Kennedy Airport. There was a faux wrought-iron gate. The gate was open enough for Myron to walk through. The grounds were over-landscaped, the lawn so green it looked like someone had gone overboard with spray paint. There were three SUVs parked in the driveway. Next to them, gleaming from a fresh waxing and seemingly perfect sun placement, sat a little red Corvette. Myron started humming the matching Prince tune. He couldn’t help it.

The familiar whack of a tennis ball drifted in from the backyard. Myron headed toward the sound. There were four lithe ladies playing tennis. They all wore ponytails and tight tennis whites. Myron was a big fan of women in tennis whites. One of the lithe ladies was about to serve when she noticed him. She had great legs, Myron observed. He checked again. Yep, great.

Ogling tan legs probably wasn’t a clue, but why chance it?

Myron waved and gave the woman serving his best smile. She returned it and signaled to the ladies to excuse her for a moment. She jogged toward him. Her dark ponytail bounced. She stopped very close to him. Her breathing was deep. Sweat made the tennis whites cling. It also made them a little see-through—again Myron was just being observant—but she didn’t seem to care.

“Something I can do for you?”

She had one hand on her hip.

“Hi, my name is Myron Bolitar.”

Commandment Four from the Bolitar Book on Smoothness: Wow the ladies with a dazzling first line.

“Your name,” she said. “It rings a bell.”

Her tongue moved around a lot when she talked.

“Are you Mrs. Wolf?”

“Call me Lorraine.”

Lorraine Wolf had that way of speaking where everything sounded like a double entendre.

“I’m looking for your son, Randy.”

“Wrong reply,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“You were supposed to say that I looked too young to be Randy’s mother.”

“Too obvious,” Myron said. “An intelligent woman like you would have seen right through that.”

“Nice recovery.”

“Thanks.”

The other ladies gathered by the net. They had towels draped around their necks and were drinking something green.

“Why are you looking for Randy?” she asked.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Well, yes, I figured that out. But maybe you could tell me what this is about?”

The back door opened with an audible bang. A large man—Myron was six-four, two-fifteen and this guy had at least two inches and thirty pounds on him—stepped out the door.

Big Jake Wolf, Myron deducted, was in da house.

His black hair was slicked back. He had a mean squint going.

“Wait, isn’t that Steven Seagal?” Myron asked, sotto voce.

Lorraine Wolf smothered a giggle.

Big Jake stomped over. He kept glaring at Myron. Myron waited a few seconds, then he winked and gave Big Jake the Stan Laurel, five-finger wave. Big Jake did not look pleased. He marched to Lorraine’s side, put his arm around her, tugged her tight against his hip.

“Hi, honey,” he said, his eyes still on Myron.

“Well, hi, back!” Myron said.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Then why were you looking at me?”

Big Jake frowned and pulled his wife closer. Lorraine cringed a little, but she let him. Myron had seen this act before. Raging insecurity, he suspected. Jake released his glare long enough to kiss his wife’s cheek before retightening his grip. Then he started glaring again, holding his wife firmly against his side.

Myron wondered if Big Jake was going to pee on her to mark his territory.

“Go back to your game, honey. I’ll handle this.”

“We were just finishing anyway.”

“Then why don’t you ladies go inside and have a drink, hmm?”

He let her go. She looked relieved. The ladies walked down the path. Myron again checked their legs. Just in case. The women smiled at him.

“Hey, what are you looking for?” Big Jake snapped.

“Potential clues,” Myron said.

“What?”

Myron turned back to him. “Never mind.”

“So what do you want here?”

“My name is Myron Bolitar.”

“So?”

“Good comeback.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You some kind of comedian?”

“I prefer the term ‘comic actor.’ Comedians are always typecast.”

“What the . . . ?” Big Jake stopped, got his bearings. “You always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Stop by uninvited?”

“It’s the only way people will have me,” Myron said.

Big Jake squinted a little more. He wore tight jeans and a silk shirt that had one too many buttons open. There was a gold chain enmeshed in chest hair. “Stayin’ Alive” wasn’t playing in the background, but it should have been.

“Wild stab in the dark here,” Myron said. “The red Corvette. It’s yours, right?”

He glared some more. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak to your son, Randy.”

“Why?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Biel family.”

That made him blink. “So?”

“Are you aware that their daughter is missing?”

“So?”

“That ‘so’ line. It never gets old, Jake, really. Aimee Biel is missing and I’d like to ask your son about it.”

“He has nothing to do with that. He was home Saturday night.”

“Alone?”

“No. I was with him.”

“How about Lorraine? Was she there too? Or was she out for the evening?”

Big Jake didn’t like Myron using his wife’s first name. “None of your business.”

“Be that as it may, I’d still like to talk to Randy.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want Randy mixed up in this.”

“In what?”

“Hey,” he pointed at Myron, “I don’t like your attitude.”

“You don’t?” Myron gave him the wide game-show-host smile and waited. Big Jake looked confused. “Is this better? Rosier, am I right?”

“Get out.”

“I would say, ‘Who’s going to make me,’ but really, that would be sooo expected.”

Big Jake smiled and stepped right up to Myron. “You wanna know who’s going to make you?”

“Wait, hold on, let me check the script.” Myron mimed flipping pages. “Okay here it is. I say, ‘No, who?’ Then you say, ‘I am.’ ”

“Got that straight.”

“Jake?”

“What?”

“Are any of your children home?” Myron asked.

“Why? What’s that gotta do with anything?”

“Lorraine, well, she already knows you’re a little man,” Myron said, not moving an inch, “but I’d hate to beat your ass in front of your kids.”

Jake’s breathing turned into a snort. He didn’t back up, but he was having trouble holding the eye contact. “Ah, you ain’t worth it.”

Myron rolled his eyes, but he bit back the that’s-the-next-line-in-the-script rejoinder. Maturity.

“Anyway, my son broke up with that slut.”

“By slut, you mean . . . ?”

“Aimee. He dumped her.”

“When?”

“Three, four months ago. He was done with her.”

“They went to the prom together last week.”

“That was for show.”

“For show?”

He shrugged. “I’m not surprised any of this happened.”

“Why do you say that, Jake?”

“Because Aimee was no good. She was a slut.”

Myron felt his blood tick. “And why do you say that?”

“I know her, okay? I know the whole family. My son has a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth in the fall, and I want nothing getting in the way of that. So listen to me, Mr. Basketball. Yeah, I know who you are. You think you’re such hot stuff. Big, tough basketball stud who never made it to the pros. Big-time All-American who crapped out in the end. Who couldn’t hack it once the going got tough.”

Big Jake grinned.

“Wait, is this the part where I break down and cry?” Myron asked.

Big Jake put his finger on Myron’s chest. “You just stay the hell away from my son, you understand me? He has nothing to do with that slut’s disappearance.”

Myron’s hand shot forward. He grabbed Jake by the balls, and squeezed. Jake’s eyes flew open. Myron positioned his body so that nobody could see what he was doing. Then he leaned in so he could whisper in Jake’s ear.

“We’re not going to call Aimee that anymore, are we, Jake? Feel free to nod.”

Big Jake nodded. His face was turning purple. Myron closed his eyes, cursed himself, let go. Jake sucked in a deep breath, staggered back, dropped to one knee. Myron felt like a dope, losing control like that.

“Hey, look, I’m just trying to—”

“Get out,” Jake hissed. “Just . . . just leave me alone.”

And this time, Myron obeyed.

From the front seat of a Buick Skylark, the Twins watched Myron walk down the Wolfs’ driveway.

“There’s our boy.”

“Yep.”

They weren’t really twins. They weren’t even brothers. They didn’t look alike. They did share a birthday, September 24, but Jeb was eight years older than Orville. That was part of how they got the name—having the same birthday. The other was how they met: at a Minnesota Twins baseball game. Some would claim that it was a sadistic turn of fate or ridiculously bad star alignment that brought them together. Others would claim that there was a bond there, two lost souls that recognized a kindred spirit, as if their streak of cruelty and psychosis were some kind of magnet that drew them to each other.

Jeb and Orville met in the bleachers at the Dome in Minneapolis when Jeb, the older Twin, got into a fight with five beer-marinated head cases. Orville stepped in and together they put all five in the hospital. That was eight years ago. Three of the guys were still in comas.

Jeb and Orville stayed together.

These two men, both life-loners, neither married, never in a long-term relationship, became inseparable. They moved around from city to city, town to town, always leaving havoc in their wake. For fun, they would enter bars and pick fights and see how close they could come to killing a man without actually killing him. When they destroyed a drug-dealing motorcycle gang in Montana, their rep was cemented.

Jeb and Orville did not look dangerous. Jeb wore an ascot and smoking jacket. Orville had the Woodstock thing going on—a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, pink-tinted glasses, and a tie-dyed shirt. They sat in the car and watched Myron.

Jeb began singing, as he always did, mixing English songs with his own Spanish interpretation. Right now he was singing the Police’s “Message in a Bottle.”

“I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, mensaje en una botella . . .”

“I like that one, dude,” Orville said.

“Thank you, mi amigo.”

“Man, you were younger, you should do that American Idol. That Spanish thing. They’d love that. Even that Simon judge who hates everything.”

“I love Simon.”

“Me too. The dude is far out.”

They watched Myron get into his car.

“So, like, what do you think he was doing at this house?” Orville asked.

Singing: “You ask me if our love would grow, yo no se, yo no se.”

“The Beatles, right?”

“Bingo.”

“And yo no se. I don’t know.”

“Right again.”

“Groovy.” Orville checked the car’s clock. “Should we call Rochester and tell him what’s shaking?”

Jeb shrugged. “Might as well.”

Myron Bolitar started driving. They followed. Rochester picked up on the second ring.

“He, like, left that house,” Orville said.

Rochester said, “Keep following him.”

“Your dollars,” Orville said with a shrug. “But I think it’s a waste, man.”

“He may give you a clue where he stashed the girls.”

“If we, like, snatch his ass now, he’ll give us all the clues he knows.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Orville smiled and gave Jeb a thumbs-up sign.

“I’m at his house,” Rochester said. “That’s where I want you to take him.”

“Are you at or in?”

“At or in what?”

“His house.”

“I’m outside. In my car.”

“So you don’t know if he’s got a plasma TV.”

“What? No, I don’t know.”

“If we’re going to be working him awhile, it’d be righteous if he had one. In case it gets to be a drag, you know what I’m saying? The Yankees are playing against Boston. Jeb and me dig watching in HD. That’s why I’m asking.”

There was another moment of hesitation.

“Maybe he has one,” Rochester said.

“That would be groovy. That DLP technology is good too. Anything with high-def, I guess. By the way, do you, like, got a plan or anything?”

“I’m going to wait until he comes back home,” Dominick Rochester said. “I’ll tell him I want to talk to him. We go inside. You go inside.”

“Radical.”

“Where is he going now?”

Orville checked the navigator on the car. “Hey, like, unless I’m mistaken, we’re heading back to Bolitar’s crib right now.”

CHAPTER 21

Myron was two blocks from home when the cell rang. Win asked, “Did I ever tell you about Cingle Shaker?” “No.”

“She’s a private eye. If she were any hotter, your teeth would melt.”

“That’s swell, really.”

“I’ve had her,” Win said.

“Good for you.”

“I went back for seconds. And we still talk.”

“Yikes,” Myron said.

Win still talking to a woman he’d slept with more than once—in human terms, that was like a marriage celebrating its silver anniversary.

“Is there a reason you’re sharing this warm moment with me right now?” Then Myron remembered something. “Wait, a private eye named Cingle. Hester Crimstein called her when I was being interrogated, right?”

“Exactly. Cingle has gathered some new information on the disappearances.”

“You set up a meet?”

“She’s waiting for you at Baumgart’s.”

Baumgart’s, long Myron’s favorite restaurant serving both Chinese and American dishes, had recently opened a branch in Livingston.

“How will I recognize her?”

“Hot enough to make your teeth melt,” Win said. “How many women at Baumgart’s fit that description?”

Win hung up. Five minutes later Myron entered the restaurant. Cingle didn’t disappoint. She was curvy to the max, built like a Marvel comic drawing come to life. Myron walked up to Peter Chin, the owner, to say hello. Peter frowned at him.

“What?”

“She’s not Jessica,” Peter said.

Myron and Jessica used to go to Baumgart’s, albeit the original in Englewood, all the time. Peter had never gotten over the breakup. The unspoken rule was that Myron was not allowed to bring other women here. For seven years he had kept that rule, more for himself than Peter.

“It’s not a date.”

Peter looked at Cingle, looked at Myron, made a face that said Who are you kidding?

“It’s not.” Then: “You realize, of course, I haven’t even seen Jessica in years.”

Peter put a finger in the air. “Years fly by, but the heart stays in the same place.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“You’ve been reading fortune cookies again, haven’t you?”

“There is much wisdom there.”

“Tell you what. Read Sunday’s New York Times instead. Styles section.”

“I already did.”

“And?”

Again Peter raised his finger. “You can’t ride two horses with one behind.”

“Hey, I told you that one. It’s Yiddish.”

“I know.”

“And it doesn’t apply.”

“Just sit down.” Peter dismissed him with a wave. “And order for yourself. I’m not helping you.”

When Cingle stood to greet him, necks didn’t so much turn in her direction as snap. They exchanged hellos and sat down.

“So you’re Win’s friend,” Cingle said.

“I am.”

She studied him for a moment. “You don’t look psychotic.”

“I like to think of myself as the counterbalance.”

There were no papers in front of her.

“Do you have the police file?” he asked.

“There is none. There isn’t even an official investigation yet.”

“So what have you got?”

“Katie Rochester started taking money out at ATMs. Then she ran away. There is no evidence, other than parental protestations, to suggest anything other than that.”

“The investigator who grabbed me at the airport—” Myron began.

“Loren Muse. She’s good, by the way.”

“Right, Muse. She asked me a lot about Katie Rochester. I think they have something solid linking me to her.”

“Yes and no. They have something solid linking Katie to Aimee. I’m not sure it links directly to you.”

“That being?”

“Their last ATM charges.”

“What about them?”

“Both girls used the exact same Citibank in Manhattan.”

Myron stopped, tried to absorb that one.

The waiter came over. New guy. Myron didn’t know him. Usually Peter had the waiter bring over a few free appetizers. Not today.

“I’m used to men staring at me,” Cingle said. “But the owner keeps glaring at me like I urinated on the floor.”

“He misses my old girlfriend.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Adorable.”

Cingle met Peter’s eye, wiggled her fingers to show a wedding band, and yelled in Peter’s direction, “He’s safe. I’m already married.”

Peter turned away.

Cingle shrugged, explained about the ATM charge, about Aimee’s face being clear in the security camera. Myron tried to figure it through. Nothing came to him.

“There’s one more thing you might want to know about.”

Myron waited.

“There’s a woman named Edna Skylar. She’s a doctor over at St. Barnabas. The cops are keeping this under heavy wraps because Rochester’s father is a nutjob, but apparently, Dr. Skylar spotted Katie Rochester on the street in Chelsea.”

She told him the story, about how Edna Skylar had followed the girl into the subway, that she was with a man, what Katie said about not telling anyone.

“Did the police look into it?”

“Look into what?”

“Did they try to figure out where Katie was, who the guy was, anything?”

“Why? Katie Rochester is eighteen years old. She gathered money before she ran. She’s got a connected father who was probably abusive in some fashion. The police have other things to worry about. Real crimes. Muse is handling a double homicide in East Orange. Manpower is short. And what Edna Skylar saw confirmed what they already knew.”

“That Katie Rochester ran away.”

“Right.”

Myron sat back. “And the fact that they both used the same ATM?”

“Either a startling coincidence . . .”

Myron shook his head. “No way.”

“I agree. No way. So either that or they both planned to run away. There was a reason they both chose that ATM. I don’t know what. But maybe they planned this together. Katie and Aimee went to the same high school, right?”

“Right, but I haven’t found any other connection between them.”

“Both eighteen, both graduating high school, both from the same town.” Cingle shrugged. “There has to be something.”

She was right. He’d need to speak to the Rochesters, see what they knew. He’d have to be careful. He didn’t want to open that side of things up. He also wanted to talk to the doctor, Edna Skylar, get a good description of the man Katie Rochester was with, see exactly where she was, what subway she was riding, what direction she was heading in.

“Thing is,” Cingle said, “if Katie and Aimee are runaways, there might be a reason they ran.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Myron said.

“They might not want to be found.”

“True.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find them anyway.”

“And if they want to stay hidden?”

Myron thought about Aimee Biel. He thought about Erik and he thought about Claire. Good people. Reliable, solid. He wondered what could possibly make Aimee run away from them, what could have been so bad that she’d pull something like this.

“Guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” he said.

Win sat by himself in the corner of the dimly lit strip club. No one bothered him. They knew better. If he wanted someone near him, he’d let them know.

The song on the jukebox was one of the most putrid songs from the eighties, Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.” Myron claimed that it was the worst song of the decade. Win countered that “We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll” by Starship was worse. The argument lasted an hour without resolution. So, as they often did in situations like this, they went to Esperanza to end the tie-breaker, but she sided with “Too Shy” by Kajagoogoo.

Win liked to sit in this corner booth and look out and think.

There was a major-league baseball team in town. Several of the players had come to the “gentlemen’s club,” a truly inspired euphemism for strip joint, to unwind. The working girls went crazy. Win watched a stripper of questionably legal age hit on one of the team’s top pitchers.

“How old did you say you were?” the stripper asked.

“Twenty-nine,” the pitcher said.

“Wow.” She shook her head. “You don’t look that old.”

A wistful smile played on Win’s lips. Youth.

Windsor Horne Lockwood III was born to great wealth. He did not pretend otherwise. He did not like multibillionaires who bragged about their business acumen when they’d started out with Daddy’s billions. Genius is almost irrelevant in the pursuit of enormous riches anyway. In fact, it can be a hindrance. If you are smart enough to see the risks, you might try to avoid them. That type of thinking—safe thinking—never led to great wealth.

Win started life in the lush Main Line of Philadelphia. His family had been on the board of the stock exchange since its inception. He had a direct descendant who’d been this country’s first secretary of the treasury. Win was born with not only a silver spoon in his mouth, but an entire silver place setting at his feet.

And he looked the part.

That had been his problem. From his earliest years, with his towhead blond hair and ruddy complexion and delicate features, with his face naturally set in an expression that looked smug, people detested Win on sight. You looked at Windsor Horne Lockwood III and you saw elitism, undeserved wealth, someone who would always look down his porcelain-sculpted nose at you. All your own failures rose up in a wave of resentment and envy—just by gazing upon this seemingly soft, coddled, privileged boy.

It had led to ugly incidents.

At the age of ten Win had gotten separated from his mother at the Philadelphia Zoo. A group of students from an inner-city school had found him in his little blue blazer with the crest on the pocket and beaten the hell out of him. He’d been hospitalized and nearly lost a kidney. The physical pain was bad. The shame of being a scared little boy was far worse.

Win never wanted to experience that again.

People, Win knew, made snap judgments based on appearances. No great insight there. And yes, there were the obvious prejudices against African-Americans or Jews or what-have-you. But Win was more concerned with the more garden-variety prejudices. If, for example, you see an overweight woman eating a doughnut, you are repulsed. You make snap judgments—she is undisciplined, lazy, sloppy, probably stupid, definitely lacking in self-esteem.

In a strange way, the same thing happened when people saw Win.

He had a choice. Stay behind the hedges, safe in the cocoon of privilege, live a protected albeit fearful life. Or do something about it.

He chose the latter.

Money makes everything easier. Oddly enough, Win always considered Myron to be a real-life Batman, but the Caped Crusader had started off as Win’s childhood role model. Bruce Wayne’s only superpower was tremendous wealth. He used it to train himself to be a crime fighter. Win did something similar with his money. He hired former squad leaders from both Delta Force and the Green Berets to train him as if he were one of their most elite. Win also found the world’s top instructors on firearms, on knives, on hand-to-hand combat. He secured the services of martial artists from a wide variety of countries and either flew them to the family estate in Bryn Mawr or traveled overseas. He spent a full year with a reclusive martial-arts master in Korea, high in the hills in the southern part of the country. He learned about pain, how to inflict it without leaving marks. He learned about intimidation tactics. He learned about electronics, about locks, about the underworld, about security procedures.

It all came together. Win was a sponge when it came to picking up new techniques. He worked hard, ridiculously hard, training at least five hours every day. He had naturally fast hands, the hunger, the desire, the work ethic, the coldness—all the ingredients.

The fear went away.

Once he was sufficiently trained, Win started hanging out in the most drug-infested, crime-ridden corners of the city. He would go there wearing blue blazers with crests or pink polos or loafers without socks. The bad people would see him and lick their lips. There would be hate in their eyes. They would attack. And Win would answer.

There may be better fighters out there, Win assumed, especially now that he was growing older.

But not many.

His cell phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Articulate.”

“We got a wiretap on a guy named Dominick Rochester.”

The call was from an old colleague Win hadn’t heard from in three years. No matter. This was how it worked in their world. The wiretap did not surprise him. Rochester was supposedly connected. “Go on.”

“Someone leaked to him your friend Bolitar’s connection to his daughter.”

Win waited.

“Rochester has a more secure phone. We’re not sure. But we think he called the Twins.”

There was silence.

“Do you know them?”

“Just by reputation,” Win said.

“Take what you heard and put it on steroids. One of them has some kind of weird condition. He doesn’t feel pain, but man, does he like to inflict it. The other one, his name is Jeb—and yeah, I know how this is going to sound—he likes to bite.”

“Do tell,” Win said.

“We once found some guy the Twins worked over with just Jeb’s teeth. The body . . . I mean, it was a red puddle. He bit out the guy’s eyes, Win. I still don’t sleep when I think about it.”

“Maybe you should buy a night-light.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of it. They scare me,” the voice on the phone said, “like you scare me.”

Win knew that in this man’s world, that was about as big a compliment as he could pay the Twins. “And you believe that Rochester called them right after he heard about Myron Bolitar?”

“Within minutes, yeah.”

“Thank you for the information.

“Win, listen to what I’m saying. They’re absolutely nuts. We know about this one guy, a big old mafia don from Kansas City. He hired them. Anyway, it didn’t work out. The mafia don pisses them off, I don’t know how. So the don, no fool, he tries to buy them off, make peace. Nothing doing. The Twins get a hold of his four-year-old grandson. Four years old, Win. They send him back in chewed-up pieces. Then—get this—after they’re done, then they accept the don’s money. The same amount of money he’d already offered. They didn’t ask for a penny more. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Win hung up. There was no need to reply. He understood perfectly.

CHAPTER 22

Myron had his cell phone in hand, preparing to call Ali for a much-needed hello, when he noticed a car parked in front of his house. Myron pocketed the cell and pulled into his driveway.

A husky man sat on the curb in front of Myron’s yard. He stood when Myron approached. “Myron Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

Myron nodded. “Why don’t we go inside?”

“You know who I am?”

“I know who you are.”

It was Dominick Rochester. Myron recognized him from the news reports on TV. He had a ferocious face with pores big enough to get your foot caught in. The smell of cheap musk came off him in squiggly line waves. Myron held his breath. He wondered how Rochester had learned about Myron’s connection to the case, but no matter. This would work well, Myron figured. He had wanted to talk to Rochester anyway.

Myron was not sure when the feeling came upon him. It could have been when the other car made the turn. It could have been something in Dominick Rochester’s walk. Myron could see right away that Rochester was the real deal—a bad guy you did not want to mess with, as opposed to that poser, Big Jake Wolf.

But again it was a bit like basketball. There were moments when Myron was so in the game, where he would be rising on his jump shot, his fingers finding the exact grooves on the ball, his hand cocked in front of his forehead, his eyes locked on the rim, only the rim, when time would slow down, as if he could stop in midair and readjust and see the rest of the court.

Something was wrong here.

Myron stopped at the door, keys in hand. He turned and looked back at Rochester. Rochester had those black eyes, the kind that view everything with an equal lack of emotion—a human being, a dog, a file cabinet, a mountain range. They never changed no matter what they saw, no matter what horror or delight played out in front of them.

“Why don’t we talk out here?” Myron said.

Rochester shrugged. “If you want.”

The car, a Buick Skylark, slowed.

Myron felt his cell phone vibrate. He looked down at it. Win’s SWEET CHEEKS was displayed. He put the phone to his ear.

Win said, “There are two very bad hombres—”

That was when Myron was jarred by the blow.

Rochester had thrown a punch.

The fist skimmed across the top of Myron’s head. The instincts were rusty, but Myron still had his peripheral vision. He’d seen Rochester launch the fist at the last second. He ducked in time to take away the brunt. The blow ended up glancing across the top of Myron’s skull. There was pain, but Rochester’s knuckles probably felt worse.

The phone fell to the ground.

Myron was down on one knee. He grabbed Rochester’s extended arm by the wrist. He curled the fingers of his free hand. Most people hit with fists. That was necessary at times, but in reality you should avoid doing it. You hit something hard with a fist, you’ll break your hand.

The palm strike, especially to vulnerable areas, was usually more effective. With a punch, you need to flick or jab. You can’t power straight through, because the small bones in the hand can’t handle the stress. But if the palm strike is delivered correctly, fingers curled and protected, the wrist tilted back, the blow landing on the meaty bottom of the palm, you put the pressure on the radius, the ulna, the humerus—in short, the larger arm bones.

That was what Myron did. The obvious place to aim right now was the groin, but Myron figured that Rochester had been in plenty of scrapes before. He’d be looking for that.

And he was. Rochester raised a knee for protection.

Myron went for the diaphragm instead. When the shot landed just below the sternum, the air burst out of the big man. Myron pulled on Rochester’s arm and threw him in what looked like an awkward judo throw. Truth was, in real fights, all throws look pretty awkward.

The zone. He was in it now. Everything slowed down.

Rochester was still in the air when Myron saw the car stop. Two men came out. Rochester landed like a sack of rocks. Myron stood. The two men were moving toward him now.

They were both smiling.

Rochester rolled through the throw. He’d be up in no time. Then there would be three of them. The two men in the car did not approach slowly. They did not look wary or worried. They charged toward Myron with the abandon of children playing a game.

Two very bad hombres . . .

Another second passed.

The man who’d been on the passenger side wore his hair in a ponytail and looked liked that hip, middle-school art teacher who always smelled like a bong. Myron ran through his options. He did this in tenths of a second. That was how it worked. When you’re in danger, time either slows down or the mind races. Hard to say which.

Myron thought about Rochester lying on the ground, about the two men charging, about Win’s warning, about what Rochester might be after here, about why he might attack unprovoked, about what Cingle had said about Rochester being a nutjob.

The answer was obvious: Dominick Rochester thought that Myron had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance.

Rochester probably knew that Myron had been questioned by the police, and that nothing had come of it. A guy like Rochester wouldn’t accept that. So he’d do his best, his damned best, to see if he could shake something loose.

The two men were maybe three steps away now.

Another point: They were willing to attack him right here, on the street, where anyone could see. That suggested a certain level of desperation and recklessness and, yes, confidence—a level Myron wanted no part of.

So Myron made his choice: He ran.

The two men had the advantage. They were already accelerating. Myron was starting from a standing position.

This was where pure athleticism would help.

Myron’s knee injury had not really affected his speed much. It was more a question of lateral movement. So Myron faked a step to the right, just to get them to lean. They did. Then he broke left toward his driveway. One of the men—the other one, not the hippy art teacher—lost his footing but only for a split second. He was back up. So was Dominick Rochester.

But it was the hippy art teacher who was causing the most trouble. The man was fast. He was almost close enough to make a diving tackle.

Myron debated taking him on.

But no. Win had called in a warning. If it had reached that level, this was probably indeed a very bad hombre. He wouldn’t go down with one blow. And even if he did, the delay would give the other two the chance to catch up. There was no way to eliminate the art teacher and keep moving.

Myron tried to accelerate. He wanted to gain enough distance to get Win on the cell phone and tell him—

The cell phone. Damn, he didn’t have it. He’d dropped it when Rochester hit him.

They kept chasing him. Here they were, on a quiet suburban street, four adults running all-out. Was anybody watching? What would they think?

Myron had another advantage: He knew the neighborhood.

He didn’t look over his shoulder, but he could hear the art teacher panting behind him. You don’t become a professional athlete—and brief as his career was, he did play professional ball—without having a million things go right internally and externally. Myron had grown up in Livingston. His high school class had six hundred people in it. There had been zillions of great athletes going through the doors. None had made the pros. Two or three had played minor league baseball. One, maybe two, had been drafted for one sport or another. That was it. Every kid dreams about it, but the truth is, none make it. None. You think your kid is different. He’s not. He won’t make it to the NBA or NFL or MLB. Won’t happen.

The odds are that long.

The point here, as Myron began to increase his lead, was that, yes, he had worked hard, shot baskets by himself for four to five hours a day, had been frighteningly competitive, had the right mind frame, had and did all those things, but none of that would have helped him reach the level he’d gotten to if he hadn’t been blessed with extraordinary physical gifts.

One of those gifts was speed.

The panting was falling behind him.

Someone, maybe Rochester, shouted: “Shoot him in the leg!”

Myron kept accelerating. He had a destination in mind. His knowledge of the neighborhood would help now. He hit the hill up Coddington Terrace. As he reached the top, he prepared. He knew that if he got there enough ahead of them, there’d be a blind spot on the curve back down.

When he reached that down-curve, he didn’t look back. There was a somewhat hidden path between two houses on the left. Myron had used it to go to Burnet Hill Elementary School. All the kids did. It was the strangest thing—a paved walking path between two houses—but he knew it was still there.

The very bad hombres would not.

The paved walk was public enough, but Myron had another idea. The Horowitzes used to live in the house on the left. Myron had built a fort in the woods there with one of them a lifetime ago. Mrs. Horowitz had been furious about it. He veered into that area now. There used to be a crawling path under the bush, one that led from the Horowitzes’ backyard on Coddington Terrace to the Seidens’ on Ridge Road.

Myron pushed the first bush to the side. It was still there. He got down on his hands and knees and scrambled through the opening. Brown branches whipped his face. It didn’t hurt so much as bring him back to a more innocent time.

As he emerged on the other side, in the old Seidens’ backyard, he wondered if the Seiden family still lived here. The answer came to him fast.

Mrs. Seiden was in the backyard. She wore a kerchief and gardening gloves.

“Myron?” There was no hesitation or even much surprise in her voice. “Myron Bolitar, is that you?”

He had gone to school with her son, Doug, although he had not crawled through this path or even been in this backyard since he was maybe ten years old. But that didn’t matter in towns like this. If you were friends in elementary school, there was always some kind of link.

Mrs. Seiden blew the strands of hair out of her face. She started toward him. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to involve anyone else. She opened her mouth to say something, but Myron silenced her with a finger to his lips.

She saw the look on his face and stopped. He gestured for her to get in the house. She gave a slight nod and moved toward it. She opened the back door.

Someone shouted, “Where the hell did he go?”

Myron waited for Mrs. Seiden to disappear from view. But she didn’t go inside.

Their eyes met. Now it was Mrs. Seiden’s turn to gesture. She motioned for him to come inside too. He shook his head. Too dangerous.

Mrs. Seiden stood there, her back rigid.

She would not move.

A sound came from the brush. Myron snapped his head toward it. It stopped. Could have been a squirrel. No way they could have found him already. But Win had called them “very bad” meaning, of course, very good at what they did. Win was never one for overstatement. If he said these guys were very bad . . .

Myron listened. No sound now. That scared him more than noise.

He did not want to put Mrs. Seiden in further danger. He shook his head one more time. She just stood there, holding the door open.

There was no sense in arguing. There are few creatures more stubborn than Livingston mothers.

Keeping low, he sprinted across the yard and through the open door, dragging her in with him.

She closed the door.

“Stay down.”

“The phone,” Mrs. Seiden said, “is over there.”

It was a kitchen wall unit. He dialed Win.

“I’m eight miles away from your house,” Win said.

“I’m not there,” Myron said. “I’m on Ridge Road.” He looked back at Mrs. Seiden for more information.

“Seventy-eight,” she said. “And it’s Ridge Drive, not Road.”

Myron repeated what she’d said. He told Win there were three of them, including Dominick Rochester.

“Are you armed?” Win asked.

“No.”

Win didn’t lecture him, but Myron knew that he wanted to. “The other two are good and sadistic,” Win said. “Stay hidden until I get there.”

“We’re not moving,” Myron said.

And that was when the back door burst open.

Myron turned in time to see Hippy Art Teacher fly through it.

“Run!” Myron shouted at Mrs. Seiden. But he didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. Art Teacher was still off balance. Myron leapt toward him.

But Art Teacher was fast.

He sidestepped Myron’s lunge. Myron saw that he was going to miss. He stuck out his left arm, clothesline style, hoping to get under Art’s chin. The blow touched down on the back of Art’s head, cushioned by the ponytail. Art staggered. He turned and hit Myron a short shot to the rib cage.

The man was very fast.

Everything slowed down again. In the distance, Myron could hear footsteps. Mrs. Seiden making a run for it. Art Teacher smiled at Myron, breathing hard. The speed of that punch told Myron that he probably shouldn’t stand and trade blows. Myron had the size advantage. And that meant taking him to the floor.

Art Teacher revved up to throw another punch. Myron crowded in. It was tougher to hit someone hard, especially someone bigger, when you crowded in. Myron grabbed Art Teacher’s shirt by the shoulders. He twisted to take him down, raising a forearm at the same time.

Myron hoped to put the forearm against the man’s nose. Myron weighed two hundred fifteen pounds. That kind of size, you land full force with your forearm resting on someone’s nose, the nose is going to snap like a dried-out bird’s nest.

But again Art Teacher was good. He saw what Myron intended to do. He tucked down just a little. The forearm was now resting on the rose-tinted glasses. Art Teacher closed his eyes and pulled them both down harder. He also raised a knee up to Myron’s midsection. Myron had to curve in his belly to protect himself. That took a good part of the power away from his forearm blow.

When they landed, the wire-framed glasses bent, but there was no serious power behind the shot. Art Teacher had the momentum now. He shifted his weight. His knee hadn’t landed with much force either because of the way Myron had rounded his back. But the knee was still there. And the momentum.

He threw Myron over his head. Myron took it with a roll. In less than a second they were both on their feet.

The two men faced each other.

Here was what they don’t tell you about fighting: You always feel crippling, paralyzing fear. The first few times, when Myron felt that stress-induced tingle in his legs, the kind that got so bad you wondered if you’d be able to stay on your feet, he felt like the worst sort of coward. Men who only get into a scrape or two, who get that leg tingle when they argue with a drunk lout at a bar, feel awash with shame. They shouldn’t. It is not cowardice. It is a natural biological reaction. Everyone feels that way.

The question is, what do you do with that? What you learn with experience is that it can be controlled, harnessed even. You need to breathe. You need to relax. If you get hit when you’re tensed up, it’ll cause more damage.

The man threw off his bent glasses. He met Myron’s eye. This was part of the game. The staring down. The guy was good. Win had said so.

But so was Myron.

Mrs. Seiden screamed.

To both men’s credit, neither of them turned away at the sound. But Myron knew that he had to get to her. He faked a charge, just enough so that Art would back up, and then he darted toward the front of the house, where the scream had originated.

The front door was open. Mrs. Seiden was standing there. And next to her, with his fingers digging into her upper arm, was the other man who’d chased him from the car. This guy was a few years older than Art Teacher and wore an ascot. An ascot, for crying out loud. He looked like Roger Healey from the old I Dream of Jeannie show.

No time.

Art Teacher was behind him. Myron slid to the side and threw a roundhouse right. Art Teacher ducked it, but Myron was ready. He stopped mid-punch and looped his arm around the man’s neck.

Myron had him in a headlock.

But now, with a grotesque rebel yell, Ascot leapt toward Myron.

Tightening his grip on the neck, Myron aimed a mule kick. Ascot let it land on his chest. He made his body soft and rolled with the blow, holding on to Myron’s leg.

Myron lost his balance.

Art Teacher managed to free himself then. He threw a knife hand, aiming for Myron’s throat. Myron tucked so that the blow hit his chin. It rattled his teeth.

Ascot held on to Myron’s leg. Myron tried to kick him off. Art Teacher was laughing now. The front door burst open again. Myron prayed it was Win.

It wasn’t.

Dominick Rochester arrived. He was out of breath.

Myron wanted to call out a warning to Mrs. Seiden, but that was when a pain unlike any other he had felt ripped through him. Myron let loose a blood-curdling howl. He looked down at his leg. Ascot had his head lowered.

He was biting Myron’s leg.

Myron screamed again, the sound mixing in with the laughter and cheers coming from Art Teacher.

“Go, Jeb! Woo-hoo!”

Myron kept kicking, but Ascot dug in deeper, holding on, growling like a terrier.

The pain was excruciating, all-encompassing.

Panic filled Myron. He stamped down with his free leg. Ascot held on with his teeth. Myron kicked harder, finally landing a kick on top of the man’s head. He pushed hard. His flesh ripped off as he finally pried himself free. Ascot sat up and spit something out of his mouth. Myron realized with horror that it was a meaty chunk of leg.

Then they were on him. All three. Piled on.

Myron ducked his head and started swinging. He connected with somebody’s chin. There was a grunt and a curse. But someone else hit him in the stomach.

He felt the teeth on his leg again, the same spot, opening up the wound.

Win. Where the hell was Win . . . ?

He bucked up in pain, wondering what to do next, when he heard a singsong voice say, “Oh, Mr. Bolitar . . . ?”

Myron looked. It was Art Teacher. He had a gun in one hand. In the other, he had Mrs. Seiden by the hair.

CHAPTER 23

They moved Myron to a large cedar closet on the second floor. Myron was flat on the floor. His hands were duct-taped behind his back, his feet bound together too. Dominick Rochester stood over him, a gun in his hand.

“Did you call your friend Win?”

Myron said, “Who?”

Rochester frowned. “You think we’re stupid?”

“If you know about Win,” Myron said, meeting his eye, “about what he can do, then the answer is yes. I think you’re very stupid.”

Rochester sneered. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

Myron quickly assessed the situation. No windows, one entrance. That was why they’d brought him up here: no windows. So Win couldn’t attack from the outside or at a distance. They had realized that, considered it, been smart enough to bind him and bring him up here.

This was not good.

Dominick Rochester was armed. So was Art Teacher. It would indeed be nearly impossible to get in here. But he knew Win. Myron just needed to give him time.

On the right, Ascot Bite was still smiling. There was blood—Myron’s blood—on his teeth. Art Teacher was on the left.

Rochester bent down so his face was close to Myron’s. The cologne smell was still on him, worse than ever. “I’m going to tell you what I want,” he said. “Then I’m going to leave you alone with Orville and Jeb. See, I know you had something to do with that girl disappearing. And if you had something to do with her, you had something to do with my Katie. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Where’s Mrs. Seiden?”

“No one is interested in hurting her.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with your daughter,” Myron said. “I just gave Aimee a ride. That’s all. The police will tell you.”

“You lawyered up.”

“I didn’t lawyer up. My lawyer arrived. I answered every question. I told them that Aimee called me for a ride. I showed them where I dropped her off.”

“And what about my daughter?”

“I don’t know her. I’ve never met her in my life.”

Rochester looked back at Orville and Jeb. Myron didn’t know which was which. His leg was throbbing from the bite.

Art Teacher was redoing his ponytail, making it tight and wrapping it with the band. “I believe him.”

“But,” Ascot Bite added, “we got to be, got to be certain, tengo que estar seguro.”

Art Teacher frowned. “Who was that?”

“Kylie Minogue.”

“Whoa, pretty obscure, dude.”

Rochester stood upright. “You guys do your thing. I’ll keep watch downstairs.”

“Wait,” Myron said. “I don’t know anything.”

Rochester looked at him for a moment. “It’s my daughter. I can’t take that chance. So what’s going to happen here is, the Twins are going to work you over. You still telling the same story after that, I know you had nothing to do with it. But if you did, maybe I save my kid. You understand what I’m saying?”

Rochester moved to the door.

The Twins crept closer. Art Teacher pushed Myron back. Then he sat on Myron’s legs. Ascot straddled Myron’s chest. He looked down and bared his teeth. Myron swallowed. He tried to buck him off, but with his hands taped behind him, it was impossible. His stomach did flips of fear.

“Wait,” Myron said again.

“No,” Rochester said. “You’ll stall. You’ll sing, you’ll dance, you’ll make up stories—”

“No, that’s not—”

“Let me finish, okay? It’s my daughter. You have to understand that. You need to crack before I’ll believe you. The Twins. They’re good at making a man crack.”

“Just hear me out, okay? I’m trying to find Aimee Biel—”

“No.”

“—and if I find her, there’s an excellent chance I’ll find your daughter too. I’m telling you. Look, you checked me out, right? That’s how you know about Win.”

Rochester stopped, waited.

“You must have heard this is what I do. I help people when they’re in trouble. I dropped that girl off and now she’s gone. I owe it to her parents to find her.”

Rochester looked at the Twins. In the distance Myron heard a car radio, the song fading in and then fading out. The song was “We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll” by Starship.

The second worst song in the world, Myron thought.

Ascot Bite started singing along, “We built este ciudad, we built este ciudad, we built este ciudad . . .” Hippy Art Teacher, still holding Myron’s legs, started bobbing his head, clearly digging his colleague’s vocals.

“I’m telling the truth,” Myron said.

“Either way,” Rochester said, “if you’re telling the truth or not, the Twins here. They’ll find out. See? You can’t lie to them. Once they hurt you some, you’ll tell us everything we need to know.”

“But by then it’s too late,” Myron said.

“They won’t take long.” Rochester looked at Art Teacher.

Art Teacher said, “Half an hour, hour max.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’ll be too hurt. I won’t be able to function.”

“He has a point,” Art Teacher said.

“We leave marks,” Ascot added, flashing his teeth.

Rochester thought about it.

“Orville, where did you say he was before he came home?”

Art Teacher—Orville—gave him Randy Wolf’s address and told him about the diner. They’d been tailing him, and Myron hadn’t picked up on it. Either they were very good or Myron was awfully rusty—or both. Rochester asked Myron why he visited both places.

“The house is where her boyfriend lives,” Myron said. “But he wasn’t home.”

“You think he has something to do with it?”

Myron knew better to answer in the positive. “Just talking to Aimee’s friends, see what was up with her. Who better than her boyfriend?”

“And the diner?”

“I met a source. I wanted to see what they had on your daughter and Aimee. I’m trying to find a connection between them.”

“So what have you learned so far?”

“I’m just starting.”

Rochester thought some more. Then he shook his head slowly. “Way I heard it, you picked up the Biel girl at two A.M.”

“That’s right.”

“At two A.M.,” he repeated.

“She called me.”

“Why?” His face reddened. “Is it because you like picking up high school girls?”

“That’s not it.”

“Oh, I suppose you gonna tell me it was innocent?”

“It was.”

Myron could see the anger mounting. He was losing him.

“You watch that trial with that perv Michael Jackson?”

The question confused Myron. “A little, I guess.”

“He sleeps with little boys, right? He admits it. But then he says, ‘Oh but it’s innocent.’ ”

Now Myron saw where this was going.

“And here you are, just like that, telling me you pick up pretty high school girls, late at night. At two A.M. And then you say, ‘Oh, but it’s innocent.’ ”

“Listen to me—”

“Nah, I think I listened enough.”

Rochester nodded for the Twins to go ahead.

Enough time had passed. Win was, Myron hoped, in place. He was probably waiting for one last distraction. Myron couldn’t move, so he tried something else.

Without warning, Myron let loose a scream.

He screamed as long and as loud as he could, even after Orville the Art Teacher snapped a fist into his teeth.

But the scream had the desired effect. For a second, everyone looked at him. Just for a second. No more.

But that was enough.

An arm snaked around Rochester’s neck as a gun appeared at his forehead. Win’s face materialized next to Rochester’s.

“Next time,” Win said, crinkling his nose, “please refrain from buying your cologne at your local Exxon station.”

The Twins were greased lightning. They were off Myron in under a second. Art Teacher took to the far corner. Ascot Bite flipped behind Myron and pulled him up, using Myron as a shield. He had a gun out now too. He put it against the back of Myron’s neck.

Stalemate.

Win kept his arm around Rochester’s neck. He squeezed the windpipe. Rochester’s face darkened red as the oxygen drained away. His eyes rolled back. A few seconds later, Win did something a little surprising: He released his grip on the throat. Rochester retched and sucked in a deep breath. Using him as a shield, Win’s gun stayed near the back of the man’s head but now angled toward Art Teacher.

“Cutting off his air supply, what with that awful cologne,” Win said, by way of an explanation. “It was too merciful.”

The Twins studied Win as though he were something little and cute they’d stumbled across in the forest. They did not appear to be afraid of him. As soon as Win had come upon the scene, they’d coordinated their movements as if they’d done this before.

“Sneaking up like that,” Hippy Art Teacher said, smiling at Win. “Dude, that was one radical move.”

“Far out,” Win said. “Like, dig it.”

He frowned. “Are you mocking me, man?”

“Tripping. Groovy. Flower power.”

Art Teacher looked at Ascot Bite as if to say, Do you believe this guy?

“Man oh man, dude, you don’t know who you’re messing with.”

“Put your weapons down,” Win said, “or I’ll kill you both.”

The Twins smiled some more, enjoying this.

“Dude, you ever do, like, math?”

Win gave Art Teacher the flat eyes. “Like, yah.”

“See, we got two guns. You got one.”

Ascot Bite rested his head on Myron’s shoulder. “You,” he said to Win, excited, licking his lips. “You shouldn’t threaten us.”

“You’re right,” Win said.

All eyes were on the gun pressed near Rochester’s temple. That was the mistake. It was like a classic magician’s trick. The Twins had not wondered why Win had released his grip on Rochester’s throat. But the reason was simple:

It was so that Win—using Rochester’s body to block their view—could ready his second gun.

Myron tilted his head a little to the left. The bullet from the second gun, the one that had been hidden behind Rochester’s left hip, struck Ascot Bite square in the forehead. He was dead instantly. Myron felt something wet splash on his cheek.

At the same time, Win fired the first gun, the one that had been at Rochester’s head. That bullet slammed into Art Teacher’s throat. He went down, his hands clawing at what had been his voice box. He may have been dead or at least bleeding to death. Win didn’t chance it.

The second bullet hit the man square between the eyes.

Win turned back to Rochester. “Breathe funny and you end up like them.”

Rochester made himself stay impossibly still. Win bent down next to Myron and started ripping off the duct tape. He looked down at Ascot Bite’s dead body.

“Chew on that,” Win said to the corpse. He turned back to Myron. “Get it? The biting, chew on that?”

“Hilarious. Where’s Mrs. Seiden?”

“She’s safe, out of the house, but you’ll need to make up a cover story for her.”

Myron thought about that.

“Did you call the police?” Myron asked.

“Not yet. In case you wanted to ask some questions.”

Myron looked at Rochester.

“Talk to him downstairs,” Win said, handing Myron a gun. “I’ll pull the car into the garage and start the cleanup.”

CHAPTER 24

The cleanup.

Myron had some idea of what Win meant, though they wouldn’t discuss it directly. Win had holdings all over the place, including a tract of land in a secluded section of Sussex County, New Jersey. The property was eight acres. Most of it was undeveloped woods. If you ever tried to trace down ownership, you’d find a holding company from the Cayman Islands. You would find no names.

There was a time when Myron would have been upset over what Win had done. There was a time when he would have mustered up all his moral outrage. He would give his old friend long, complicated musings about the sanctity of life and the dangers of vigilantism and all that. Win would look at him and utter three words:

Us or them.

Win probably could have given the “stalemate” another minute or two. He and the Twins might have come to an understanding. You go, we go, no one gets hurt. That sort of thing. But that wasn’t meant to be.

The Twins were as good as dead the moment Win entered the scene.

The worst part was that Myron no longer felt bad about it. He would shrug it off. And when he’d started doing that, when he knew that killing them was the prudent thing to do and that their eyes would not haunt his sleep . . . that was when he knew it was time to stop doing this. Rescuing people, playing along that flimsy line between good and bad—it robbed a little sliver of your soul.

Except maybe it didn’t.

Maybe playing along that line—seeing the other side of it—just grounded you in awful reality. The fact is this: A million Orville the Art Teachers or Jeb the Ascots aren’t worth the life of even one innocent, of one Brenda Slaughter or one Aimee Biel or one Katie Rochester or, as in the case overseas, the life of his soldier son, Jeremy Downing.

It might seem amoral to feel this way. But there it was. He applied this thinking to the war too. In his most honest moments, the ones he dare not speak out loud, Myron didn’t care that much about the civilians trying to scrape by in some dump-hole desert. He didn’t care if they got democracy or not, if they experienced freedom, if their lives were made better. What he did care about were the boys like Jeremy. Kill a hundred, a thousand, on the other side, if need be. But don’t let anyone hurt my boy.

Myron sat across from Rochester. “I wasn’t lying before. I’m trying to find Aimee Biel.”

Rochester just stared.

“You know that both girls used the same ATM?”

Rochester nodded.

“There has to be a reason why. It’s not a coincidence. Aimee’s parents don’t know your daughter. They don’t think Aimee knew her either.”

Rochester finally spoke. “I asked my wife and kids,” he said, his voice soft. “None of them think Katie knew Aimee.”

“But the two girls went to the same school,” Myron said.

“It’s a big school.”

“There’s a connection. There has to be. We’re just missing it. So what I need you and your family to do is start searching for that connection. Ask Katie’s friends. Look through her stuff. Something links your daughter and Aimee. We find it, we’ll be that much closer.”

Rochester said, “You’re not going to kill me.”

“No.”

His eyes traveled upstairs. “Your guy made the right move. Killing the Twins, I mean. You let them go, they’d have tortured your mother until she cursed the day you were born.”

Myron chose not to comment.

“I was stupid to hire them,” Rochester said. “But I was desperate.”

“If you’re looking for forgiveness, go to hell.”

“I’m just trying to make you understand.”

“I don’t want to understand,” Myron said. “I want to find Aimee Biel.”

Myron had to go to the emergency room. The doctor looked at the bite on his leg and shook his head.

“Jesus, you get attacked by a shark?”

“A dog,” Myron lied.

“You should put it down.”

Win took that one: “Already done.”

The doctor used sutures and then bandaged it up. It hurt like hell. He gave Myron some antibiotics and pills for the pain. When they left, Win made sure Myron still had the gun. He did.

“You want me to stay around?” Win said.

“I’m fine.” The car accelerated down Livingston Avenue. “Are those two guys taken care of?”

“Gone forever.”

Myron nodded. Win watched his face.

“They’re called the Twins,” Win said. “The older one with the ascot, he would have bitten off your nipples first. That’s how they warm up. One nipple, then the other.”

“I understand.”

“No lecture on overreacting?”

Myron’s fingers touched down on his chest. “I really like my nipples.”

It was late by the time Win dropped him off. Near his front door, Myron found his cell phone on the ground where he’d dropped it. He checked the caller ID. There were a bunch of missed calls, mostly business related. With Esperanza in Antigua on her honeymoon, he should have stayed in touch. Too late to worry about that now.

Ali had also called him.

A lifetime ago he had told her that he’d come by tonight. They had joked about him stopping by for a late-night “nooner.” Man, was that really today?

He debated waiting until morning, but Ali might be worried. Plus, it would be nice, really nice, to hear the warmth in her voice. He needed that, in this crazy, exhausting, hurting day. He was sore. His leg throbbed.

Ali answered on the first ring. “Myron?”

“Hey, hope I didn’t wake you.”

“The police were here.”

There was no warmth in her voice.

“When?”

“A few hours ago. They wanted to talk to Erin. About some promise the girls made in your basement.”

Myron closed his eyes. “Damn. I never meant to involve her.”

“She backed your story, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I called Claire. She told me about Aimee. But I don’t understand. Why would you make the girls promise something like that?”

“To call me, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I overheard them talking about driving with someone who was drunk. I just didn’t want that to happen to them.”

“But why you?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“I mean, you just met Erin that day. That was the first time you ever talked to her.”

“I didn’t plan it, Ali.”

There was a silence. Myron didn’t like it.

“We okay?” he asked.

“I need a little time with this,” she said.

He felt his stomach clench.

“Myron?”

“Sooo,” he said, stretching out the word, “I guess there’s no rain check on that nooner?”

“This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“I know.”

“Aimee is missing. The police came around and questioned my daughter. This might be routine for you, but this isn’t my world. I’m not blaming you, but . . .”

“But?”

“I just . . . I just need time.”

“ ‘Need time,’ ” Myron repeated. “That sounds a whole lot like ‘need space.’ ”

“You’re making a joke again.”

“No, Ali, I’m not.”

CHAPTER 25

There was a reason Aimee Biel wanted to be dropped off on that cul-de-sac.

Myron showered and threw on a pair of sweats. His pants had blood on them. His own. He remembered that old Seinfeld routine about laundry detergent commercials that talk about getting out bloodstains, how if you have bloodstains on your clothes, maybe laundry wasn’t your biggest worry.

The house was silent, except for those customary house noises. When he was a kid, alone at night, those noises would scare him. Now they were just there—neither soothing nor alarming. He could hear the slight echo as he walked across the kitchen floor. The echo only happened when you were alone. He thought about that. He thought about what Claire had said, about him bringing violence and destruction, about him still not being married.

He sat alone at the kitchen table of his empty house. This was not the life he’d planned.

Man plans, God laughs.

He shook his head. Truer words.

Enough wallowing, Myron thought. The “plans” part got his mind back on track. To wit: What had Aimee Biel been planning?

There was a reason she chose that ATM. And there was a reason she chose that cul-de-sac.

It was almost midnight when Myron got back in his car and started north to Ridgewood. He knew the way now. He parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. He turned off the car. The house was dark, just like two nights ago.

Okay, now what?

Myron went through the possibilities. One, Aimee actually went into that house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The woman who’d answered the door before, the slim blonde with the baseball cap, had lied to Loren Muse. Or maybe the woman didn’t know. Maybe Aimee was having a fling with her son or was a friend of her daughter’s, and this woman didn’t know about it.

Doubtful.

Loren Muse was no idiot. She had been at that door a fair amount of time. She would have checked into those angles. If they existed, she would have followed up.

So Myron ruled that out.

That meant that this house had been a diversion.

Myron opened the car door and stepped out. The road was silent. There was a hockey goal at the end of the cul-de-sac. This was probably a neighborhood with kids. There were only eight houses and almost no traffic. The kids probably still played on the street. Myron spotted one of those roll-out basketball hoops in one of the driveways. They probably did that too. The cul-de-sac was a little neighborhood playground.

A car turned down the block, just like when he’d dropped Aimee off.

Myron squinted toward the headlights. It was midnight now. Only eight houses on the street, all with lights out, all tucked in for the evening.

The car pulled up behind his and came to a stop. Myron recognized the silver Benz even before Erik Biel, Aimee’s father, got out. The light was dim, but Myron could still see the rage on his face. It made him look like an annoying little boy.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Erik shouted.

“Same thing as you, I guess.”

Erik came closer. “Claire may buy your story about why you drove Aimee here but . . .”

“But what, Erik?”

He didn’t reply right away. He was still in the tailored shirt and trousers, but the look wasn’t as crisp. “I just want to find her,” he said.

Myron said nothing, letting him talk his way down.

“Claire thinks you can help. She says you’re good at stuff like this.”

“I am.”

“You’re like Claire’s knight in shining armor,” he said with more than a trace of bitterness. “I don’t know why you two didn’t end up together.”

“I do,” Myron said. “Because we don’t love each other that way. In fact, in all the time I’ve known Claire, you’re the only man she ever really loved.”

Erik shifted his feet, pretending the words didn’t matter, not quite pulling it off. “When I made the turn, you were getting out of your car. What were you going to do?”

“I was going to try to retrace Aimee’s footsteps. See if I can figure out where she really went.”

“What do you mean, ‘really went’?”

“There was a reason she picked this spot. She used this house as a diversion. It wasn’t her real destination.”

“You think she ran away, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it was a random abduction or anything like that,” Myron said. “She led me to this specific spot. The question is, why?”

Erik nodded. His eyes were wet. “You mind if I tag along?”

He did, but Myron shrugged and started toward the house. The occupants might wake up and call the police. Myron was willing to risk that. He opened the gate. This was where Aimee had gone in. He made the same turn she made, went behind the house. There was a sliding glass door. Erik stayed silent behind him.

Myron tried the glass door. Locked. He ducked down and ran his fingers along the bottom. Some kind of crud had accumulated. Same with the door frame going up.

The door had not been opened in a while.

Erik whispered, “What?”

Myron signaled him to keep quiet. The curtains were pulled closed. Myron stayed low and cupped his hands around his eyes. He looked into the room. He couldn’t see much, but it looked like a standard family den. It was not a teen’s bedroom. He moved toward the back door. That led to a kitchen.

Again no teen bedroom.

Of course Aimee might have misspoken. She might have meant that she went through a back door to get to Stacy’s room, not that the bedroom was right there. But heck, Stacy didn’t even live here. So either way, Aimee had clearly lied. This other stuff—the fact that the door hadn’t been opened and didn’t lead to a bedroom. That was just the icing.

So where had she gone?

He got on all fours and took out his penlight. He shined it on the ground. Nothing. He hoped for footprints, but there hadn’t been much rain lately. He put his cheek flat on the grass, tried to look not so much for prints as any sort of ground indentation. More nothing.

Erik started looking too. He didn’t have a penlight. There was almost no other illumination back here. But he looked anyway and Myron didn’t stop him.

A few seconds later Myron stood. He kept the penlight low. The backyard was half an acre, maybe more. There was a pool with a whole other fence surrounding it. This gate was six feet high and kept locked. It would be hard, though not impossible, to scale. But Myron doubted Aimee had come here for a swim.

The backyard disappeared into woods. Myron followed the property line into the trees. The nice wooden picket fence ran around the side property lot, but once you got into the wooded area, the barrier became wire mesh. It was cheaper and less aesthetic, but back here, mixed in with branches and thicket, what did it matter?

Myron was pretty sure what he would find now.

It was not unlike the Horowitz-Seiden border near his own home. He put his hand on top of the fence and kept moving through the brush. Erik followed. Myron wore Nikes. Erik had on tasseled loafers without socks.

Myron’s hand dipped down near an overgrown pine bush.

Bingo, this was the spot. The fence had caved in here. He shined the penlight. From the rusted-out look of it, the post had buckled years ago. Myron pulled down on the mesh a little and stepped over. Erik did likewise.

The cut-through was easier to find. It ran no more than five, six yards. It had probably been a longer path years ago, but with the value of land, only the thinnest clump of brush was now used for privacy. If your land could be made usable, you made sure that it was.

He and Erik ended up between two backyards on another cul-de-sac.

“You think Aimee went this way?”

Myron nodded. “I do.”

“So what now?”

“We find out who lives on this street. We try to see if there’s a connection to Aimee.”

“I’ll call the police,” Erik said.

“You can try that. They might care, they might not. If someone she knows lives here, it might just further back up the theory that she’s a runaway.”

“I’ll try anyway.”

Myron nodded. If he were in Erik’s shoes, he would do that too. They moved through the yard and stood on the cul-de-sac. Myron studied the homes as if they might give him answers.

“Myron?”

He looked at Erik.

“I think Aimee ran away,” he said. “And I think it’s my fault.”

There were tears on his cheek.

“She’s changed. Claire and I, we’ve both seen that. Something happened with Randy. I really like that boy. He was so good with her. I tried to talk to her about it. But she wouldn’t tell me. I . . . this is going to sound so stupid. I thought maybe Randy had tried to pressure her. You know. Sexually.”

Myron nodded.

“But what decade do I think we’re living in? They’d been together two years already.”

“So you don’t think that was it?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.” He went silent.

“You said it was your fault.”

Erik nodded.

“When I drove Aimee here,” Myron said, “she begged me not to say anything to you and Claire. She said that things weren’t good with you two.”

“I started spying on her,” Erik said.

That wasn’t a direct answer to the question, but Myron let it go. Erik was working up to something. Myron would need to give him room.

“But Aimee . . . she’s a teenage girl. Remember those years? You learn how to hide things. So she was careful. I guess that she was more practiced than I was. It’s not that I didn’t trust her. But it’s part of a parent’s job to keep tabs on their children. It doesn’t do much good because they know it.”

They stood in the dark, staring at the houses.

“But what you don’t realize is that even while you’re spying on them, maybe every once in a while, they turn the tables on you. Maybe they suspect something’s wrong and they want to help. And maybe the child ends up keeping tabs on the parent.”

“Aimee spied on you?”

He nodded.

“What did she find, Erik?”

“That I’m having an affair.”

Erik almost collapsed with relief when he said it. Myron felt blank for a second, totally empty. Then he thought about Claire, about how she was in high school, about the way she’d nervously pluck her bottom lip in the back of Mr. Lampf’s English class. A surge of anger coursed through him.

“Does Claire know?”

“I don’t know. If she does, she’s never said anything.”

“This affair. Is it serious?”

“Yes.”

“How did Aimee find out?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know for sure that she did.”

“Aimee never said anything to you?”

“No. But . . . like I said. There were changes. I would go to kiss her cheek and she’d pull back. Almost involuntarily. Like I repulsed her.”

“That might be normal teenage stuff.”

Erik hung his head, shook it.

“So when you were spying on her, trying to check her e-mails, besides wanting to know what she was up to . . .”

“I wanted to see if she knew, yes.”

Again Myron flashed to Claire, this time to her face on her wedding day, starting a new life with this guy, smiling like Esperanza had on Saturday, no doubts about Erik even though Myron had never warmed to him.

As if reading his mind, Erik said, “You’ve never been married. You don’t know.”

Myron wanted to punch him in the nose. “You say so.”

“It doesn’t just happen all at once,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“It just starts to slip away. All of it. It happens to everyone. You grow apart. You care but in a different way. You’re about your job, your family, your house. You’re about everything but the two of you. And then one day you wake up and you want that feeling back. Forget the sex. That’s not really it. You want the passion. And you know you’re never going to get it from the woman you love.”

“Erik?”

“What?”

“I really don’t want to hear this.”

He nodded. “You’re the only one I’ve told.”

“Yeah, well, I must live under a lucky star then.”

“I just wanted . . . I mean, I just needed . . .”

Myron held up a hand. “You and Claire are none of my business. I’m here to find Aimee, not play marriage counselor. But let me just make something clear because I want you to know exactly where I stand: If you hurt Claire, I’ll . . .”

He stopped. Stupid to go that far.

“You’ll what?”

“Nothing.”

Erik almost smiled. “Still her knight in shining armor, eh, Myron?”

Man, Myron really wanted to punch him in the nose. He turned away instead, turned toward a yellow house with two cars in the driveway. And that was when he saw it.

Myron froze.

“What?” Erik said.

He quickly averted his gaze. “I need your help.”

Erik was all over that. “Name it.”

Myron started walking back toward the path, cursing himself. He was still rusty. He should have never let that show. The last thing he needed was Erik going off half-cocked. He needed to hash it out without Erik.

“Are you good with a computer?”

Erik frowned. “I guess so.”

“I need you to go online. I need you to put all the addresses on this street into a search engine. We need a list of who lives here. I need you to go home right away and do that for me.”

“But shouldn’t we do something now?” Erik asked.

“Like what?”

“Knock on doors.”

“And say what? Do what?”

“Maybe someone is holding her hostage right here, right on this very block.”

“Very, very doubtful. And even so, knocking on doors will probably get them to panic. And once we knock on one door at this hour, that person will call the police. The neighbors will be warned. Listen to me, Erik. We need to figure out what’s what first. This could all be a dead end. Aimee might not have taken that path.”

“You said you thought she did.”

“Thought. That doesn’t mean much. Plus maybe she walked five blocks after that. We can’t just stumble around. If you want to help, go home. Look those addresses up. Get me some names.”

They were through the path now. They moved past the gate and walked back to their cars.

“What are you going to do?” Erik asked.

“I have a few other leads I want to follow up on.”

Erik wanted to ask more, but Myron’s tone and body language cut him off. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve finished the search,” Erik said.

They both got in their cars. Myron watched Erik drive off. Then he picked up the cell phone and hit Win’s speed dial.

“Articulate.”

“I need you to break into a house.”

“Goody. Please explain.”

“I found a path where I dropped Aimee off. It leads to another cul-de-sac.”

“Ah. Do we have a thought then about where she ended up?”

“Sixteen Fernlake Court.”

“You sound fairly certain.”

“There’s a car in the driveway. On the back windshield is a sticker. It’s for teacher parking at Livingston High School.”

“On my way.”

CHAPTER 26

Myron and Win met up three blocks away near an elementary school. A parked car here would be less conspicuous. Win was dressed in black, including a black skull cap that hid his blond locks.

“I didn’t see an alarm system,” Myron said.

Win nodded. Alarms were minor nuisances anyway, not deal breakers. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

He was. On the dot.

“The girl isn’t inside the house. Two teachers live there. His name is Harry Davis. He teaches English at Livingston High School. His wife is Lois. She teaches at a middle school in Glen Rock. They have two daughters, college age, judging by the pictures and the fact that they weren’t home.”

“This can’t be a coincidence.”

“I put a GPS tracker on both cars. Davis also has a well-worn briefcase, stuffed with term papers and lesson plans. I put one on that too. You go home, get some sleep. I’ll let you know when he wakes up and starts to move. I’ll follow. And then we’ll be on him.”

Myron crawled into bed. He figured sleep would never come to him. But it did. He slept deep until he heard a metallic click coming from downstairs.

His father had been a light sleeper. In his youth, Myron would wake up at night and try to walk past his parents’ room without stirring Dad. He had never made it. His father did not wake up slowly either. He woke with a start, like someone had poured ice water down his drawstring bottoms.

So that was how it was when he heard the click. He shot up in the bed. The gun was on the night table. He grabbed it. His cell phone was there too. He hit Win’s speed dial, the line that rang for Win to mute and eavesdrop.

Myron sat very still and listened.

The front door opened.

Whoever it was, they were trying to keep quiet. Myron crept to the wall next to his bedroom door. He waited, listened some more. The intruder had gone through the front door. That was odd. The lock was old. It could be picked. But to be that silent about it—just one quick click—it meant whoever it was, or whoever they were, they were good.

He waited.

Footsteps.

They were light. Myron pressed his back against the wall. The gun tightened in his hand. His leg ached from the bite. His head pounded. He tried to swim through it, tried to focus.

He calculated the best place to stand. Pressed against the wall next to the door, where he was now—that was good for listening, but it wouldn’t be ideal, despite what you see in the movies, if someone entered his room. In the first place, if the guy was good, he’d be looking for that. In the second place, if there were more than one of them, jumping someone from behind the door would be the worst place to be. You’re forced to attack right away and thus expose your location. You might nail the first guy, but the second one would lay you to waste.

Myron padded toward the bathroom door. He stood behind it, kept low, the door almost closed. He had a perfect angle. He could see the intruder enter. He could shoot or call out—and if he did shoot, he’d still be in a good position if someone else either charged in or retreated.

The footsteps stopped outside his bedroom door.

He waited. His breath rang in his ears. Win was good at this, the patience part. That had never been Myron’s forte. But he calmed himself. He kept his breathing deep. His eyes stayed on the open doorway.

He saw a shadow.

Myron aimed his gun at the middle of it. Win might go for the head, but Myron zeroed in on the center of the chest, the most forgiving target.

When the intruder stepped through the doorway and into a bit of light, Myron nearly gasped out loud. He stepped out from the behind the door, still holding the gun.

“Well, well,” the intruder said. “After seven years, is that a gun in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

Myron did not move.

Seven years. After seven years. And within seconds, it was like those seven years had never happened.

Jessica Culver, his former soul mate, was back.

CHAPTER 27

They were downstairs in the kitchen.

Jessica opened up the refrigerator. “No Yoo-hoo?”

Myron shook his head. Chocolate Yoo-hoo had been his favorite beverage. When they lived together, he’d always had plenty on hand.

“You don’t drink it anymore?”

“Not much.”

“I guess one of us should note that everything changes.”

“How did you get in?” he asked.

“You still keep the key in the gutter. Just like your father did. We used it once. Do you remember?”

He did. They’d sneaked down to the basement, giggling. They’d made love.

Jessica smiled at him. The years showed, he guessed. There were more lines around the eyes. Her hair was shorter and more stylized. But the effect was still the same.

She was knock-you-to-your-knees beautiful.

Jessica said, “You’re staring.”

He said nothing.

“Good to know I still have it.”

“Yeah, that Stone Norman is a lucky man.”

“Right,” she said. “I figured you’d see that.”

Myron said nothing.

“You’d like him,” she said.

“Oh, I bet.”

“Everyone does. He has lots of friends.”

“Do they call him Stoner?”

“Only his old frat buddies.”

“I should have guessed.”

Jessica studied him for a moment. Her gaze made his face warm. “You look like hell, by the way.”

“I took something of a beating today.”

“Some things don’t change then. How’s Win?”

“Speaking of things that don’t change.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“We going to keep this up,” Myron said, “or are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Can we keep this up for a few more minutes?”

Myron shrugged a suit-yourself at her.

“How are your parents?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“They never liked me.”

“No, I don’t suppose they did.”

“And Esperanza? Does she still refer to me as Queen Bitch?”

“She hasn’t so much as mentioned your name in seven years.”

That made her smile. “Like I’m Voldemort. In the Harry Potter books.”

“Yep, you’re She-who-must-not-be-named.”

Myron shifted in his chair. He turned away for a few seconds. She was just so damn beautiful. It was like looking into an eclipse. You need to look away every once in a while.

“You know why I’m here,” she said.

“One last fling before you marry Stoner?”

“Would you be willing?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He wondered if she was right, so he took the mature route. “Are you aware that ‘Stoner’ rhymes with ‘boner’?”

“Making fun of someone’s name,” Jessica said, “when yours is Myron.”

“Throwing stones, glass houses, yeah, I know.” Her eyes were red. “Are you drunk?”

“Tipsy maybe. I had enough to get my courage up.”

“To break into my house?”

“Yes.”

“So what is it, Jessica?”

“You and I,” she said. “We’re not really through.”

He said nothing.

“I pretend we’re done, you pretend we’re done. But we both know better.” Jessica turned to the side and swallowed. He watched her neck. He saw hurt in her eyes. “What was the first thing that went through your mind when you read I was getting married?”

“I wished you and Stoner nothing but the best.”

She waited.

“I don’t know what I thought,” he said.

“It hurt?”

“What do you want me to say, Jess? We were together a long time. Of course there was a pang.”

“It’s like”—she paused, thought about it—“it’s like, despite the fact I haven’t talked to you in seven years, it was always just a question of time before we got back together. Like this was all part of the process. Do you know what I mean?”

He said nothing, but he felt something deep inside him start to fray.

“And then today, I saw my announcement in print—the announcement I wrote—and suddenly it was like, ‘Wait, this is for real. Myron and I don’t end up together.’ ” She shook her head. “I’m not saying this right.”

“Nothing to say, Jessica.”

“Just like that?”

“You being here,” he said. “It’s just prewedding jitters.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat there for a while. Myron held out his hand. She took it. He felt something course through him.

“I know why you’re here,” Myron said. “I don’t even think I’m surprised.”

“There’s still something between us, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“I hear a ‘but.’ ”

“You go through what we went through—the love, the breakups, my injuries, all that pain, all that time together, the fact that I wanted to marry you—”

“Let me address that part, okay?”

“In a second. I’m on a roll here.”

Jessica smiled. “Sorry.”

“You go through all that, your lives become so entwined with one another. And then one day, you just end it. You just sever it off like with a machete. But you’re so entwined, stuff is still there.”

“Our lives are enmeshed,” she said.

“Enmeshed,” he repeated. “That sounds so precious.”

“But it’s somewhat accurate.”

He nodded.

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing. That’s just part of life.”

“Do you know why I didn’t marry you?”

“It’s irrelevant, Jess.”

“I don’t think it is. I think we need to play through this.”

Myron let go of her hand and signaled, fine, go ahead.

“Most people hate their parents’ lives. They rebel. But you wanted to be just like them. You wanted the house, the kids—”

“And you didn’t,” he interrupted. “We know all this.”

“That’s not it. I might have wanted that life too.”

“Just not with me.”

“You know that’s not it. I just wasn’t sure. . . .” She tilted her head. “You wanted that life. But I didn’t know if you wanted that life more than me.”

“That,” Myron said, “is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe, but that’s how I felt.”

“Great, I didn’t love you enough.”

She looked at him, shook her head. “No man has ever loved me like you did.”

Silence. Myron held back the “what-about-Stoner” remark.

“When you blew out your knee—”

“Not that again. Please.”

Jessica pushed ahead. “When you blew out your knee, you changed. You worked so hard to move past it.”

“You’d have preferred the self-pity route,” Myron said.

“That might have worked better. Because what you did instead, what you ended up doing, was running scared. You grabbed so tight to everything you had that it was suffocating. All of a sudden you were mortal. You didn’t want to lose anything else and suddenly—”

“This is all great, Jess. Hey, I forget. At Duke, who taught your Intro to Psychology class? Because he’d be proud as punch right about now.”

Jessica just shook her head at him.

“What?” he said.

“You’re still not married, are you, Myron?’

“Neither,” he said, “are you.”

“Touché. But have you had a lot of serious relationships over the past seven years?”

He shrugged. “I’m involved right now.”

“Really?”

“What, that’s such a surprise?”

“No, but think about it. You, Mr. Commitment, Mr. Long-Term Relationship—why is it taking you so long to find anybody else?”

“Don’t tell me.” He held up a hand. “You spoiled me for all other women?”

“Well, that would be understandable.” Jessica arched an eyebrow. “But no, I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m all ears. Why? Why aren’t I happily married by now?”

Jessica shrugged. “I’m still working on it.”

“Don’t work on it. It doesn’t involve you anymore.”

She shrugged again.

They both sat there. It was funny how comfortable he was with all this.

“You remember my friend Claire?” Myron said.

“She married that uptight guy, right? We went to their wedding.”

“Erik.” He didn’t want to go into it all, so he started with something else. “He told me tonight that he and Claire are having troubles. He says it’s inevitable, that eventually it all dims and fades and that it becomes something else. He says he misses the passion.”

“Is he messing around?” Jessica asked.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because it sounds like he’s trying to justify his actions.”

“So you don’t think there’s anything to that dimming passion stuff?”

“Of course there’s something to it. Passion can’t stay at that fevered pitch.”

Myron thought about that. “It did for us.”

“Yes,” she said.

“There was no fade.”

“None. But we were young. And maybe that’s why, in the end, we blew up.”

He considered that. She took his hand again. There was a charge. Then Jessica gave him a look. The look, to be more specific. Myron froze.

Uh-oh.

“You and this new woman,” Jessica said. “Are you exclusive?”

“You and Stoner-Boner,” he countered. “Are you exclusive?”

“Low blow. But it’s not about Stone. It’s not about your new missus. It’s about us.”

“And you think, what, a quick boink will help clarify things?”

“Still a wordsmith with the ladies, I see.”

“Here’s another word from the wordsmith: no.”

Jessica toyed with the top button of her blouse. Myron felt his mouth go a little dry. But she stopped.

“You’re right,” she said.

He wondered if he was disappointed that she hadn’t pushed it further. He wondered what he would have done if she had.

They started talking then, just catching up on the years. Myron told her about Jeremy, about his serving overseas. Jessica told him about her books, her family, her time working out on the West Coast. She didn’t talk about Stoner. He didn’t talk about Ali.

Morning came. They were still in the kitchen. They’d been talking for hours, but it didn’t feel like it. It just felt good. At seven a.m., the phone rang. Myron picked it up.

Win said, “Our favorite schoolteacher is heading to work.”

CHAPTER 28

Myron and Jessica hugged good-bye. The hug lasted a long time. Myron could smell Jessica’s hair. He didn’t remember the name of her shampoo, but it had lilacs and wildflowers and was the same one she’d used when they’d been together.

Myron called Claire. “I have a quick question,” he said to her.

“Erik said he saw you last night.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s been on the computer all night.”

“Good. Look, do you know a teacher named Harry Davis?”

“Sure. Aimee had him for English last year. He’s also a guidance counselor now, I think.”

“Did she like him?”

“Very much.” Then: “Why? Does he have something to do with this?”

“I know you want to help, Claire. And I know Erik wants to help. But you have to trust me on this, okay?”

“I do trust you.”

“Erik told you about the cut-through we found?”

“Yes.”

“Harry Davis lives on the other side of it.”

“Oh my God.”

“Aimee is not in his house or anything. We already checked.”

“What do you mean, you checked? How did you check?”

“Please, Claire, just listen to me. I’m working on this, but I need to do it without interference. You have to keep Erik off my back, okay? Tell him I said to search all the surrounding streets online. Tell him to drive around that area, but not on that cul-de-sac. Or better yet, have him call Dominick Rochester—that’s Katie’s father—”

“He called us.”

“Dominick Rochester?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night. He said he met with you.”

Met, Myron thought. Nice euphemism.

“We’re getting together this morning—the Rochesters and us. We’re going to see if we can find a connection between Katie and Aimee.”

“Good. That’ll help. Listen, I have to go.”

“You’ll call?”

“As soon as I know something.”

Myron heard her sob.

“Claire?”

“It’s been two days, Myron.”

“I know. I’m on it. You might want to try to pressure the police more too. Now that we’ve crossed the forty-eight-hour mark.”

“Okay.”

He wanted to say something like Be strong, but it sounded so stupid in his head that he let it go. He said good-bye and hung up. Then he called Win.

“Articulate,” Win said.

“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way. ‘Articulate.’ ”

Silence.

“Is Harry Davis still heading to the high school?”

“He is.”

“On my way.”

Livingston High School, his alma mater. Myron started up the car. The total ride would be maybe two miles, but whoever was tailing him either wasn’t very good at it or didn’t care. Or maybe, after the debacle with the Twins, Myron was being more wary. Either way, a gray Chevy, maybe a Caprice, had been on him since he made the first turn.

He called Win and got the customary “Articulate.”

“I’m being followed,” Myron said.

“Rochester again?”

“Could be.”

“Make and license plate?”

Myron gave it to him.

Win said, “We’re still on Route 280, so stall a little. Take them down past Mount Pleasant Avenue. I’ll get in behind them, meet you back at the circle.”

Myron did as Win suggested. He turned into Harrison School for the U-turn. The Chevy following him kept going straight. Myron started back down the other way on Livingston Avenue. By the time he hit the next traffic light, the gray Chevy was back on his tail.

Myron hit the big circle in front of the high school, parked, and got out of his car. There were no stores here, but this was the nerve center of Livingston—a plethora of identical brick. There was the police station, the courthouse, the town library, and there, the large crown jewel, Livingston High School.

The early morning joggers and walkers were on the circle. Most were on the elderly side and moved slowly. But not all. A group of four hotties, all hard-bodied and maybe twenty-ish, were jogging in his direction.

Myron smiled at them and arched an eyebrow. “Hello, ladies,” he said as they passed.

Two of them snickered. The other two looked at him as though he’d just announced that he had a poopie in his pants.

Win sidled up next to him. “Did you give them the full-wattage smile?”

“I’d say a good eighty, ninety watts.”

Win studied the young women before making a declaration: “Lesbians,” he said.

“Must be.”

“A lot of that going around, isn’t there?”

Myron did the math in his head. He probably had fifteen to twenty years on them. When it comes to young girls, you just never want to feel it.

“The car following you,” Win said, keeping his eyes on the young joggers, “is an unmarked police vehicle with two uniforms inside. They’re parked in the library lot watching us through a telephoto lens.”

“You mean they’re taking our picture right now?”

“Probably,” Win said.

“How’s my hair?”

Win made an eh gesture with his hand.

Myron thought about what it meant. “They probably still see me as a suspect.”

“I would,” Win said. He had what looked like a Palm Pilot in his hand. It was tracking the car’s GPS. “Our favorite teacher should be arriving now.”

The teachers’ lot was on the west side of the school. Myron and Win walked over. They figured that it would be better to confront him here, outside, before class started.

As they headed over, Myron said, “Guess who stopped by my house at three a.m.?”

“Wink Martindale?”

“No.”

“I love that guy.”

“Who doesn’t? Jessica.”

“I know.”

“How . . .” Then he remembered. He’d called Win’s cell when he heard the click at the door. He’d hung up as they headed down to the kitchen.

Win said, “Did you do her?”

“Yes. Many times. But not in the last seven years.”

“Good one. Pray tell, did she stop by to shag for old times’ sake?”

“ ‘Shag?’ ”

“My Anglo ancestory. Well?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells. But yes.”

“And you refused?”

“I remain chaste.”

“Your chivalry,” Win said. “Some would call it admirable.”

“But not you.”

“No, I’d call it—and I’m breaking out the big words here so pay attention—really, really moronic.”

“I’m involved with someone else.”

“I see. So you and Miss Six-Point-Eight have promised to shag only one another?”

“It’s not like that. It’s not like one day you turn to the other and say, ‘Hey, let’s not sleep with anybody else.’ ”

“So you didn’t specifically promise?”

“No.”

Win held up both hands, totally lost. “I don’t understand then. Did Jessica have BO or something?”

Win. “Just forget it.”

“Done.”

“Sleeping with her would only complicate things, okay?”

Win just stared.

“What?”

“You’re a very big girl,” Win said.

They walked a little more.

Win said, “Do you still need me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be in the office then. If there’s trouble, hit the cell.”

Myron nodded as Win headed off. Harry Davis got out of his car. There were clusters of cliques in the lot. Myron shook his head. Nothing changed. The Goths wore only black with silver studs. The Brains had heavy backpacks and dressed in short-sleeved button-down shirts of one hundred percent polyester like a bunch of assistant managers at a chain drugstore convention. The Jocks took up the most space, sitting on car hoods and wearing leather-sleeved varsity jackets, even though it was too hot for them.

Harry Davis had the easy walk and carefree smile of the well-liked. His looks landed him smack in the average category, and he dressed like a high school teacher, which was to say poorly. All the cliques greeted him, which said something. First, the Brains shook his hand and called out, “Hey, Mr. D!”

Mr. D?

Myron stopped. He thought back to Aimee’s yearbook, her favorite teachers: Miss Korty . . .

. . . and Mr. D.

Davis kept moving. The Goths were next. They gave him small waves, much too cool to do more than that. When he approached the Jocks, several offered up high-fives and “Yo, Mr. D!”s.

Harry Davis stopped and started talking to one of the Jocks. The two moved a few feet away from the cluster. The conversation appeared more animated. The jock had a varsity jacket with a football on the back of it and the letters QB for quarterback on the sleeve. Some of the guys were calling to him. They yelled out, “Hey, Farm.” But the quarterback was focused on the teacher. Myron moved closer for a better look.

“Well, hello,” Myron said to himself.

The boy talking with Harry Davis—Myron could see him clearly now, the soul patch on his chin, the Rastafarian hair—was none other than Randy Wolf.

CHAPTER 29

Myron considered his next move—let them keep talking or confront them now? He checked his watch. The bell was about to sound. Both Harry Davis and Randy Wolf would probably head inside then, lost to him for the day.

Showtime.

When Myron was about ten feet away from them, Randy spotted him. The boy’s eyes widened with something akin to recognition. Randy stepped away from Harry Davis. Davis turned to see what was going on.

Myron waved. “Hi, guys.”

Both froze as though caught in headlights.

“My father said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Randy said.

“But your father never got to know the real me. I’m actually quite a sweetheart.” Myron waved to the confused teacher. “Hi, Mr. D.”

He was almost on them when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s far enough.”

Myron turned around. Two cops in full uniform stood in front of them. One was tall and lanky. The other was short with long, dark, curly hair and a bushy mustache. The shorter one looked like he’d just stepped out of a VH1 special on the eighties.

The tall one said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“This is public property. I’m walking on it.”

“Are you smarting off to me?”

“You think that’s smarting off?”

“I’ll ask you again, wise guy. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To class,” Myron said. “There’s a bitch of an algebra final coming up.”

The tall one looked at the short one. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis stared without saying a word. Some of the students began to point and gather. The bell rang. The taller officer said, “Okay, nothing to see here. Break it up, get to class now.”

Myron pointed at Wolf and Davis. “I need to talk to them.”

The taller officer ignored him. “Get to class.” Then looking at Randy, he added: “All of you.”

The crowd thinned and then vanished. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis were gone too. Myron was alone with the two officers.

The tall one came up close to Myron. They were about the same height, but Myron had at least twenty or thirty pounds on him. “You stay away from this school,” he said slowly. “You don’t talk to them. You don’t ask questions.”

Myron thought about that. Don’t ask questions? That was not the kind of thing you say to a suspect. “Don’t ask who questions?”

“Don’t ask anybody anything.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“You think I should be more specific?”

“That would help, yes.”

“Are you being a smart guy again?”

“Just looking for clarification.”

“Hey, asswipe.” It was the shorter cop with the VH1-eighties look. He took out his nightstick and held it up. “This clarification enough for you?”

Both cops smiled at Myron.

“What’s the matter?” The shorter cop with the bushy mustache was slapping the nightstick against his palm. “Cat got your tongue?”

Myron looked first at the tall cop, then back at the short one with the mustache. Then he said: “Darryl Hall called. He wants to know if the reunion tour is still on.”

That made the smiles vanish.

The taller officer said, “Put your hands behind your back.”

“What, are you going to tell me he doesn’t look like John Oates?”

“Hands behind your back now!”

“Hall and Oates? ‘Sarah Smile’? ‘She’s Gone’?”

“Now!”

“It’s not an insult. Many chicks dug John Oates, I’m sure.”

“Turn around now!”

“Why?”

“I’m cuffing you. We’re taking you in.”

“On what charge?”

“Assault and battery.”

“On whom?”

“Jake Wolf. He told us you trespassed on his residence and attacked him.”

Bingo.

His cop-needling had worked. Now he knew why these guys were on him. It wasn’t about him being a suspect in Aimee’s disappearance. It was the pressure brought upon them by one Big Jake Wolf.

Of course, the plan hadn’t gone perfectly. They were arresting him now.

The John Oates cop snapped on the cuffs, making the obvious move of having them pinch his skin. Myron checked out the taller one. He looked a little nervous now, his eyes darting about. Myron figured that was a good thing.

The shorter one dragged him by the cuffs back to the same gray Chevy that had been tailing him since he’d left his house. He pushed Myron into the backseat, trying to hit his head on the doorframe, but Myron was ready and ducked it. In the front seat, Myron spotted a camera with a telephoto lens, just as Win had said.

Hmm. Two cops taking pictures, following him from his house, stopping him from talking to Randy, cuffing him—Big Jake had some juice.

The taller one stayed outside and paced. This was all going a little too fast for him. Myron decided that he could play that. The short one with the bushy mustache and dark curly hair slid into the seat next to Myron and grinned.

“I really liked ‘Rich Girl,’ ” Myron said to him. “But ‘Private Eyes’—I mean, what was up with that song? ‘Private eyes, they’re watching you.’ I mean, don’t all eyes watch you? Public, private, whatever?”

The short guy’s fuse blew faster than anticipated. He took a swing at Myron’s gut. Myron was still ready. One of the lessons Myron had learned over the years was how to take a punch. It was crucial if you were going to get into any physical confrontation. In a real fight, you almost always get hit, no matter how good you are. How you reacted psychologically often decided the outcome. If you don’t know what to expect, you shrivel up and cower. You get too defensive. You let the fear conquer you.

If the blow is a headshot, you need to play the angles. Don’t let the punch land square, especially on the nose. Even slight head tilts can help. Instead of four knuckles landing, maybe it will only be two or one. That makes a huge difference. You also have to relax your body, let it go. You should turn away from the strike, literally roll with the punch. When a blow is aimed at your abdomen, especially when your hands are cuffed behind your back, you need to clench the stomach muscles, shift, and bend at the waist so it doesn’t wallop the breadbasket. That was what Myron did.

The blow didn’t hurt much. But Myron, noting the taller guy’s nervousness, put on a performance that would have made De Niro take notes.

“Aarrrggggghhh!”

“Damn, Joe,” the tall one said, “what the hell are you doing?”

“He was making fun of me!”

Myron stayed bent over and faked loss of breath. He wheezed, he retched, he started coughing uncontrollably.

“You hurt him, Joe!”

“I just knocked the wind out of him. He’ll be fine.”

Myron coughed more. He faked like he couldn’t breathe. Then he added convulsions. He rolled back his eyes and started bucking like a fish on the dock.

“Calm down, dammit!”

Myron stuck his tongue out, gagged some more. Somewhere, a casting agent was speed-dialing Scorsese.

“He’s choking!”

“Medicine!” Myron managed.

“What?”

“Can’t breathe!”

“Dammit, get the cuffs off him!”

“Can’t breathe!” Myron gasped and made his body wrack. “Heart medicine! In my car!”

The taller one opened the door. He grabbed the keys from his partner and unlocked the cuffs. Myron kept up with the convulsions and eye rolls.

“Air!”

The tall one was wide-eyed. Myron could see what he was thinking: out of hand. This was getting too out of hand.

“Air!”

The tall one stepped aside. Myron rolled out of the car. He got up and pointed to his car. “Medicine!”

“Go,” the taller one said.

Myron ran to his car. The two officers, dumbfounded, just watched. Myron had expected that. They were just here to scare him off. They had not expected any back talk. They were town cops. The citizens of this happy suburb obeyed them without question. But this guy hadn’t bowed to them. They’d lost their cool and assaulted a man. This could mean huge trouble. They both just wanted it to end. So did Myron. He had learned what he needed to—Big Jake Wolf was scared and trying to hide something.

So when Myron reached his car, he slid into the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, started it up, and simply drove off. He glanced in his rearview mirror. He figured that the odds were on his side, that the two cops would not chase him.

They didn’t. They just stood there.

In fact, they looked relieved to just let him go.

He had to smile. Yep, there was no question about it now.

Myron Bolitar was baaack.

CHAPTER 30

Myron was trying to figure out what to do next when his cell phone rang. The caller ID read OUT OF AREA. He picked it up. Esperanza said, “Where the hell are you?”

“Hey, how’s the honeymoon going?”

“Like crap. Do you want to know why?”

“Is Tom not putting out?”

“Yeah, you men are so tough to seduce. No, my problem is that my business partner is not answering calls from our clients. My business partner is also not in the office to cover my absence.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well, that covers it.”

“I’ll have Big Cyndi transfer all the calls directly to my cell. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

“What’s wrong?” Esperanza asked.

Myron didn’t want to disrupt her honeymoon any more than he already had, so he said, “Nothing.”

“You so lie.”

“I’m telling you. It’s nothing.”

“Fine, I’ll ask Win.”

“Wait, okay.”

He briefly filled her in.

“So,” Esperanza said, “you feel obligated because you did a good deed?”

“I was the last to see her. I dropped her off and let her go.”

“Let her go? What kind of crap is that? She’s eighteen, Myron. That makes her an adult. She asked you for a ride. You gallantly—and stupidly, I might add—gave her one. That’s it.”

“That’s not it.”

“Look, if you gave, say, Win a ride home, would you make sure he got all the way into the house safely?”

“Good analogy.”

Esperanza snickered. “Yeah, well. I’m coming home.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not. But you can’t handle both on your own. So I’ll tell Big Cyndi to transfer the calls down here. I’ll take them. You go play superhero.”

“But you’re on your honeymoon. What about Tom?”

“He’s a man, Myron.”

“Meaning?”

“As long as a man gets some, he’s happy.”

“That’s such a cruel stereotype.”

“Yeah, I know I’m awful. I could be talking on the phone at the same time or, hell, breast-feeding Hector, Tom wouldn’t blink. Plus this will give him more time to play golf. Golf and sex, Myron. It’ll pretty much be Tom’s dream honeymoon.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Esperanza?”

“I know it’s been a while since you’ve done something like this,” she said. “And I know I made you promise you wouldn’t again. But maybe . . . maybe it’s a good thing.”

“How do you figure?”

“Damned if I know. Christ, I got more important things to worry about. Like stretch marks when I wear a bikini. I can’t believe I have stretch marks now. The kid’s fault, you know.”

They hung up a minute later. Myron drove around, feeling conspicuous in his car. If the police decided to keep an eye on him or if Rochester decided another tail might be in order, this car would be inconvenient. He thought about it and called Claire. She answered on the first ring.

“Did you learn something?”

“Not really, but do you mind if I switch cars with you?”

“Of course not. I was about to call you anyway. The Rochesters just left.”

“And?”

“We talked for a while. Trying to find a connection between Aimee and Katie. But something else came up. Something I need to run by you.”

“I’m two minutes from your house.”

“I’ll meet you in the front yard.”

As soon as Myron stepped out of the car, Claire tossed him her car keys. “I think Katie Rochester ran away.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Have you met that father?”

“Yes.”

“Says it all, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“But more than that, have you met the mother?”

“No.”

“Her name is Joan. She has this wince—like she’s waiting for him to smack her.”

“Did you find a connection between the girls?”

“They both liked to hang out at the mall.”

“That’s it?”

Claire shrugged. She looked like hell. The skin was pulled even tighter now. She looked like she’d lost ten pounds in the last day. Her body teetered as she walked, as though a strong gust would knock her all the way to the ground. “They ate lunch at the same time. They had one class together in the past four years—PE with Mr. Valentine. That’s it.”

Myron shook his head. “You said something else came up?”

“The mother. Joan Rochester.”

“What about her?”

“You might miss it because like I said, she cowers and looks scared all the time.”

“Miss what?”

“She’s scared of him. Her husband.”

“So? I met him. I’m scared of him.”

“Right, okay, but here’s the thing. She’s scared of him, sure, but she’s not scared about her daughter. I have no proof, but that’s the vibe I’m getting. Look, you remember when my mom got cancer?”

Sophomore year of high school. The poor woman died six months later. “Of course.”

“I met with other girls going through the same thing. A support group for cancer families. We had this picnic once, where you could bring other friends too. But it was weird—you knew exactly who was really going through the torment and who was just a friend. You’d meet a fellow sufferer and you’d just know. There was a vibe.”

“And Joan Rochester didn’t have a vibe?”

“She had a vibe, but not the ‘my daughter is missing’ vibe. I tried to get her alone. I asked her to help me make some coffee. But I didn’t get anywhere. I’m telling you, she knows something. The woman is scared, but not like I am.”

Myron thought about that. There were a million explanations, especially the most obvious—people react differently to stress—but he wanted to trust Claire’s intuition on this. The question was, what did it mean? And what could he do about it?

“Let me think this through,” he said at last.

“Did you talk to Mr. Davis?”

“Not yet.”

“How about Randy?”

“I’m on it. That’s why I need your car. The police ran me off the high school campus this morning.”

“Why?”

He didn’t want to get into Randy’s father so he said, “I’m not sure yet. Look, let me get going, okay?”

Claire nodded, closed her eyes.

“She’ll be okay,” Myron said, stepping toward her.

“Please.” Claire held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t waste time handing me platitudes, okay?”

He nodded, slipped into her SUV. He wondered about his next destination. Maybe he’d head back to school. Talk to the principal. Maybe the principal could call Randy or Harry Davis into his office. But then what?

The cell phone sounded. Again the caller ID gave him no information. Caller ID technology was fairly useless. The people you wanted to avoid just blocked the service anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hey, handsome, I just got your message.”

It was Gail Berruti, his contact from the phone company. He had forgotten all about the crank calls referring to him as a “bastard.” It seemed unimportant now, just some sort of childish prank, except that maybe, just maybe, there was a connection. Claire had noted that Myron brought destruction. Maybe someone from his past was out to get him. Maybe somehow Aimee had gotten tangled up in that.

It was the longest of long shots.

“I haven’t heard from you in forever,” Berruti said.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.”

“Or not busy, I guess. How are you?”

“I’m pretty good. Were you able to trace the number?”

“It’s not a trace, Myron. You said that in your phone message. ‘Trace the number.’ It’s not a trace. I just had to look it up.”

“Whatever.”

“Not whatever. You know better. It’s like on TV. You ever watch a phone trace on TV? They always say to keep the guy on the line so they can trace the call. That’s nonsense, you know. You trace it right away. It’s immediate. It doesn’t take time. Why do they do that?”

“It’s more suspenseful,” Myron said.

“It’s dumb. They do everything ass-backward on TV. I’m watching some cop show the other night, and it takes five minutes to do a DNA test. My husband works in the crime lab at John Jay. They’re lucky if they get a DNA confirmation in a month. Meanwhile the phone stuff—all of which can be done in minutes with the touch of a computer—that takes them forever. And the bad guy always hangs up just before they get the location. Have you ever seen the trace work? Never. Pisses me off, you know?”

Myron tried to get Berruti back on track. “So you looked up the number?”

“I got it here. Curious though: Why do you need it?”

“Since when do you care?”

“Good point. Okay, let’s get to it then. First off, whoever it was wanted to be anonymous. The call was from a pay phone.”

“Where?”

“The location is near one-ten Livingston Avenue in Livingston, New Jersey.”

The center of town, Myron thought. Near his local Starbucks and his dry cleaner. Myron thought about that. A dead end? Maybe. But he had a thought.

“I need you to do me two more favors, Gail,” Myron said.

“Favor implies nonpayment.”

“Semantics,” Myron said. “You know I’ll take care of you.”

“Yeah, I know. So what do you need?”

Harry Davis taught a lesson on A Separate Peace by John Knowles. He tried to concentrate, but the words were coming out as if he were reading off a prompter in a language he didn’t quite understand. The students took notes. He wondered if they noticed that he wasn’t really there, that he was going through the motions. The sad part was, he suspected that they didn’t.

Why did Myron Bolitar want to talk to him?

He did not know Myron Bolitar personally, but you don’t walk around the corridors of this school for more than two decades without knowing who he was. The guy was a legend here. He held every basketball record the school ever had.

So why had he wanted to talk to him?

Randy Wolf had known who he was. His father had warned him not to talk to Myron. Why?

“Mr. D? Yo, Mr. D?”

The voice fought through the fog in his head.

“Yes, Sam.”

“Can I, like, go to the bathroom?”

“Go.”

Harry Davis stopped then. He put down the chalk and looked over the faces in front of him. No, they weren’t beaming. Most of them were eyes-down in their notebooks. Vladimir Khomenko, a new exchange student, had his head down on his desk, probably asleep. Others looked out the window. Some sat so low in their chairs, with spines seemingly created from Jell-O, Davis was surprised that they didn’t slip to the floor.

But he cared about them. Some more than others. But he cared about all of them. They were his life. And for the first time, after all these years, Harry Davis was starting to feel it all slip away.

CHAPTER 31

Myron had a headache, and quickly realized why. He hadn’t had coffee yet that day. So he headed over to Starbucks with two thoughts in mind—caffeine and pay phone. The caffeine was taken care of by a grunge barista with a soul patch and long frontal hair that looked like a giant eyelash. The pay phone problem would take a little more work.

Myron sat at an outdoor table and eyed the offending pay phone. It was awfully public. He walked over to it. There were stickers on the phone advertising 800 numbers to call for discount calls. The most prominent one was offering “free night calls” and had a picture of a quarter moon in case you didn’t know what night was.

Myron frowned. He wanted to ask the pay phone who had dialed his number and called him a bastard and said that he’d pay for what he’d done. But the phone wouldn’t talk to him. It had been that kind of day.

He sat back down and tried to figure out what he needed to do. He still wanted to talk to Randy Wolf and Harry Davis. They probably wouldn’t tell him much—they probably wouldn’t talk to him at all—but he would figure a way to get a run at them. He also needed to interview that doctor who worked at St. Barnabas, Edna Skylar. She had purportedly seen Katie Rochester in New York. He wanted some details on that.

He called St. Barnabas’s switchboard and after two brief explanations, Edna Skylar got on the phone. Myron explained what he wanted.

Edna Skylar sounded annoyed. “I asked the investigators to keep my name out of this.”

“They have.”

“So how do you know it?”

“I have good contacts.”

She thought about that. “What’s your standing in this, Mr. Bolitar?”

“Another girl has gone missing.”

No response.

“I think there may be a connection between this girl and Katie Rochester.”

“How?”

“Could we meet? I can explain everything then.”

“I really don’t know anything.”

“Please.” There was a pause. “Dr. Skylar?”

“When I saw the Rochester girl, she indicated that she didn’t want to be found.”

“I understand that. I just need a few minutes.”

“I have patients for the next hour. I can see you at noon.”

“Thank you,” he said, but Edna Skylar had already hung up.

Lithium Larry Kidwell and the Medicated Five shuffled into Starbucks. Larry headed right for his table.

“Fourteen hundred eighty-eight planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-eight. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”

Larry looked as awful as always. Geographically, they were so close to their old high school, but what had his favorite restaurateur, Peter Chin, said about years flying by but the heart staying the same? Well, only the heart then.

“Good to know,” Myron said. He looked back at the pay phone and a thought struck him hard and fast: “Wait.”

“Huh?”

“Last time I saw you there were fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets, right?”

Larry looked confused. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” Myron’s mind started racing. “And if I’m not mistaken, you said the next planet was mine. You said it was out to get me and something about stroking the moon.”

Larry’s eyes lit up. “Stroking the moon sliver. He hates you bad.”

“Where is that moon sliver?”

“In the Aerolis solar system. By Guanchomitis.”

“Are you sure, Larry? Are you sure it’s not . . .” Myron rose and walked him to the pay phone. Larry cringed. Myron pointed to the sticker, to the image of the quarter moon on the ad for free night calls. Larry gasped.

“Is this the moon sliver?”

“Oh please, oh my god, oh please . . .”

“Calm down, Larry. Who else wants that planet? Who hates me enough to stroke the moon sliver?”

Twenty minutes later, Myron headed into Chang’s Dry Cleaning. Maxine Chang was there, of course. There were three people in line. Myron didn’t get behind them. He stood to the side and crossed his arms. Maxine kept sneaking glances at him. Myron waited until the customers were gone. Then he approached.

“Where’s Roger?” he asked.

“He has school.”

Myron met her eye. “Do you know he’s been calling me?”

“Why would he call you?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have a friend at the phone company. Roger called me from that booth over there. I have reliable witnesses who can place him there at the right time.” That was more than an exaggeration, but Myron went with it. “He threatened me. He called me a bastard.”

“Roger wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t want to get him in trouble, Maxine. What’s going on?”

Another customer came in. Maxine shouted something out in Chinese. An elderly woman came out of the back and took over. Maxine gestured with her head for Myron to follow her. He did. They walked past the tracks of moving hangers. When he was a kid, the metallic whir of the tracks had always amazed him, like something out of a cool sci-fi movie. Maxine kept walking until they were out in the back alley.

“Roger is a good boy,” she said. “He works so hard.”

“What’s going on, Maxine? When I was in here the other day, you were acting funny.”

“You don’t understand how hard it is. To live in a town like this.”

He did—he had lived here his whole life—but he held his tongue.

“Roger worked so hard. He got good grades. Number four in his class. These other kids. They’re spoiled. All have private tutors. They don’t work a real job. Roger, he works here every day after school. He studies in the back room. He doesn’t go to parties. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Other parents hire people to write their children’s essays. They pay for classes to improve their boards. They donate money to the big schools. They do other things, I don’t even know. It’s so important, where you go to college. It can decide your whole life. Everyone is so scared, they do anything, anything to get their kid in the right school. This town, you see it all the time. Nice people maybe, but you can justify any evil as long as you can say, ‘It’s for my child.’ You understand?”

“I do, but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“I need you to understand. That’s what we have to compete with. With all that money and power. With people who cheat and steal and will do anything.”

“If you’re telling me that college acceptance is competitive in this town, I know that. It was competitive when I graduated.”

“But you had basketball.”

“Yes.”

“Roger is such a good student. He works so hard. And his dream is to go to Duke. He told you that. You probably don’t remember.”

“I remember him saying something about applying there. I don’t remember him saying it was his dream or anything. He just listed a bunch of schools.”

“It was his first choice,” Maxine Chang said firmly. “And if Roger makes it, there is a scholarship waiting for him. He’d have his tuition paid for. That was so important to us. But he didn’t get in. Even though he was number four in his class. Even though he had very good boards. Better boards—and better grades—than Aimee Biel.”

Maxine Chang looked at Myron with heavy eyes.

“Wait a second. Are you blaming me because Roger didn’t get into Duke?”

“I don’t know much, Myron. I’m just a dry cleaner. But a school like Duke almost never takes more than one student from a specific high school in New Jersey. Aimee Biel made it. Roger had better grades. He had better board scores. He had great teacher recommendations. Neither of them are athletes. Roger plays the violin, Aimee plays guitar.” Maxine Chang shrugged.

“So you tell me: Why did she get in and not Roger?”

He wanted to protest, but the truth stopped him. He had written a letter. He had even called his friend in admissions. People do stuff like that all the time. It doesn’t mean that Roger Chang was denied admission. But simple math: When one person gets a spot, someone else doesn’t.

Maxine’s voice was a plea. “Roger was just so angry.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“No, it’s not. I will talk to him. He will apologize to you, I promise.”

But another thought came to Myron. “Was Roger just mad at me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Was he mad at Aimee too?”

Maxine Chang frowned. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because the next call on that pay phone was to Aimee Biel’s cell phone. Was Roger angry with her? Resentful maybe?”

“Not Roger, no. He’s not like that.”

“Right, he’d only call me and make threats.”

“He didn’t mean anything. He was just lashing out.”

“I need to talk to Roger.”

“What? No, I forbid it.”

“Fine, I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them about the threatening calls.”

Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

He would. Maybe he should. But not yet. “I want to talk to him.”

“He’ll be here after school.”

“Then I’ll be back at three. If he’s not here, I’m going to the police.”

CHAPTER 32

Dr. Edna Skylar met Myron in the lobby of St. Barnabas Medical Center. She had all the props—a white coat, a name tag with the hospital logo, a stethoscope dangling across her neck, a clipboard in her hand. She had that impressive doctor bearing too, complete with the enviable posture, the small smile, the firm-but-not-too-firm handshake.

Myron introduced himself. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Tell me about the missing girl.”

Her voice left no room for arguments. Myron needed her to trust him, so he launched into the story, keeping Aimee’s last name out of it. They both stood in the middle of the lobby. Patients and visitors walked on either side of them, some coming very close.

Myron said, “Maybe we could go somewhere private.”

Edna Skylar smiled, but there was no joy in it. “These people are preoccupied with things much more important to them than us.”

Myron nodded. He saw an old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask. He saw a pale woman in an ill-fitted wig checking in with a look both resigned and bewildered, as if she was wondering if she’d ever check out and if it even mattered anymore.

Edna Skylar watched him. “A lot of death in here,” she said.

“How do you do it?” Myron asked.

“You want the standard cliché about being able to detach the personal from the professional?”

“Not really.”

“The truth is, I don’t know. My work is interesting. It never gets old. I see death a lot. That never gets old either. It hasn’t helped me to accept my own mortality or any of that. Just the opposite. Death is a constant outrage. Life is more valuable than you can ever imagine. I’ve seen that, the real value of life, not the usual platitudes we hear about it. Death is the enemy. I don’t accept it. I fight it.”

“And that never gets tiring?”

“Sure it does. But what else am I going to do? Bake cookies? Work on Wall Street?” She looked around. “Come on, you’re right—it’s distracting out here. Walk with me, but I’m on a tight schedule so keep talking.”

Myron told her the rest of the story of Aimee’s disappearance. He kept it as short as possible—kept his own name out of it—but he made sure to hit upon the fact that both girls used the same ATM. She asked a few questions, mostly small clarifications. They reached her office and sat down.

“Sounds like she ran away,” Edna Skylar said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Someone leaked you my name, is that correct?”

“More or less.”

“So you have some idea what I saw?”

“Just the basics. What you said convinced the investigators that Katie was a runaway. I’m just wondering if you saw something that makes you think differently.”

“No. And I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my head.”

“You’re aware,” Myron said, “that kidnap victims often identify with their abductors.”

“I know all that. The Stockholm syndrome and all its bizarre offshoots. But it just didn’t seem that way. Katie didn’t look particularly exhausted. The body language was right. There wasn’t panic in her eyes or any kind of cult-like zealousness. Her eyes were clear, in fact. I didn’t see signs of drugs there, though granted I only got a brief look.”

“Where exactly did you first see her?’

“On Eighth Avenue near Twenty-first Street.”

“And she was heading into the subway?”

“Yes.”

“A couple of trains go through that station.”

“She was taking the C train.”

The C train basically ran north-south through Manhattan. That wouldn’t help.

“Tell me about the man she was with.”

“Thirty to thirty-five. Average height. Nice looking. Long, dark hair. Two-day beard.”

“Scars, tattoos, anything like that?”

Edna Skylar shook her head and told him the story, how she’d been walking on the street with her husband, how Katie looked different, older, more sophisticated, different hair, how she wasn’t even positive it was Katie until Katie uttered those final words: “You can’t tell anybody you saw me.”

“And you said she seemed scared?”

“Yes.”

“But not of the man she was with?”

“That’s right. May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I know something about you,” she said. “No, I’m not a basketball fan, but Google works wonders. I use it all the time. With patients too. If I’m seeing someone new, I check them out online.”

“Okay.”

“So my question is, why are you trying to find the girl?”

“I’m a family friend.”

“But why you?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Edna Skylar gave that a second, seemingly unsure if she should accept his vague response. “How are her parents holding up?”

“Not well.”

“Their daughter is most likely safe. Like Katie.”

“Could be.”

“You should tell them that. Offer them some comfort. Let them know she’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think it’ll do any good.”

She looked off. Something crossed her face.

“Dr. Skylar?”

“One of my children ran away,” Edna Skylar said. “He was seventeen. You know the nature versus nurture question? Well, I was a crappy mother. I know that. But my son was trouble from day one. He got into fights. He shoplifted. He got arrested when he was sixteen for stealing a car. He was heavily into drugs, though I don’t think I knew it at that time. This was in the days before we talked about ADD or put kids on Ritalin or any of that. If that was a serious option, I probably would have done it. I reacted instead by withdrawing and hoping he’d outgrow it. I didn’t get involved in his life. I didn’t give him direction.”

She said it all matter-of-factly.

“Anyway, when he ran away, I didn’t do anything. I almost expected it. A week passed. Two weeks. He didn’t call. I didn’t know where he was. Children are a blessing. But they also rip your heart out in ways you could never imagine.”

Edna Skylar stopped.

“What happened to him?” Myron asked.

“Nothing overly dramatic. He eventually called. He was out on the West Coast, trying to become a big star. He needed money. He stayed out there for two years. Failed at everything he did. Then he came back. He’s still a mess. I try to love him, to care about him, but”—she shrugged—“doctoring comes natural to me. Mothering does not.”

Edna Skylar looked at Myron. He could see that she wasn’t finished, so he waited.

“I wish . . .” Her throat caught. “It’s a horrible cliché, but more than anything, I wish I could start over again. I love my son, I really do, but I don’t know what to do for him. He may be beyond hope. I know how cold that sounds, but when you make professional diagnoses all day, you tend to make them in your personal life too. My point is, I’ve learned that I can’t control those I love. So I control those I don’t.”

“I’m not following,” Myron said.

“My patients,” she explained. “They are strangers, but I care a great deal about them. It’s not because I’m a generous or wonderful person, but because in my mind, they are still innocent. And I judge them. I know that’s wrong. I know that I should treat every patient the same, and in terms of treatment, I think I do. But the fact is, if I Google the person and see that they spent time in jail or seem like a lowlife, I try to get them to go to another doctor.”

“You prefer the innocents,” Myron said.

“Precisely. Those whom—I know how this will sound—those whom I deem pure. Or at least, purer.”

Myron thought about his own recent reasoning, how the life of the Twins held no value to him, about how many civilians he’d sacrifice to save his own son. Was this reasoning that much different?

“So what I’m trying to say is, I think about this girl’s parents, the ones you said aren’t doing well, and I worry about them. I want to help.”

Before Myron could respond, there was a light rap on the door. It opened, and a head of gray hair popped through. Myron rose. The gray-haired man stepped all the way in and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were with someone.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Edna Skylar said, “but maybe you could come back later?”

“Of course.”

The gray-haired man wore a white coat too. He spotted Myron and smiled. Myron recognized the smile. Edna Skylar wasn’t a basketball fan, but this guy was. Myron stuck out his hand. “Myron Bolitar.”

“Oh, I know who you are. I’m Stanley Rickenback. Better known as Mr. Dr. Edna Skylar.”

They shook hands.

“I saw you play at Duke,” Stanley Rickenback said. “You were something else.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see if my blushing bride wanted to join me for the lunchtime culinary delight that is our hospital cafeteria.”

“I was just leaving,” Myron said. Then: “You were with your wife when she saw Katie Rochester, weren’t you?”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“No.”

Edna Skylar was already up. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “Let’s hurry. I have patients in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, I was there,” Stanley Rickenback said to Myron. “Why, what’s your interest?”

“I’m looking into the disappearance of another girl.”

“Wait, another girl ran away?”

“Could be. I’d like to hear your impressions, Dr. Rickenback.”

“Of what?”

“Did Katie Rochester seem like a runaway to you too?”

“Yes.”

“You seem pretty sure,” Myron said.

“She was with a man. She made no move to escape. She asked Edna not to tell anybody and—” Rickenback turned to his wife. “Did you tell him?”

Edna made a face. “Let’s just go.”

“Tell me what?”

“My darling Stanley is getting old and senile,” Edna said. “He imagines things.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. You have your expertise. I have mine.”

“Your expertise?” Myron said.

“It’s nothing,” Edna said.

“It’s not nothing,” Stanley insisted.

“Fine,” Edna said. “Tell him what you think you saw.”

Stanley turned to Myron. “My wife told you about how she studies faces. That was how she recognized the girl. She looks at people and tries to make a diagnosis. Just for fun. I don’t do that. I leave my work at the office.”

“What is your specialty, Dr. Rickenback?”

He smiled. “That’s the thing.”

“What is?”

“I’m an ob-gyn. I didn’t really think about it then. But when we got home, I looked up pictures of Katie Rochester on the Web. You know, the ones released to the media. I wanted to see if it was the same girl we saw in the subway. And that was why I’m fairly certain of what I saw.”

“Which is?”

Stanley suddenly seemed unsure of himself.

“See?” Edna shook her head. “This is such total nonsense.”

“It might be,” Stanley Rickenback agreed.

Myron said, “But?”

“But either Katie Rochester put on some weight,” Stanley Rickenback said, “or maybe, just maybe, she’s pregnant.”

CHAPTER 33

Harry Davis gave his class a phony-baloney read-this-chapter-now assignment and headed out. His students were surprised. Other teachers played that card all the time, the do-busy-silent-work-so-I-can-catch-a-smoke card. But Mr. D, Teacher of the Year four years running, never did that.

The corridors at Livingston High were ridiculously long. When he was alone in one, like right now, looking down to the end made him dizzy. But that was Harry Davis. He didn’t like it quiet. He liked it lively, when this artery was loaded with noise and kids and backpacks and adolescent angst.

He found the classroom, gave the door a quick knock, and stuck his head in. Drew Van Dyne taught mostly malfeasants. The room reflected that. Half the kids had iPods in their ears. Some sat on top of their desks. Others leaned against the window. A beefy guy was making out with a girl in the back corner, their mouths open and wide. You could see the saliva.

Drew Van Dyne had his feet on the desk, his hands folded on his lap. He turned toward Harry Davis.

“Mr. Van Dyne? May I speak with you a moment?”

Drew Van Dyne gave him the cocky grin. Van Dyne was probably thirty-five, ten years younger than Davis. He’d come in as a music teacher eight years ago. He looked the part, the former rock ’n’ roller who woulda-shoulda made it to the top except the stupid record companies could never understand his true genius. So now he gave guitar lessons and worked in a music store where he scoffed at your pedestrian taste in CDs.

Recent cutbacks in the music department had forced Van Dyne into whatever class was closest to babysitting.

“Why of course, Mr. D.”

The two teachers stepped into the hallway. The doors were thick. When it closed, the corridor was silent again.

Van Dyne still had the cocky grin. “I’m just about to start my lesson, Mr. D. What can I do for you?”

Davis whispered because every sound echoed out here. “Did you hear about Aimee Biel?”

“Who?”

“Aimee Biel. A student here.”

“I don’t think she’s one of mine.”

“She’s missing, Drew.”

Van Dyne said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“I just said I don’t know her.”

“Drew—”

“And,” Van Dyne interrupted, “I think we’d be notified if a student had gone missing, don’t you?”

“The police think she’s a runaway.”

“And you don’t?” Van Dyne held on to the grin, maybe even spread it a bit. “The police will want to know why you feel that way, Mr. D. Maybe you should go to them. Tell them all you know.”

“I might just do that.”

“Good.” Van Dyne leaned closer and whispered. “I think the police would definitely want to know when you last saw Aimee, don’t you?”

Van Dyne leaned back and waited for Davis’s reaction.

“You see, Mr. D,” Van Dyne went on, “they’ll need to know everything. They’ll need to know where she went, who she talked to, what they talked about. They’ll probably look into all that, don’t you think? Maybe open up a full investigation into the wonderful works of our Teacher of the Year.”

“How do you . . . ?” Davis felt the quake start in his legs. “You have more to lose than I do.”

“Really?” Drew Van Dyne was so close now that Davis could feel the spittle in his face. “Tell me, Mr. D. What exactly do I have to lose? My lovely house in scenic Ridgewood? My sterling reputation as a beloved teacher? My perky wife who shares my passion for educating the young? Or maybe my lovely daughters who look up to me so?”

They stood there for a moment, still in each other’s face. Davis couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the distance, another world maybe, he heard a bell ring. Doors flew open. Students poured out. The arteries filled with their laughter and angst. It all grabbed hold of Harry Davis. He closed his eyes and let it, let it sweep him away to someplace far away from Drew Van Dyne, someplace he’d much rather be.

The Livingston Mall was aging and trying hard not to show it, but the improvements came across more like a bad face-lift than true youth.

Bedroom Rendezvous was located on the lower level. To some, the lingerie store was like Victoria’s Secret’s trailer-park cousin, but the truth was, the cousins were really a lot alike. It was all about presentation. The sexy models on the big posters were closer to porno stars, with wagging tongues and suggestive hand placement. The Bedroom Rendezvous slogan, which was centered across the buxom models’ cleavage, read: WHAT KIND OF WOMAN DO YOU WANT TO TAKE TO BED?

“A hot one,” Myron said out loud. It was again not that different from Victoria’s Secret commercials, the one where Tyra and Frederique are all oiled up and ask, “What is sexy?” Answer: Really hot women. The clothing seems beside the point.

The saleswoman wore a tight tiger print. She had big hair and chewed gum, but there was a confidence there that somehow made it work. Her tag read SALLY ANN.

“Looking to make a purchase?” Sally Ann asked.

“I doubt you have anything in my size,” Myron said.

“You’d be surprised. So what’s the deal?” She motioned toward the poster. “You just like staring at the cleavage?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not why I’m here.” Myron pulled out a photograph of Aimee. “Do you recognize this girl?”

“Are you a cop?”

“I might be.”

“Nah.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sally Ann shrugged. “So what are you after?”

“This girl is missing. I’m trying to find her.”

“Let me take a look.”

Myron handed her the photograph. Sally Ann studied it. “She looks familiar.”

“A customer maybe?”

“No. I remember customers.”

Myron reached into a plastic bag and pulled out the white outfit he’d found in Aimee’s drawer. “This look familiar?”

“Sure. It’s from our Naughty-pout line.”

“Did you sell this one?”

“It could be. I’ve sold a few.”

“The tag is still on it. Do you think you could trace down who purchased it?”

Sally Ann frowned and pointed at the picture of Aimee. “You think your missing girl bought it?”

“I found it in her drawer.”

“Yeah, but still.”

“Still what?”

“It’s too slutty and uncomfortable.”

“And, what, she looks classy?”

“No, not that. Women rarely buy this one. Men do. The material is itchy. It rides up the crotch. This is a man’s fantasy, not a woman’s. It’s a bit like porno videos.” Sally Ann cocked her head and worked the gum. “Have you ever watched a porno flick?”

Myron kept his face blank. “Never, ever, never,” he said.

Sally Ann laughed. “Right. Anyway, when a woman picks out the film, it’s totally different. It usually has a story or maybe a title with the word ‘sensuous’ or ‘loving’ in it. It might be raunchy or whatever, but it usually isn’t called something like Dirty Whore 5. You know what I mean?”

“Let’s assume I do. And this outfit?”

“It’s the equivalent.”

“Of Dirty Whore Whatever?”

“Right. No woman would pick it out.”

“So how do I find out who bought it for her?”

“We don’t keep records or anything like that. I could ask some of the other girls, but . . .” Sally Ann shrugged.

Myron thanked her and headed out. As a young boy, Myron had come here with his dad. They had frequented Herman’s Sporting Goods back then. The store was now out of business. But as he exited Bedroom Rendezvous, he still looked down the corridor, to where Herman’s used to be. And two doors down, he spotted a store with a familiar name.

PLANET MUSIC.

Myron flashed back to Aimee’s room. Planet Music. The guitars had been from Planet Music. There had been receipts in Aimee’s drawer from there. And here it was, her favorite music shop, located two stores down from Bedroom Rendezvous.

Another coincidence?

In Myron’s youth, the store in this spot had sold pianos and organs. Myron had always wondered about that. Piano-organ stores at malls. You go to the mall to buy clothes, a CD, a toy, maybe a stereo. Who goes to the mall to buy a piano?

Clearly not many people.

The pianos and organs were gone. Planet Music sold CDs and smaller instruments. They had signs for rentals. Trumpets, clarinets, violins—probably did a big business with the schools.

The kid behind the counter was maybe twenty-three, wore a hemp poncho, and looked like a seedier version of the average Starbucks barista. He had a dusty knit hat atop a shaved head. He sported the now seemingly prerequisite soul patch.

Myron gave him the stern eye and slapped the picture down on the counter. “You know her?”

The kid hesitated a second too long. Myron jumped in.

“You answer my questions, you don’t get busted.”

“Busted for what?”

“Do you know her?”

He nodded. “That’s Aimee.”

“She shops here?”

“Sure, all the time,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere but on Myron. “And she understands music too. Most people come in here, they ask for boy bands.” He said boy bands the way most people say bestiality. “But Aimee, she rocks.”

“How well do you know her?”

“Not very. I mean, she doesn’t come here for me.”

The poncho kid stopped then.

“Who does she come here for?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I don’t want to make you empty your pockets.”

He raised his hands. “Hey, I’m totally clean.”

“Then I’ll plant something on you.”

“What the . . . You serious?”

“Cancer serious.” Myron worked the stern eye again. He wasn’t great at the stern eye. The strain was giving him a headache. “Who does she come here to see?”

“My assistant manager.”

“He have a name?”

“Drew. Drew Van Dyne.”

“Is he here?”

“No. He comes in this afternoon.”

“You got an address for him? A phone number?”

“Hey,” the kid said, suddenly wise. “Let me see your badge.”

“Bye now.”

Myron headed out of the store. He found Sally Ann again.

She clacked the gum. “Back so soon?”

“Couldn’t stay away,” Myron said. “Do you know a guy who works at Planet Music named Drew Van Dyne?”

“Oh,” she said, nodding as though it all made sense now. “Oh yes.”

CHAPTER 34

Claire jumped at the sound of the phone.

She had not slept since Aimee had gone missing. In the past two days Claire had imbibed enough coffee, and thus the caffeine, to be wired for sound. She kept going back to the Rochesters’ visit, the father’s anger, the mother’s meekness. The mother. Joan Rochester. Something was definitely up with that woman.

Claire spent the morning going through Aimee’s room while wondering about how to get Joan Rochester to talk. A mother-to-mother approach, maybe. Aimee’s room held no new surprises. Claire started going through old boxes, stuff she’d saved from what seemed like two weeks ago. The pencil holder Aimee made Erik in preschool. Her first-grade report card—all As, plus Mrs. Rohrbach’s comment that Aimee was a gifted student, fun to have in class, and had a bright future. She stared at the words bright future, letting them mock her.

The phone jangled a nerve. She dove for it, hoping once again that it was Aimee, that this was all some silly misunderstanding, that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for where she was.

“Hello?”

“She’s fine.”

The voice was robotic. Neither male nor female. Like an edgier version of the one who tells you that your call is valued and to hold for the next available representative.

“Who is this?”

“She’s fine. Just let it be. You have my word.”

“Who is this? Let me speak to Aimee.”

But the only response was a dial tone.

Joan Rochester said, “Dominick isn’t home right now.”

“I know,” Myron said. “I want to talk to you.”

“Me?” As if the very idea of someone wanting to talk to her was a shock on par with a Mars landing. “But why?”

“Please, Mrs. Rochester, it’s very important.”

“I think we should wait for Dominick.”

Myron pushed past her. “I don’t.”

The house was neat and orderly. It was all straight lines and right angles. No curves, no surprising splashes of color, everything standing upright, as if the very room didn’t want to draw attention to itself.

“Can I fix you some coffee?”

“Where is your daughter, Mrs. Rochester?”

She blinked maybe a dozen times in rapid succession. Myron knew men who blinked like that. They were always the guys who were bullied in school as kids and never got over it. She managed to stammer out the word, “What?”

“Where is Katie?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

More blinking. Myron did not let himself feel sorry for her. “Why . . . I’m not lying.”

“You know where Katie is. I assume you have a reason for keeping quiet about it. I assume it involves your husband. That isn’t my concern.”

Joan Rochester tried to straighten her back. “I’d like you to leave this house.”

“No.”

“Then I’m going to call my husband.”

“I have phone records,” Myron said.

More blinking. She put up her hand like she was warding off a blow.

“For your mobile. Your husband wouldn’t check that. And even if he did, an incoming call from a pay phone in New York City probably wouldn’t mean much. But I know about a woman named Edna Skylar.”

Confusion replaced the fear. “Who?”

“She’s a doctor at St. Barnabas. She spotted your daughter in Manhattan. More specifically, near Twenty-third Street. You’ve received several phone calls at seven P.M. from a phone booth four blocks away, which is close enough.”

“Those calls weren’t from my daughter.”

“No?”

“They were from a friend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My friend shops in the city. She likes to call when she finds something interesting. To get my opinion.”

“On a pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“Her name?”

“I’m not going to tell you that. And I insist you leave this very instant.”

Myron shrugged, threw up his hands. “I guess this is a dead end for me then.”

Joan Rochester was blinking again. She was about to start blinking some more.

“But maybe your husband will have more luck.”

All color drained from her face.

“I might as well tell him what I know. You can explain about your friend who likes to shop. He’ll believe you, don’t you think?”

Terror widened her eyes. “You have no idea what he’s like.”

“I think I do. He had two goons try to torture me.”

“That’s because he thought you knew what happened to Katie.”

“And you let him, Mrs. Rochester. You’d have let him torture and maybe kill me, and you knew that I had nothing to do with it.”

She stopped blinking. “You can’t tell my husband. Please.”

“I have no interest in harming your daughter. I’m only interested in finding Aimee Biel.”

“I don’t know anything about that girl.”

“But your daughter might.”

Joan Rochester shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

Joan Rochester walked away, just leaving him there. She crossed the room. When she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears. “If he finds out. If he finds her . . .”

“He won’t.”

She shook her head again.

“I promise,” he said.

His words—yet another seemingly empty promise—echoed in the still room.

“Where is she, Mrs. Rochester? I just need to talk to her.”

Her eyes started moving around the room as if she suspected her breakfront might overhear them. She stepped toward the back door and opened it. She signaled for him to go outside.

“Where is Katie?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

“Mrs. Rochester, I really don’t have time—”

“The calls.”

“What about them?”

“You said they came from New York?”

“Yes.”

She looked off.

“What?”

“Maybe that’s where she is.”

“You really don’t know?”

“Katie wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t ask either.”

“Why not?”

Joan Rochester’s eyes were perfect circles. “If I don’t know,” she said, finally meeting his eye, “then he can’t make me tell.”

Next door a lawn mower started up, shattering the silence. Myron waited a moment. “But you’ve heard from Katie?”

“Yes.”

“And you know she’s safe.”

“Not from him.”

“But in general, I mean. She wasn’t kidnapped or anything like that.”

She nodded slowly.

“Edna Skylar spotted her with a dark-haired man. Who is he?”

“You’re underestimating Dominick. Please don’t do that. Just let us be. You’re trying to find another girl. Katie has nothing to do with her.”

“They both used the same ATM machine.”

“That’s a coincidence.”

Myron did not bother arguing. “When is Katie calling again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you’re not much use to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I need to talk to your daughter. If you can’t help me, I’ll have to take the chance that your husband can.”

She just shook her head.

“I know she’s pregnant,” Myron said.

Joan Rochester groaned.

“You don’t understand,” she said again.

“Then tell me.”

“The dark-haired man . . . His name is Rufus. If Dom finds out, he’ll kill him. It is that simple. And I don’t know what he’ll do to Katie.”

“So what’s their plan? Hide forever?”

“I doubt they have a plan.”

“And Dominick doesn’t know about any of this?”

“He’s not stupid. He thinks Katie probably ran away.”

Myron thought about it. “Then I don’t get something. If he suspects Katie ran away, why did he go to the press?”

Joan Rochester smiled then, but it was the saddest smile Myron had ever seen. “Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“He likes to win. No matter what the cost.”

“I still don’t—”

“He did it to put pressure on them. He wants to find Katie. He doesn’t care about anything else. That’s his strength. He doesn’t mind taking hits. Big hits. Dom doesn’t embarrass. He never feels shame. He’s willing to lose or suffer to make you hurt and suffer more. That’s the kind of man he is.”

They fell quiet. Myron wanted to ask why she stayed married to him, but that wasn’t his business. There were so many cases of abused women in this country. He’d like to help, but Joan Rochester wouldn’t accept it—and he had more pressing matters on his mind. He thought back to the Twins, about not being bothered by their deaths, about Edna Skylar and the way she handled what she thought of as her purer patients.

Joan Rochester had made her choice. Or maybe she was just a little less innocent than the others.

“You should tell the police,” Myron said.

“Tell them what?”

“That your daughter is a runaway.”

She snorted. “You don’t get it, do you? Dom would find out. He has sources in the department. How do you think he found out about you so fast?”

But, Myron realized, he hadn’t learned about Edna Skylar. Yet. So his sources weren’t infallible. Myron wondered if he could use that, but he didn’t see how. He moved closer now. He took Joan Rochester’s hands in his and made her look him in the eye.

“Your daughter will be safe. I guarantee it. But I need to talk to her. That’s all. Just talk. Do you understand?”

She swallowed. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Myron said nothing.

“If I don’t cooperate, you’ll go to Dom.”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“Katie is supposed to call me tonight at seven,” she said. “I’ll let you talk to her then.”

CHAPTER 35

Win called Myron on the cell phone.

“Drew Van Dyne, your assistant Planet Music manager, is also a teacher at Livingston High.”

“Well, well,” Myron said.

“Indeed.”

Myron was on his way to pick up Claire. She had told him about the “she’s fine” phone call. Myron had immediately reached out for Berruti, who was, as the voice mail informed him, “away from her desk.” He told her what he needed in the message.

Now Myron and Claire were going to Livingston High to check out Aimee’s locker. Myron also hoped to catch up with her ex, Randy Wolf. And Harry “Mr. D” Davis. And now, most of all, Drew “Music Teacher–Lingerie Buyer” Van Dyne.

“You have anything else on him?”

“Van Dyne is married, no kids. He’s had two DUIs in the past four years and one drug arrest. He has a juvie record but it’s sealed. That’s all I have so far.”

“So what is he doing buying lingerie for a student like Aimee Biel?”

“Pretty obvious, I would say.”

“I just talked to Mrs. Rochester. Katie got pregnant and ran away with her boyfriend.”

“A not-uncommon story.”

“No. But what—do we think Aimee did the same?”

“Ran away with her boyfriend? Not likely. No one has reported Van Dyne missing.”

“He doesn’t have to go missing. Katie’s boyfriend is probably afraid of Dominick Rochester. That’s why he’s with her. But if no one knew about Aimee and Van Dyne . . .”

“Mr. Van Dyne would have little to fear.”

“Exactly.”

“So pray tell, why would Aimee run away?”

“Because she’s pregnant.”

“Bah,” Win said.

“Bah what?”

“What precisely would Aimee Biel be afraid of?” Win asked. “Erik is hardly a Dominick Rochester type.”

Win had a point. “Maybe Aimee didn’t run away. Maybe she got pregnant and wanted to have it. Maybe she told her boyfriend, Drew Van Dyne . . .”

“Who,” Win picked up the thread, “as a schoolteacher, would be ruined if word got out.”

“Yes.”

It made awful sense. “There’s still one big hole,” Myron said.

“That being?”

“Both girls used the same ATM machine. Look, the rest doesn’t even rise to the level of coincidence. Two girls getting pregnant in a school with almost a thousand girls? It is statistically insignificant. Even if you add two girls running away because of it, okay, the odds that there is a connection rise, but it’s still more than plausible that they aren’t related, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Win agreed.

“But then you add in both using the same ATM machine. How do we explain that?”

Win said, “Your little statistical diagnosis goes through the roof.”

“So we’re missing something.”

“We’re missing everything. At this stage, this whole matter is too flimsy to label supposition.”

Another point for Win. They might be theorizing too early, but they were getting close. There were other factors too, like Roger Chang’s threatening “bastard” phone calls. That might be connected, might not be. He also didn’t know how Harry Davis fit in. Maybe he was a liaison between Van Dyne and Aimee, but that seemed a stretch. And what should Myron make of Claire’s “she’s fine” phone call? Myron wondered about the timing and the motive—to comfort or terrorize; and either way, why?—but so far, nothing had come to him.

“Okay,” Myron said to Win, “are we all set for tonight?”

“We are indeed.”

“I’ll talk to you later then.”

Win hung up as Myron pulled into Claire and Erik’s driveway. Claire was out the front door before Myron came to a complete stop.

“You okay?” he asked.

Claire didn’t bother answering the obvious. “Did you hear from your phone contact?”

“Not yet. Do you know a teacher at Livingston High named Drew Van Dyne?”

“No.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“You remember the lingerie I found in her room? I think he might have bought it for her.”

Her face reddened. “A teacher?”

“He worked at that music store at the mall.”

“Planet Music.”

“Yes.”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Myron put a hand on her arm. “You have to stay with me, Claire, okay? I need you to be calm and focus.”

“Don’t patronize me, Myron.”

“I don’t mean to, but look, if you go off half-cocked when we get to the school—”

“We’ll lose him. I know that. What else is going on?”

“You were dead-on about Joan Rochester.” Myron filled her in. Claire sat there and stared at the window. She nodded every once in a while, but the nod didn’t seem to be connected to anything he said.

“So you think Aimee might be pregnant?”

Her voice was indeed calm now, too matter-of-fact. She was trying to disengage. That might be a good thing.

“Yes.”

Claire put her hand to her lip and started plucking. Like in high school. This was all so weird, driving this route they’d gone on a thousand times in their youth, Claire plucking her lip like the algebra final was coming up. “Okay, let’s try to look at this rationally for a moment,” she said.

“Right.”

“Aimee broke up with her high school boyfriend. She didn’t tell us. She was very secretive. She was erasing e-mails. She wasn’t herself. She had lingerie in her drawer that was probably bought by a teacher who worked in a music store she used to frequent.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

“I have another thought,” Claire said.

“Go on.”

“If Aimee was pregnant—God, I can’t believe I’m talking like this—she would have gone to a clinic of some sort.”

“Could be. Maybe she’d just buy a home pregnancy test though.”

“No.” Claire’s voice was firm. “Not in the end. We talked about stuff like this. One of her friends got a false positive on one of those once. Aimee would get it checked. She’d probably find a doctor too.”

“Okay.”

“And around here, the only clinic is at St. Barnabas. I mean, that’s the one everyone uses. So she might have gone there. We should call and see if someone could check the records. I’m the mother. That should count for something, right?”

“I don’t know what the laws on that stuff are now.”

“They keep changing.”

“Wait.” Myron picked up his mobile phone. He dialed the hospital’s switchboard. He asked for Dr. Stanley Rickenback. Myron gave his name to the secretary. He pulled onto the circle in front of the high school and parked. Rickenback picked up the phone, sounding somewhat excited by the call. Myron explained what he wanted. The excitement vanished.

“I can’t do that,” Rickenback said.

“I have her mother right here.”

“You just told me she’s eighteen years old. It’s against the rules.”

“Listen, you were right about Katie Rochester. She was pregnant. We’re trying to find out if Aimee was too.”

“I understand that, but I can’t help you. Her medical records are confidential. With all the new HIPAA rules, the computer system keeps track of everything, even who opens a patient’s file and when. Even if I didn’t think it was unethical, it would be too big a personal risk, I’m sorry.”

He hung up. Myron stared out the window. Then he called the switchboard back.

“Dr. Edna Skylar, please.”

Two minutes later, Edna said, “Myron?”

“You can access patient files from your computer, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“All the patients in the hospital?”

“What are you asking?”

“Remember our talk about innocents?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to help an innocent, Dr. Skylar.” Then, thinking about it, he said, “In this case, maybe two innocents.”

“Two?”

“An eighteen-year-old girl named Aimee Biel,” Myron said, “and if we’re correct, the baby she’s carrying.”

“My God. Are you telling me Stanley was right?”

“Please, Dr. Skylar.”

“It’s unethical.”

He just let the silence wear on her. He had made his argument. Adding more would be superfluous. Better to let her think it through on her own.

It didn’t take long. Two minutes later, he heard the computer keys clacking.

“Myron?” Edna Skylar said.

“Yes.”

“Aimee Biel is three months pregnant.”

CHAPTER 36

Livingston High School principal Amory Reid was dressed in Haggar slacks, an off-white short-sleeve dress shirt made of material flimsy enough to highlight the wife-beater tee beneath it, and thick-soled black shoes that might have been vinyl. Even when his tie was loosened, it looked as though it were strangling him.

“The school is, of course, very concerned.”

Reid’s hands were folded on his desk. On one hand he wore a college ring with a football insignia on it. He had uttered the line as though he’d been rehearsing in front of a mirror.

Myron sat on the right, Claire on the left. She was still dazed from the confirmation that her daughter, the one she knew and loved and trusted, had been pregnant for the past three months. At the same time there was a feeling akin to relief. It made sense. It explained recent behavior. It might provide an explanation for what had been, so far, inexplicable.

“You can, of course, check her locker,” the principal informed them. “I have a master key to all the locks.”

“We also want to talk to two of your teachers,” Claire said, “and a student.”

His eyes narrowed. He looked toward Myron, then back to Claire. “Which teachers?”

“Harry Davis and Drew Van Dyne,” Myron said.

“Mr. Van Dyne is already gone for the day. He leaves on Tuesdays at two p.m.”

“And Mr. Davis?”

Reid checked a schedule. “He’s in room B-202.”

Myron knew exactly where that was. After all these years. The halls were still lettered from A to E. Rooms beginning with 1 were on the first floor, 2 on the second floor. He remembered one exasperated teacher telling a tardy student that he wouldn’t know his E hall from his—get this—his A hall.

“I can see if I can pull Mr. D out of class. May I ask why you want to talk to these teachers?”

Claire and Myron exchanged a glance. Claire said, “We’d rather not say at this time.”

He accepted that. His job was political. If he knew something, he’d have to report it. Ignorance, for a little while, might just be bliss. Myron had nothing big on either teacher yet, just innuendo. Until he had more, there was no reason to inform the school principal.

“We’d also like to talk to Randy Wolf,” Claire said.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“Off school grounds, you can do whatever you want. But here, I would need to get parental permission.”

“Why?”

“That’s the rules.”

“If a kid is caught cutting class, you can talk to them.”

“I can, yes. But you can’t. And this isn’t a case of cutting class.” Reid shifted his gaze. “Furthermore, I’m a little confused why you, Mr. Bolitar, are here.”

“He’s my representative,” Claire said.

“I understand that. But that doesn’t give him much standing in terms of talking to a student—or, for that matter, a teacher. I can’t make Mr. Davis talk to you either, but I can at least bring him into this office. He’s an adult. I can’t do that with Randy Wolf.”

They started down the corridor to Aimee’s locker.

“There is one more thing,” Amory Reid said.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure it relates, but Aimee got into a bit of trouble recently.”

They stopped. Claire said, “How?”

“She was caught in the guidance office, using a computer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did we. One of the guidance counselors found her in there. She was printing out a transcript. Turns out it was just her own.”

Myron thought about that. “Aren’t those computers password-protected?”

“They are.”

“So how did she get in?”

Reid spoke a little too carefully. “We’re not sure. But the theory is, someone in the administration made an error.”

“An error how?”

“Someone may have forgotten to sign out.”

“In other words, they were still logged on so she could gain access?”

“It’s a theory, yes.”

Pretty dumb one, Myron thought.

“Why wasn’t I informed?” Claire asked.

“It wasn’t really that big a deal.”

“Breaking into school transcripts isn’t a big deal?”

“She was printing out her own. Aimee, as you know, was an excellent student. She has never gotten in trouble before. We decided to let her go with a stern warning.”

And save yourself some embarrassment, Myron thought. It wouldn’t pay to let it out that a student had managed to break into the school computer system. More sweeping under the rug.

They arrived at the locker. Amory Reid used his master key to unlock it. When he opened the door, they all stood back for a moment. Myron was the first to step forward. Aimee’s locker was frighteningly personal. Photographs similar to the ones he’d seen in her room adorned the metallic surface. Again no Randy. There were images of her favorite guitar players. On one hanger was a black Green Day American Idiot tour T-shirt; on the other, a New York Liberty sweat-shirt. Aimee’s textbooks were piled on the bottom, covered in protective sleeves. There were hair ties on the top shelf, a brush, a mirror. Claire touched them tenderly.

But there was nothing in here that seemed to help. No smoking gun, no giant sign reading THIS WAY TO FINDING AIMEE.

Myron felt lost and empty, and staring into the locker, at something so Aimee—it just made her absence that much more obscene.

The mood was broken when Reid’s mobile phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then he hung up.

“I found someone to cover Mr. Davis’s class. He’s waiting for you in the office.”

CHAPTER 37

Drew Van Dyne was thinking about Aimee and trying to figure out his next step when he arrived at Planet Music. Whenever he did that, whenever he got too confused by life and the poor choices he’d often made, Van Dyne either self-medicated or, as he was doing now, he turned to music.

The iPod ear buds were jammed deep into the canals. He was listening to Alejandro Escovedo’s “Gravity,” enjoying the sound, trying to put together how Escovedo had written the song. That was what Van Dyne liked to do. He’d tear a song down in the best way possible. He’d come up with a theory about the origin, how the idea had come, the first bit of inspiration. Was that first seed a guitar riff, the chorus, a specific stanza or lyric? Had the writer been heartbroken or sad or filled with joy—and why specifically had he been feeling that way? And where, after that first step, did he go with the song? Van Dyne could see the songwriter at the piano or strumming the guitar, taking notes, altering it, tweaking it, whatever.

Bliss, man. Pure, simple bliss. Figuring out a song. Even if. Even if there was always a small voice, deep in the background, saying, “It should have been you, Drew.”

You forget about the wife who looks at you like you’re a dog turd and now wants a divorce. You forget about your father, who abandoned you when you were still a kid. You forget about your mother, who tries now to make up for the fact that she didn’t give a rat’s ass for too many years. You forget the mind-numbing, regular-Joe teaching job you hate. You forget that the job is no longer something you’re doing while waiting for your big break. You forget that your big break, when you’re honest with yourself, will never come. You forget that you’re thirty-six years old and that no matter how hard you try to kill it, your damn dream will not die—no, that would be too easy. Instead the dream stays and taunts and lets you know that it will never, ever, come true.

You escape into the music.

What the hell should he do now?

That was what Drew Van Dyne was thinking as he walked past the Bedroom Rendezvous. He saw one of the salesgirls whisper to another. Maybe they were talking about him, but he didn’t much care. He entered Planet Music, a place he both loved and loathed. He loved being surrounded by music. He loathed being reminded that none of it was his.

Jordy Deck, a younger, less talented version of himself, was behind the counter. Van Dyne could see from the young kid’s face that something was wrong.

“What?”

“A big dude,” the kid said. “He came in here looking for you.”

“What was his name?”

The kid shrugged.

“What did he want?”

“He was asking about Aimee.”

A lump of fear hardened in his chest. “What did you tell him?”

“That she comes in here a lot, but I think he already knew that. No big deal.”

Drew Van Dyne stepped closer. “Describe this guy.”

He did. Van Dyne thought about the warning call he’d received earlier today. It sounded like Myron Bolitar.

“Oh, one other thing,” the kid said.

“What?”

“When he left, I think he went to Bedroom Rendezvous.”

Claire and Myron decided to let Myron talk to Mr. Davis alone.

“Aimee Biel was one of my most gifted students,” Harry Davis said.

Davis was pale and shaking and didn’t have the same confident stride Myron had seen just that morning.

“Was?” Myron said.

“Pardon me?”

“You said ‘was.’ ‘Was one of my most gifted students.’ ”

His eyes went wide. “She isn’t in my class anymore.”

“I see.”

“That’s all I meant.”

“Right,” Myron said, trying to keep him on the defensive. “When exactly was she your student?”

“Last year.”

“Great.” Enough with the prelims. Straight for the knockout punch: “So if Aimee wasn’t your student anymore, what was she doing at your house Saturday night?”

Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead like plastic gophers in one of those arcade games. “What makes you think she was?”

“I dropped her off there.”

“That’s not possible.”

Myron sighed and crossed his legs. “There are two ways to play this, Mr. D. I can get the principal in here or you can tell me what you know.”

Silence.

“Why were you talking to Randy Wolf this morning?”

“He’s also a student of mine.”

“Is or was?”

“Is. I teach sophomores, juniors, and seniors.”

“I understand that the students here have voted you Teacher of the Year the past four years.”

He said nothing.

Myron said, “I went here.”

“Yes, I know.” There was a small smile on his lips. “It would be hard to miss the lingering presence of the legendary Myron Bolitar.”

“My point is, I know what an accomplishment winning Teacher of the Year is. To be that popular with your students.”

Davis liked the compliment. “Did you have a favorite teacher?” he asked.

“Mrs. Friedman. Modern European History.”

“She was here when I started.” He smiled. “I really liked her.”

“That’s sweet, Mr. D, really, but there’s a girl missing.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Harry Davis looked down.

“Mr. D?”

He didn’t look up.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s all coming apart now. All of it. You know that, I think. Your life was one thing before we had this chat. It’s another thing now. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I won’t let go until I find out everything. No matter how bad it is. No matter how many people are hurt.”

“I don’t know anything,” he said. “Aimee has never been to my house.”

If asked right then, Myron would have said that he wasn’t all that mad. In hindsight, that was the problem: a lack of warning. He had been talking in a measured voice. The threat had been there, sure, but it wasn’t even worth checking. If he had felt it coming, he would have been able to prepare himself. But the fury just flooded in, snapping him into action.

Myron moved fast. He grabbed Davis from behind the neck, squeezed the pressure points near the base of the shoulders, and pulled him toward the window. Davis let out a little cry as Myron pushed his face hard against the one-way glass.

“Look out there, Mr. D.”

In the waiting area Claire sat upright. Her eyes were closed. She thought that no one was watching. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Myron pushed harder.

“Ow!”

“You see that, Mr. D?”

“Let go of me!”

Damn. The fury spread, diffused. Reason bled back in. As with Jake Wolf, Myron scolded his loss of temper and released his grip. Davis stood back and rubbed the back of his neck. His face was scarlet now.

“You come anywhere near me,” Davis said, “and I’ll sue you. Do you understand?”

Myron shook his head.

“What?”

“You’re done, Mr. D. You just don’t know it yet.”

CHAPTER 38

Drew Van Dyne headed back to Livingston High School.

How the hell had Myron Bolitar connected him to this mess? He was in full panic mode now. He had assumed that Harry Davis, Mr. Friggin’ Dedicated Teacher, wouldn’t say anything. That would have been better, would have left Van Dyne to handle whatever arose. But now, somehow, Bolitar had ended up at Planet Music. He had been asking about Aimee.

Someone had talked.

As he pulled up to the school, he saw Harry Davis burst out the door. Drew Van Dyne was no student of body language, but man, Davis did not look like himself. His fists were clenched, his shoulders slumped, his feet in a fast shuffle mode. Usually he walked with a smile and a wave, sometimes even whistling. Not today.

Van Dyne drove through the lot, pulling the car into Davis’s path. Davis saw him and veered to the right.

“Mr. D?”

“Leave me alone.”

“You and me, we need to have a little chat.”

Van Dyne was out of the car. Davis kept moving.

“You know what will happen if you talk to Bolitar, don’t you?”

“I haven’t talked,” Davis said, teeth clenched.

“Will you?”

“Get in your car, Drew. Leave me the hell alone.”

Drew Van Dyne shook his head. “Remember, Mr. D. You got a lot to lose here.”

“As you keep pointing out.”

“More than any of us.”

“No.” Davis had reached his car. He slid into the front seat and before he closed his door he said, “Aimee has the most to lose, wouldn’t you say?”

That made Van Dyne pause. He tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Think about it,” Davis said.

He closed the door and drove off. Drew Van Dyne took a deep breath and moved back to his car. Aimee had the most to lose. . . . It got him thinking. He started up the engine and began to pull out when he noticed the school’s side door open again.

Aimee’s mother came out the very same door that beloved educator Harry Davis had stormed out just minutes ago. And behind her was Myron Bolitar.

The voice on the phone, the one that had warned him earlier: Don’t do anything stupid. It’s under control.

It didn’t feel under control. It didn’t feel that way at all.

Drew Van Dyne reached for the car radio as though he were underwater and it held oxygen. The CD feature was on, the latest from Cold-play. He drove away, letting Chris Martin’s gentle voice work on him.

The panic would not leave.

This, he knew, was where he usually made the wrong decision. This is where he usually messed up big-time. He knew that. He knew that he should just back up, think it through. But that was how he lived his life. It was like a car wreck in slow motion. You see what you’re heading for. You know there is going to be an ugly collision. You can’t stop or get out of the way.

You’re powerless.

In the end, Drew Van Dyne made the phone call.

“Hello?”

“We may have a problem,” Van Dyne said.

On other end of the phone, Drew Van Dyne heard Big Jake Wolf sigh.

“Tell me,” Big Jake said.

Myron dropped Claire off before heading to the Livingston Mall. He hoped to find Drew Van Dyne at Planet Music. No luck. The poncho kid wouldn’t talk this time, but Sally Ann said that she’d seen Drew Van Dyne arrive, talk briefly to the poncho kid, and then sprint out. Myron had Van Dyne’s home number. He tried it, but there was no answer.

He called Win. “We need to find this guy.”

“We’re spread a little thin right now.”

“Who can we get to watch Van Dyne’s house?”

Win said, “How about Zorra?”

Zorra was a former Mossad spy, an assassin for the Israelis, and a transvestite who wore stiletto heels—literally. Many transvestites are lovely. Zorra was not one of them.

“I’m not sure she’ll blend into the suburbs, are you?”

“Zorra knows how to blend.”

“Fine, whatever you think.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Chang’s Dry Cleaning. I need to talk to Roger.”

“I’ll call Zorra.”

Business was brisk at Chang’s. Maxine saw Myron enter and gestured with her head for him to come forward. Myron moved ahead of the line and followed her into the back. The smell of chemicals and lint was cloying. It felt like dust particles were clinging to his lungs. He was relieved when she opened the back door.

Roger sat on a crate in the alley. His head was down. Maxine folded her arms and said, “Roger, do you have something to say to Mr. Bolitar?”

Roger was a skinny kid. His arms were reeds with absolutely no definition. He did not look up as she spoke.

“I’m sorry I made those phone calls,” he said.

It was like he was a kid who’d broken a neighbor’s window with an errant baseball and his mother had dragged him across the street to apologize. Myron did not need this. He turned to Maxine. “I want to talk to him alone.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Then I go to the police.”

First Joan Rochester, now Maxine Chang—Myron was getting damn good at threatening terrified mothers. Maybe he’d start slapping them around too, really feel like a big man.

But Myron did not blink. Maxine Chang did. “I will be right inside.”

“Thank you.”

The alley reeked, as all alleys do, of past garbage and dried urine. Myron waited for Roger to look up at him. Roger didn’t.

“You didn’t just call me,” Myron said. “You called Aimee Biel, right?”

He nodded, still not looking up.

“Why?”

“I was calling her back.”

Myron made a skeptical face. Since the kid’s head was still down, the effort was a bit of a waste. “Look at me, Roger.”

He slowly raised his eyes.

“Are you telling me that Aimee Biel called you first?”

“I saw her in school. She said we needed to talk.”

“About what?”

He shrugged. “She just said we needed to talk.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t we what?”

“Talk. Right then and there.”

“We were in the hall. There were people all around. She wanted to talk privately.”

“I see. So you called her?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“It was weird. She wanted to know about my grades and extracurricular activities. It was more like she wanted to confirm them. I mean, we know each other a little. And everyone talks. So she already knew most of that stuff.”

“That’s it?”

“We only talked for, like, two minutes. She said she had to go. But she also said she was sorry.”

“About?”

“About my not making Duke.” He put his head down again.

“You got a lot of anger stored up, Roger.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Tell me then.”

“Forget it.”

“I wish I could, but see, you called me.”

Roger Chang studied the alley as though he’d never really seen it before. His nose twitched, and his face twisted in disgust. Finally he found Myron’s face. “I’m always the Asian geek, you know? I was born in this country. I’m not an immigrant. When I talk, half the time people expect me to sound like an old Charlie Chan movie. And in this town, if you don’t have money or you’re not good at sports . . . I see my mother sacrifice. I see how hard she works. And I think to myself: If I can just stick it out. If I can just work hard in high school, not worry about all that stuff I’m missing, just work hard, make the sacrifice, it will all be okay. I’ll be able to move out of here. I don’t know why I focused on Duke. But I did. It was, like, my one goal. Once I made it, I could relax a little. I’d be away from this store. . . .”

His voice drifted off.

“I wish you’d have said something to me,” Myron said.

“I’m not good at asking for help.”

Myron wanted to tell him he should do more than that, maybe get some therapy to deal with the anger, but he hadn’t walked a mile in the kid’s shoes. He didn’t have the time either.

“Are you going to report me?” Roger asked.

“No.” Then: “You could still get in on wait-list.”

“They’ve already cleared it.”

“Oh,” Myron said. “Look, I know it seems like life and death now, but what school you make isn’t that important. I bet you’ll love Rutgers.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He didn’t sound convinced. Part of Myron was angry, but another part—a growing part—remembered Maxine’s accusation. There was a chance, a decent chance, that by helping Aimee, Myron had destroyed this young man’s dream. He couldn’t just walk away from that, could he?

“If you want to transfer after a year,” Myron said, “I’ll write a letter.”

He waited for Roger to react. He didn’t. So Myron left him alone in the stench of the alley behind his mother’s dry cleaning store.

CHAPTER 39

Myron was on his way to meet up with Joan Rochester—she was afraid to be home when her daughter called in case her husband was around—when his mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the name ALI WILDER pop up.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry about before,” Ali said.

“Don’t apologize.”

“No, I sounded hysterical. I know what you were trying to do with the girls.”

“I didn’t want to get Erin involved.”

“It’s all right. Maybe I should be concerned or whatever, but I just really want to see you.”

“Me too.”

“Come over?”

“I can’t right now.”

“Oh.”

“And I’ll probably be working on this until late.”

“Myron?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care how late.”

He smiled.

“Whatever the time, come by,” Ali said. “I’ll be waiting. And if I fall asleep, throw pebbles at my window and wake me up. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Be careful.”

“Ali?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

There was a little intake of air. Then, with a little song in the voice: “I love you too, Myron.”

And suddenly, it was as if Jessica were a wisp of smoke.

Dominick Rochester’s office was a depot for school buses.

Outside his window was a plethora of yellow. This place was his cover. School buses could do wonders. If you transport kids in the seats, you could pretty much transport anything else in the undercarriage. Cops might stop and search a truck. They never do that with a school bus.

The phone rang. Rochester picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“You wanted me to watch your house?”

He did. Joan was drinking more than ever. It could have been from Katie’s disappearance, but Dominick was no longer so sure. So he had one of his guys keep an eye. Just in case.

“Yeah, so?”

“Earlier today some guy stopped by to talk to your wife.”

“Earlier today?”

“Right.”

“How much earlier?”

“Couple of hours maybe.”

“Why didn’t you call then?”

“Didn’t think much about it, I guess. I mean, I wrote it down. But I thought you only wanted me to call you if it was important.”

“What does he look like?”

“His name is Myron Bolitar. I recognized him. He used to play ball.”

Dominick pulled the receiver closer, pushing it against his ear as though he could travel through it. “How long did he stay?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Just the two of them?”

“Yeah. Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Rochester. I watched them. They stayed downstairs, if that’s what you’re wondering. There was no . . .” He stopped, not sure how to put it.

Dominick almost laughed. This dopey guy thought he was having his wife watched in case she was sleeping around. Man, that was rich. But now he wondered: Why had Bolitar come by and stayed so long?

And what had Joan told him?

“Anything else?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Mr. Rochester.”

“What’s the thing?”

“There is something else. See, I wrote down about Bolitar’s visit, but since I could see where he was, I didn’t worry much, you know?”

“And now?”

“Well, I’m following Mrs. Rochester. She just drove to some park in town here. Riker Hill. You know it?”

“My kids went to elementary school there.”

“Good, okay. She’s sitting on a bench. But she’s not alone. See, your wife is sitting there with that same guy. With Myron Bolitar.”

Silence.

“Mr. Rochester?”

“Get a man on Bolitar too. I want him followed. I want them both followed.”

During the Cold War, the Riker Hill Art Park, located right smack in the bosom of suburbia, had been a military control base for air-defense missiles. The army called it Nike Battery Missile Site NY-80. For real. From 1954 until the end of the Nike air defense system in 1974, the site was operational for both Hercules and Ajax missiles. Many of the U.S. Army’s original buildings and barracks now serve as studios where painting, sculpture, and crafts flourish in a communal setting.

Years ago, Myron had found this all somewhat poignant and oddly comforting—the war relic now housing artists—but the world was different now. In the eighties and nineties, it had all been cute and quaint. Now this “progress” felt like phony symbolism.

Near the old military radar tower, Myron sat on the bench with Joan Rochester. They hadn’t done more than nod at each other. They were waiting. Joan Rochester cradled her mobile phone as if it were an injured animal. Myron checked his watch. Any minute now, Katie Rochester was supposed to call her mother.

Joan Rochester looked off. “You’re wondering why I stay with him.”

In truth, he wasn’t. First off, awful as this situation was, he was still feeling a little giddy from his phone call with Ali. He knew that was selfish, but this was the first time in seven years he had told a woman that he loved her. He was trying to push all that from his mind, trying to focus on the task at hand, but he couldn’t help feeling a little high from her response.

Second—and maybe more relevant—Myron had long ago stopped trying to figure out relationships. He had read about battered woman syndrome and perhaps that was at play here and this was a cry for help. But for some reason, in this particular case, he didn’t care enough to reach out and answer that call.

“I’ve been with Dom a long time. A very long time.”

Joan Rochester went quiet. After a few more seconds, she opened her mouth to say more, but the phone in her hand vibrated. She looked down at it as though it had suddenly materialized in her hand. It vibrated again and then it rang.

“Answer it,” Myron said.

Joan Rochester nodded and hit the green button. She brought the phone to her ear and said, “Hello?”

Myron leaned close to her. He could hear a voice on the other end of the line—sounded young, sounded female—but he couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Oh, honey,” Joan Rochester said, her face easing from the sound of her daughter’s voice. “I’m glad you’re safe. Yes. Yes, right. Listen to me a second, okay? This is very important.”

More talking from the other end.

“I have someone here with me—”

Animated talk from the other end.

“Please, Katie, just listen. His name is Myron Bolitar. He’s from Livingston. He means you no harm. How did he find . . . it’s complicated. . . . No, of course I didn’t say anything. He got phone records or something, I’m not really sure, but he said he would tell Daddy—”

Very animated talk now.

“No, no, he hasn’t done that yet. He just needs to talk to you for a minute. I think you should listen. He says it’s about the other missing girl, Aimee Biel. He’s looking for her. . . . I know, I know, I told him that. Just . . . hold on, okay? Here he is.”

Joan Rochester began to hand him the phone. Myron reached out and snatched it from her, afraid of losing this tenuous connection. He strapped on his calmest voice and said, “Hello, Katie. My name is Myron.”

He sounded like a night host on NPR.

Katie, however, was a tad more hysterical. “What do you want with me?”

“I just have a few questions.”

“I don’t know anything about Aimee Biel.”

“If you could just tell me—”

“You’re tracing this, aren’t you?” Her voice was cracking with hysteria. “For my dad. You’re keeping me on the line so you can trace the call!”

Myron was about to launch into a Berruti-type explanation of how traces didn’t really work that way, but Katie never gave him the chance.

“Just leave us alone!”

And then she hung up.

Like another dopey TV cliché, Myron said, “Hello? Hello?” when he knew that Katie Rochester had hung up and was gone.

They sat in silence for a minute or two. Then Myron slowly handed her back the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Joan Rochester said.

Myron nodded.

“I tried.”

“I know.”

She stood. “Are you going to tell Dom?”

“No,” Myron said.

“Thank you.”

He nodded again. She walked away. Myron stood and headed in the opposite direction. He took out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial number one slot. Win answered it.

“Articulate.”

“Was it Katie Rochester?”

He had expected something like this—Katie not cooperating. So Myron had prepared. Win was on the scene in Manhattan, ready to follow. It was, in fact, better. She would head back to wherever she was hiding. Win would tag along and learn all.

“Looked like her,” Win said. “She was with a dark-haired paramour.”

“And now?”

“After hanging up, she and said paramour began heading downtown by foot. By the way, the paramour is carrying a firearm in a shoulder holster.”

That wasn’t good. “You’re on them?”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t ask me that.”

“I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 40

Joan Rochester took a pull from the flask she kept under the car seat.

She was in her driveway now. She could have waited until she got inside. But she didn’t. She was in a daze, had been in a daze for so long that she no longer remembered a time when she really felt truly clear-headed. Didn’t matter. You get used to it. You get so used to it that it becomes normal, this daze, and it would be the clear head that would throw her out of whack.

She stayed in her car and stared at her house. She looked at it as though for the first time. This was where she lived. It sounded so simple, but there it was. This is where she was spending her life. It was unremarkable. It felt impersonal. She lived here. She had helped choose it. And now, as she looked at it, she wondered why.

Joan closed her eyes and tried to imagine something different. How had she gotten here? You don’t just slip, she realized. Change was never dramatic. It was small shifts, so gradual that it becomes imperceptible to the human eye. That was how it had happened to Joan Delnuto Rochester, the prettiest girl at Bloomfield High.

You fall in love with a man because he is everything your father isn’t. He is strong and tough and you like that. He sweeps you off your feet. You don’t even realize how much he takes over your life, how you start to become merely an extension of him, rather than a separate entity or, as you dream, one grander entity, two becoming one in love, like out of a romance novel. You acquiesce on small things, then large things, then everything. Your laugh starts to quiet before disappearing altogether. Your smile dims until it is only a facsimile of joy, something you apply like mascara.

But when had it turned the dark corner?

She couldn’t find a spot on the time line. She thought back, but she couldn’t locate a moment when she could have changed things. It was inevitable, she supposed, from the day they met. There wasn’t a time when she could have stood up to him. There wasn’t a battle she could have waged and won that would have altered anything.

If she could go back in time, would she walk away the first time he asked her out? Would she have said no then? Taken up with another boyfriend, like that nice Mike Braun, who lived in Parsippany now? The answer would probably be no. Her children wouldn’t have been born. Children, of course, change everything. You can’t wish it all never happened, because that would be the ultimate betrayal: How could you live with yourself if you wished your children never existed?

She took another swig.

The truth was, Joan Rochester wished her husband dead. She dreamed about it. Because it was her only escape. Forget that nonsense about abused women standing up to their man. It would be suicide. She could never leave him. He would find her and beat her and lock her up. He would do lord-knows-what to their children. He would make her pay.

Joan sometimes fantasized about packing up the children and finding one of those battered-women shelters in the city. But then what? She dreamed about turning state’s evidence against Dom—she certainly had the knowledge—but even Witness Protection wouldn’t do the trick. He’d find them. Somehow.

He was that kind of man.

She slipped out of her car. There was a wobble in her step, but again that had become almost the norm. Joan Rochester headed to her front door. She slipped the key in and stepped inside. She turned around to close it behind her. When she turned back around, Dominick stood in front of her.

Joan Rochester put her hand to her heart. “You startled me.”

He stepped toward her. For a moment she thought that he wanted to embrace her. But that wasn’t it. He bent low at the knees. His right hand turned into a fist. He swiveled into the roundhouse blow, using his hips for power. The knuckles slammed into her kidney.

Joan’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Her knees gave way. She fell to the floor. Dominick grabbed her by the hair. He lifted her back up and readied the fist. He smashed it into her back again, harder this time.

She slid to the ground like a slit bag of sand.

“You’re going to tell me where Katie is,” Dominick said.

And then he hit her again.

Myron was in his car, talking on the phone to Wheat Manson, his former Duke teammate who now worked in the admissions office as assistant dean, when he realized yet again that he was being followed.

Wheat Manson had been a speedy point guard from the nasty streets of Atlanta. He had loved his years in Durham, North Carolina, and had never gone back. The two old friends started off exchanging quick pleasantries before Myron got to the point.

“I need to ask you something a little weird,” Myron said.

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t get offended.”

“Then don’t ask me anything offensive,” Wheat said.

“Did Aimee Biel get in because of me?”

Wheat groaned. “Oh no, you did not just ask me that.”

“I need to know.”

“Oh no, you did not just ask me that.”

“Look, forget that for a second. I need you to fax me two transcripts. One for Aimee Biel. And one for Roger Chang.”

“Who?”

“He’s another student from Livingston High.”

“Let me guess. Roger didn’t get accepted.”

“He had a better ranking, better SAT scores—”

“Myron?”

“What?”

“We are not going there. Do you understand me? It’s confidential. I will not send you transcripts. I will not discuss candidates. I will remind you that acceptance is not a matter of scores or tests, that there are intangibles. As two guys who got in based much more on our ability to put a sphere through a metallic ring than rankings and test scores, we should understand that better than anyone. And now, only slightly offended, I will say good-bye.”

“Wait, hold up a second.”

“I’m not faxing you transcripts.”

“You don’t have to. I’m going to tell you something about both candidates. I just want you to look it up on the computer and make sure what I’m saying is true.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just trust me here, Wheat. I’m not asking for information. I’m asking you to confirm something.”

Wheat sighed. “I’m not in the office right now.”

“Do it when you can.”

“Tell me what you want me to confirm.”

Myron told him. And as he did, he realized that the same car had been with him since he left Riker Hill. “Will you do it?”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Always was,” Myron said.

“Yeah, but you used to have a sweet jumper from the top of the key. Now what do you got?”

“Raw animal magnetism and supernatural charisma?”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

He did. Myron pulled the hands-free from his ear. The car was still behind him, maybe two hundred feet back.

What was up with all the car tails today? In the old days, a suitor would send flowers or candy. Myron pined for a brief moment, but now was hardly the time. The car had been on him since he left Riker Hill. That meant it was probably one of Dominick Rochester’s goons again. He thought about that. If Rochester had sent a man to follow Myron, he’d probably at the very least known or seen that Myron was with his wife. Myron debated calling Joan Rochester, letting her know, but decided against it. As Joan had pointed out, she’d been with him a long time. She’d know how to handle it.

He was on Northfield Avenue heading to New York City. He didn’t have time for this, but he needed to get rid of this tail as quickly as possible. In the movies, this would call for a car chase or a swift U-turn of some sort. That didn’t really play in real life, especially when you need to get to a place in a hurry and don’t want to attract the cops.

Still, there were ways.

The music store teacher, Drew Van Dyne, lived in West Orange, not far from here. Zorra should be in place now. Myron picked up his cell phone and called. Zorra picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, dreamboat,” Zorra said.

“I assume there’s been no activity at the Van Dyne house.”

“You assume correctly, dreamboat. Zorra just sits and sits. So boring this, for Zorra.”

Zorra always referred to herself in the third person. She had a deep voice, a thick accent, and lots of mouth phlegm. It was not a pleasant sound.

“I have a car following me,” Myron said.

“And Zorra can help?”

“Oh yes,” Myron said. “Zorra can definitely help.”

Myron explained his plan—his frighteningly simple plan. Zorra laughed and started coughing.

“So Zorra like?” Myron asked, falling, as he often did when speaking to her, into Zorra-talk.

“Zorra like. Zorra like very much.”

Since it would take a few minutes to set up, Myron took some unnecessary turns. Two minutes later, Myron took the right on Pleasant Valley Way. Up ahead, he saw Zorra standing by the pizzeria. She wore her ’30s blond wig and smoked a cigarette in a holder and looked just like Veronica Lake after a real bad bender, if Veronica Lake was six feet tall and had a Homer Simpson five o’clock shadow and was really, really ugly.

Zorra winked as Myron passed and raised her foot just a little bit. Myron knew what was in that heel. The first time they met, she had sliced his chest with the hidden “stiletto” blade. In the end, Win had spared Zorra’s life—something that surprised the heck out of Myron. Now they were all buddies. Esperanza compared it to her days in the ring when a famed bad-guy wrestler would all of a sudden turn good.

Myron used the left-turn signal and pulled to the side of the road, two blocks ahead of Zorra. He rolled down his window so he could hear. Zorra stood near an open parking spot. It was natural. The car following Myron’s pulled into the spot to see where Myron was headed. Of course, he could have stopped anywhere on the street. Zorra had been ready for that.

The rest was, as already noted, frighteningly simple. Zorra strolled over to the back of the car. She had been wearing high heels for the past fifteen years, but she still walked like a newborn colt on bad acid.

Myron watched the scene in his rearview mirror.

Zorra unsheathed the dagger in her stiletto heel. She raised her leg and stomped on the tire. Myron heard the whoosh of air. She quickly circled to the other back tire and did the same thing. Then Zorra did something that was not part of the plan.

She waited to see if the driver would get out and accost her.

“No,” Myron whispered to himself. “Just go.”

He had been clear. Stomp the tires and run. Don’t get into a fight. Zorra was deadly. If the guy got out of his car—probably some macho goon who was used to breaking heads—Zorra would slice him into pizza topping. Forget the morals for a moment. They didn’t need that kind of police attention.

The goon driving the car yelled, “Hey! What the—?” and started getting out of the car.

Myron turned around and stuck his head out the window. Zorra had the smile. She bent her knees a little. Myron called out. Zorra looked up and met Myron’s eye. Myron could see the anticipation, the itch to strike. He shook his head as firmly as he knew how.

Another second passed. The goon slammed his car door shut. “You dumb bitch!”

Myron kept shaking his head, more urgently now. The goon took a step. Myron held Zorra’s gaze. Zorra reluctantly nodded.

And then she ran away.

“Hey!” The goon gave chase. “Stop!”

Myron started up his car. The goon looked back now, unsure what to do, and then he made a decision that probably saved his life.

He ran back to his car.

But with slashed back tires, he wouldn’t go anywhere.

Myron pulled back onto the road, on his way to his encounter with the missing Katie Rochester.

CHAPTER 41

Drew Van Dyne sat in Big Jake Wolf’s family room and tried to plan his next move.

Jake had given him a Corona Light. Drew frowned. A real Corona, okay, but light Mexican beer? Why not just pass out piss water? Drew sipped it anyway.

This room reeked of Big Jake. There was a deer head hanging above the fireplace. Golf and tennis trophies lined the mantel. The rug was some sort of bear skin. The TV was huge, at least seventy inches. There were tiny expensive speakers everywhere. Something classical drifted out from the digital player. A carnival popcorn machine with flashing lights sat in the corner. There were ugly gold statues and ferns. Everything had been selected not based on fashion or function, but by what would appear most ostentatious and overpriced.

On the side table was a picture of Jake Wolf’s hot wife. Drew picked it up and shook his head. In the photograph, Lorraine Wolf wore a bikini. Another of Jake’s trophies, he guessed. A picture of your own wife in a bikini on a side table in the family room—who the hell does that?

“I spoke to Harry Davis,” Wolf said. He had a Corona Light too. There was a wedge of lime jammed into the top. Van Dyne rule of alcohol consumption: If a beer needs a fruit topping, choose another beer. “He’s not going to talk.”

Drew said nothing.

“You don’t believe it?”

Drew shrugged, drank his beer.

“He has the most to lose here.”

“You think?”

“You don’t?”

“I reminded Harry of that. You know what he said?”

Jake shrugged.

“He told me that maybe Aimee Biel had the most to lose.” Drew put down his beer, intentionally missing the coaster. “What do you think?”

Big Jake pointed his beefy finger at Drew. “Who the hell’s fault would that be?”

Silence.

Jake walked over to the window. He gestured with his chin at the house next door. “You see that place over there?”

“What about it?”

“It’s a friggin’ castle.”

“You’re not doing too badly here, Jake.”

A small smile played on his lip. “Not like that.”

Drew would point out that it’s all relative, that he, Drew Van Dyne, lived alone in a crap-hole that was smaller than Wolf’s garage, but why bother? Drew could also point out that he didn’t have a tennis court or three cars or gold statues or a theater room or even really a wife since the separation, much less one with a hot enough body to model in bikinis.

“He’s a big-time lawyer,” Jake droned on. “Went to Yale and never lets anyone forget it. He has a Yale decal on his car window. He wears Yale T-shirts when he takes his daily jog. He hosts Yale parties. He interviews Yale applicants in his big castle. His son is a dope, but guess what school still accepted him?”

Drew Van Dyne shifted in the chair.

“The world is not a level playing field, Drew. You need an in. Or you have to make one. You, for example, wanted to be a big rock star. The guys who make it—who sell a zillion CDs and fill up outdoor arenas—do you think they’re more talented than you? No. The big difference, maybe the only difference, is that they were willing to take advantage of some situation. They exploited something. And you didn’t. Do you know what the world’s greatest truism is?”

Drew could see that there was no stopping him. But that was okay. The man was talking. He was revealing things in his own way. Drew was getting the picture now. He had a pretty good idea of where this was heading. “No, what?”

“Behind every great fortune is a great crime.”

Jake stopped and let that sink in. Drew felt his breathing go a little funny.

“You see someone with beaucoup bucks,” Jake Wolf went on, “a Rockefeller or Carnegie or someone. Do you want to know the difference between them and us? One of their great-grandpas cheated or stole or killed. He had balls, sure. But he understood that the playing field is never level. You want a break, you make it yourself. Then you peddle that hard-work, nose-to-the-grindstone fiction to the masses.”

Drew Van Dyne remembered the warning call: Don’t do anything stupid. It’s under control.

“This Bolitar guy,” Drew said. “You already had your cop friends lay into him. He didn’t budge.”

“Don’t worry about him.”

“That’s not much of a comfort, Jake.”

“Well,” Jake said, “let’s just remember whose fault this is.”

“Your son’s.”

“Hey!” Again Jake pointed with the beefy finger. “Keep Randy out of it.”

Drew Van Dyne shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to place blame.”

“He’s going to Dartmouth. That’s a done deal. No one, especially not some dumb slut, is going to ruin that.”

Drew took a long deep breath. “Still. The question is, if Bolitar keeps digging, what is he going to find?”

Jake Wolf looked at him. “Nothing,” he said.

Drew Van Dyne felt a twinge start in the base of his spine.

“How can you be so sure?”

Wolf said nothing.

“Jake?”

“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, my son is on his way to college. He’s done with all this.”

“You also said that behind every great fortune is a great crime.”

“So?”

“She means nothing to you, does she, Jake?”

“It’s not about her. It’s about Randy. It’s about his future.”

Jake Wolf turned back to the window, to his Ivy League neighbor’s castle. Drew gathered his thoughts, reined in his emotions. He looked at this man. He thought about what he had said, what it all meant. He thought again about the warning call.

“Jake?”

“What?”

“Did you know that Aimee Biel was pregnant?”

The room went quiet. The background music was between songs now. When it started up again, the beat had picked up a step, an old ditty from Supertramp. Jake Wolf slowly turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. Drew Van Dyne could see that the news was a surprise.

“That doesn’t change anything,” Jake said.

“I think maybe it does.”

“How?”

Drew Van Dyne reached into his shoulder holster. He removed the gun and aimed it at Jake Wolf. “Take a wild guess.”

CHAPTER 42

The storefront was a nail salon called Nail-R-Us in a not-yet-redeveloped section of Queens. The building had that decrepit thing going on, as if leaning against it would cause a wall to collapse. The rust on the fire escape was so thick that tetanus seemed a far greater threat than smoke inhalation. Every window was blocked by either a heavy shade or a plank of wood. The structure was four levels and ran almost the entire length of the block.

Myron said to Win, “The R on the sign is crossed out.”

“That’s intentional.”

“Why?”

Win looked at him, waited. Myron did it in his head. Nail-R-Us had become Nail Us.

“Oh,” Myron said. “Cute.”

“They have two armed guards stationed at windows,” Win said.

“They must do a mean manicure.”

Win frowned. “Moreover, the two guards didn’t take up position until your Ms. Rochester and her beau returned.”

“They’re worried about her father,” Myron said.

“That would be a logical deduction.”

“You know anything about the place?”

“The clientele is below my level of expertise.” Win nodded behind Myron. “But not hers.”

Myron turned. The setting sun was blocked now as though by an eclipse. Big Cyndi was ambling toward them. She was dressed entirely in white spandex. Very tight white spandex. No undergarments. Tragically, you could tell. On a seventeen-year-old runway model, the spandex jumpsuit would be a fashion risk. On a woman of forty who weighed more than three hundred pounds . . . well, it took guts, lots of them, all of which were on full display, thank you very much. Everything jiggled as she trundled toward them; various body parts seemed to have lives of their own, moving of their own accord, as if dozens of animals were trapped in a white balloon and trying to squirm their way out.

Big Cyndi kissed Win on the cheek. Then she turned and said, “Hello, Mr. Bolitar.” She hugged him, wrapping her arms around him, a feeling not unlike being wrapped in wet attic insulation.

“Hey, Big Cyndi,” Myron said when she put him down. “Thanks for getting down here so quick.”

“When you call, Mr. Bolitar, I run.”

Her face remained placid. Myron never knew if Big Cyndi was putting him on or not.

“Do you know this place?” he asked.

“Oh yes.”

She sighed. Elk within a forty-mile radius began to mate. Big Cyndi wore white lipstick like something out of an Elvis documentary. Her makeup had sparkles. Her fingernails were in a color she’d once told him was called Pinot Noir. Back in the day, Big Cyndi had been the bad-guy professional wrestler. She fit the bill. For those who have never watched professional wrestling, it is merely a morality play with good pitted against evil. For years, Big Cyndi had been the evil “warlordess” named Human Volcano. Then one night, after a particularly grueling match where Big Cyndi had “injured” the lovely and lithe Esperanza “Little Pocahontas” Diaz with a chair—“injured” her so badly that the fake ambulance came in and strapped on the neck brace and all that—an angry mob of fans waited outside the venue.

When Big Cyndi left for the night, the mob attacked.

They might have killed her. The crowd was drunk and fired up and not really into the reality-versus-fiction equation at work here. Big Cyndi tried to run, but there was no escape. She fought hard and well, but there were dozens wanting her blood. Someone hit her with a camera, a cane, a boot. They moved in. Big Cyndi went down. People started stomping her.

Seeing the mayhem, Esperanza tried to intervene. The crowd would have none of it. Even their favorite wrestler could not halt their blood-lust. And then Esperanza did something truly inspired.

She jumped on a car and “revealed” that Big Cyndi had only been pretending to be a bad guy to gather information. The crowd almost paused. Furthermore, Esperanza announced, Big Cyndi was really Little Pocahontas’s long lost sister, Big Chief Mama, a rather lame moniker but hey, she was making this stuff up on the fly. Little Pocahontas and her sister were now reuniting and would become tag-team partners.

The crowd cheered. Then they helped Big Cyndi to her feet.

Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas quickly became wrestling’s most popular team. The same scenario played out weekly: Esperanza would start every match winning on skill, their opponents would do something illegal like throw sand in her eye or use the dreaded foreign object, the two baddies would team up on poor, helpless Pocahontas while someone distracted Big Chief Mama, they’d beat the sensuous beauty until the strap on Pocahontas’s suede bikini ripped, and then Big Chief Mama would give out a war cry and ride in to the rescue.

Massively entertaining.

When she left the ring, Big Cyndi became a bouncer and sometimes stage performer for several lowlife sex clubs. She knew the seedier side of the streets. And that was what they were counting on now.

“So what is this place?” Myron asked.

Big Cyndi put on her totem-pole frown. “They do a lot of things, Mr. Bolitar. Some drugs, some Internet scamming, but mostly, these are sex clubs.”

“Clubs,” Myron repeated. “As in the plural?”

Big Cyndi nodded. “Six or seven different ones probably. Remember a few years ago when Forty-second Street was loaded with sleaze?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when they forced them all out, where do you think the sleaze went?”

Myron looked at the nail salon. “Here?”

“Here, there, everywhere. You don’t kill sleaze, Mr. Bolitar. It just moves to a new host.”

“And this is the new host?”

“One of them. Here, in this very building, they offer specialty clubs catering to an international variety of tastes.”

“When you say ‘specialty clubs’—?”

“Let’s see. If you care for flaxen-haired women, you go to On Golden Blonde. That’s on the second floor, far right. If you’re into African-American men, you head up to the third floor and visit a place called—you might like this, Mr. Bolitar—Malcolm Sex.”

Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged.

Big Cyndi continued in her tour guide voice: “Those with an Asian fetish will enjoy the Joy Suck Club—”

“Yeah,” Myron said, “I think I get the picture. So how do I get in and find Katie Rochester?”

Big Cyndi thought about that for a moment. “I can pose as a job applicant.”

“Excuse me?”

Big Cyndi put her enormous fists on her hips. This meant that they were about two yards apart. “Not all men, Mr. Bolitar, have petite fetishes.”

Myron closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay, maybe. Any other thoughts?”

Win waited patiently. Myron had always thought that Win would be intolerant of Big Cyndi, but years ago, Win surprised him by pointing out what should have been obvious: “One of our worst and most accepted prejudices is against large women. We never, ever, see past it.” And it was true. Myron had been deeply ashamed when Win pointed that out. So he started treating Big Cyndi as he should—like everyone else. That pissed Big Cyndi off. Once, when Myron smiled at her, she hit him hard on the shoulder—so hard he couldn’t lift his arm for two days—and shouted, “Cut that out!”

“Perhaps you should try a more direct route,” Win said. “I will stay out here. Keep your cell phone on. You and Big Cyndi try and talk your way in.”

Big Cyndi nodded. “We can pretend we’re a couple looking to try a threesome.”

Myron was about to say something when Big Cyndi said, “Kidding.”

“I knew that.”

She arched a shiny eyebrow and leaned toward him. The mountain coming to Muhammad. “But now that I planted that most erotic seed, Mr. Bolitar, you may find performing with a petite difficult.”

“I’ll muddle through. Come on.”

Myron stepped through the door first. A black man at the door sporting designer sunglasses told him to halt. He wore an earplug like someone in the Secret Service. He patted Myron down.

“Man,” Myron said, “all this for a manicure?”

The man took away Myron’s cell phone. “We don’t allow pictures,” he said.

“It’s not a camera phone.”

The black man grinned. “You’ll get it back on the way out.”

He held the grin until Big Cyndi filled the doorway. Then the grin fled, replaced with something akin to terror. Big Cyndi ducked inside like a giant entering a kid’s clubhouse. She stood upright, stretched her arms over her head, and spread her legs apart. The white spandex cried out in agony. Big Cyndi winked at the black man.

“Frisk me, big boy,” she said. “I’m packing.”

The outfit was tight enough to double as skin. If Big Cyndi was indeed packing, the man didn’t want to know where.

“You’re okay, miss. Step through.”

Myron thought again about what Win had said, about accepted prejudice. There was something personal in the words, but when Myron had tried to follow up, Win closed down on the subject. Still, about four years ago, Esperanza had wanted Big Cyndi to take on some clients. Outside of Myron and Esperanza, she had been with MB Reps the longest. It sort of made sense. But Myron knew it would be a disaster. And it was. No one felt comfortable with Big Cyndi repping them. They blamed her outlandish clothes, her makeup, her manner of speech (she liked to growl), but even if she got rid of all that, would it have changed anything?

The black man cupped his ear. Someone was talking to him through the earpiece. He suddenly put an arm on Myron’s shoulder.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

Myron decided to stick with the direct route. “I’m looking for a woman named Katie Rochester.”

“There’s no one here by that name.”

“No, she’s here,” Myron said. “She walked in that very door twenty minutes ago.”

The black man took a step closer to Myron. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Myron was tempted to snap his knee into the man’s groin, but that wouldn’t help. “Look, we can go through all the macho posturing, but really, what’s the point? I know she came in. I know why she’s hiding. I mean her no harm. We can play this one of two ways. One, she can talk to me quickly and that’s the end of it. I say nothing about her whereabouts. Two, well, I have several men positioned outside. You throw me out the door and I call her father. He brings several more. It all gets ugly. None of us need that. I just want to talk.”

The black man kept still.

“Another thing,” Myron said. “If she’s afraid I work for her father, ask her this: If her father knew she was here, would he be this subtle?”

More hesitation.

Myron spread his arms. “I’m in your place. I’m unarmed. What damage could I do?”

The man waited another second. Then he said, “You finished?”

“We might also be interested in a threesome,” Big Cyndi said.

Myron hushed her with a look. She shrugged and kept quiet.

“Wait here.”

The man headed to a steel door. It buzzed. The man opened it and went inside. It took about five minutes. A bald guy with spectacles entered the room. He was nervous. Big Cyndi started giving him the eye. She licked her lips. She cupped what might have been her breasts. Myron shook his head, afraid she’d drop to her knees and pantomime lord-knew-what when the door mercifully opened. The man with the sunglasses poked his head out.

“Come with me,” he said, pointing to Myron. He turned toward Big Cyndi. “Alone.”

Big Cyndi didn’t like it. Myron calmed her with a look and stepped into the other room. The steel door closed behind him. Myron looked around and said, “Uh-oh.”

There were four of them. Various sizes. Lots of tattoos. Some grinned. Some grimaced. All wore jeans and black T-shirts. None were clean-shaven. Myron tried to figure out who the leader was. In a group fight, most people mistakenly believe you look for the weakest link. Always the wrong move. Besides, if the guys were any good, it didn’t matter what you did.

Four against one in a tight space. You were done.

Myron found a man who stood a little in front of the others. He had dark hair and more or less fit the description of Katie Rochester’s beau given to him by both Win and Edna Skylar. Myron met his eye and held it.

Then Myron said, “Are you stupid?”

The dark-haired man frowned, surprised and insulted. “You talking to me?”

“If I say, ‘Yeah, I’m talking to you,’ will that be the end of it or will you come back with ‘You talking to me’ again or ‘You better not be talking to me’? Because, really, neither one of us has the time.”

The dark-haired man smiled. “You left one option off when you talked to my friend here.”

“What’s that?”

“Option three.” He held up three fingers in case Myron didn’t know what the word three meant. “We make sure you can’t tell her father.”

He grinned. The other men grinned.

Myron spread his arms and said, “How?”

That made the man frown again. “Huh?”

“How are you going to make sure of that?” Myron looked around. “You guys are going to jump me—that’s the plan? So then what? The only way to shut me up would be to kill me. You willing to go that far? And what about my lovely associate out in the front room? Are you going to kill her too? And what about my other associates”—might as well exaggerate with the plural—“who are outside? Are you going to kill them too? Or is your plan, what, to beat me up and teach me a lesson? If so, one, I’m not a good learner. Not that way at least. And two, I’m looking at all of you and memorizing your faces, and if you do attack me, you better make sure I’m dead because if not, I’ll come after you, at night, when you’re sleeping, and I’ll tie you down and pour kerosene on your crotch and set it on fire.”

Myron Bolitar, Master of Melodrama. But he kept his eyes steady and looked at their faces carefully, one at a time.

“So,” Myron said, “is that your option-three plan?”

One of the men shuffled his feet. A good sign. Another sneaked a glance at the third. The dark-haired man had something close to a smile on his face. Someone knocked on the door on the far side of the room. The dark-haired man opened it a crack, talked to someone, closed it, turned back to Myron.

“You’re good,” he said to Myron.

Myron kept his mouth shut.

“Come this way.”

He opened the door and swept his hand for Myron to go ahead. Myron stepped through it into a room with red walls. The walls were covered with pornographic pictures and XXX-rated movie posters. There was a black leather couch and two folding chairs and a lamp. And sitting on the couch, looking terrified but unharmed, was none other than Katie Rochester.

CHAPTER 43

Edna Skylar had been right, Myron thought. Katie Rochester looked older, more mature somehow. She twiddled a cigarette in her hand, but it remained unlit.

The dark-haired man stuck out his hand. “I’m Rufus.”

“Myron.”

They shook hands. Rufus sat down on the couch next to Katie. He took the cigarette from her hand.

“Can’t smoke in your condition, honey,” Rufus said. Then he put the cigarette between his lips, lit it up, threw his feet up on the coffee table, and let loose a long plume of smoke.

Myron stayed standing.

“How did you find me?” Katie Rochester asked.

“It’s not important.”

“That woman who spotted me in the subway. She said something, right?”

Myron did not reply.

“Damn.” Katie shook her head and put a hand on Rufus’s thigh. “We’re going to have to find a new place now.”

“What,” Myron said, pointing to a poster of a naked woman with her legs spread, “and leave all this behind?”

“That’s not funny,” Rufus said. “This is your fault, man.”

“I need to know where Aimee Biel is.”

“I told you on the phone,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“Are you aware that she disappeared too?”

“I didn’t disappear. I ran away. My choice.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“That’s right.”

“So is Aimee Biel.”

“So?”

“So you’re both pregnant, both from the same school, both ran away or disappeared—”

“A million pregnant girls run away every year.”

“Do they all use the same ATM machine?”

Katie Rochester sat up. “What?”

“Before you ran, you went to an ATM machine—”

“I went to a bunch of ATM machines,” she said. “I needed money to run away.”

“What, Rufus here couldn’t spot you?”

Rufus said, “Go to hell, man.”

“It was my money,” Katie said.

“How far along are you anyhow?”

“That’s none of your business. None of this is your business.”

“The last ATM machine you visited was at a Citibank on Fifty-second Street.”

“So?”

Katie Rochester sounded younger and more petulant with every response.

“So the last ATM machine Aimee Biel visited before she disappeared was at the same Citibank on Fifty-second Street.”

Now Katie looked genuinely puzzled. It wasn’t faked. She hadn’t known. She slowly swiveled her head toward Rufus. Her eyes narrowed.

“Hey,” Rufus said. “Don’t look at me.”

“Rufus, did you . . . ?”

“Did I what?” Rufus threw the cigarette to the ground and jumped to his feet. He raised his hand as if about to slap her backhand. Myron slid between them. Rufus stopped, smiled, raised his palms in mock surrender.

“It’s okay, baby.”

“What was she talking about?” Myron asked.

“Nothing, it’s over.” Rufus looked at her. “I’m sorry, baby. You know I’d never hit you, right?”

Katie said nothing. Myron tried to read her face. She wasn’t cowering, but there was something there, something he’d seen in her mother. Myron lowered himself to her level.

“Do you want me to get you out of here?” he asked.

“What?” Katie’s head shot up. “No, of course not. We love each other.”

Myron looked at her, again trying to read distress. He didn’t see any.

“We’re having a baby,” she said.

“Why did you look at Rufus like that? When I mentioned the ATM?”

“It was stupid. Forget it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I thought . . . but I was wrong.”

“You thought what?”

Rufus put his feet back on the coffee table, crossing them. “It’s okay, baby. Tell him.”

Katie Rochester kept her eyes down. “It was just, like, a reaction, you know?”

“Reaction to what?”

“Rufus was with me. That’s all. It was his idea to use that last ATM. He thought it being midtown and all, it would be hard to trace to any spot, especially down here.”

Rufus arched an eyebrow, proud of his ingenuity.

“But see, Rufus has lots of girls working for him. And if they have money I figure he takes them to an ATM and gets them to clear out the cash. He has one of the clubs in here. A place called Barely Legal. It’s for men who want girls that are—”

“I think I can put together what they want. Go on.”

“Legal,” Rufus said, raising a finger. “The name is Barely Legal. The key word is legal. All the girls are over eighteen.”

“I’m sure your mother must be the envy of her book group, Rufus.” Myron turned back to Katie. “So you thought . . . ?”

“I didn’t think. Like I said, I just reacted.”

Rufus put his feet down and sat forward. “She thought maybe this Aimee was one of my girls. She’s not. Look, that’s the lie I sell. People think these girls run away from their farms or their homes in the burbs and come to the big city to become, I don’t know, actresses or dancers or whatever and when they fail, they end up turning tricks. I sell that fantasy. I want the guys to think they’re getting some farmer’s daughter, if that gets his rocks off. But the fact is, these are just street junkies. The luckier ones work the flicks”—he pointed to a movie poster—“and the uglier ones work the rooms. That simple.”

“So you don’t recruit at high schools?”

Rufus laughed. “I wish. You want to know where I recruit?”

Myron waited.

“At AA meetings. Or rehab centers. Those places are like casting couches, you know what I’m saying? I sit in the back and drink that badass coffee and listen. Then I talk them up during the breaks and give them a card and wait until they fall off the wagon. They always do. And there I am, ready to scoop them up.”

Myron looked at Katie. “Wow, he’s terrific.”

“You don’t know the real him,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s deep.” Myron felt the itch in his fingers again, but he swallowed it down. “So how did you two meet?”

Rufus shook his head. “It ain’t like that.”

“We’re in love,” Katie said. “He knows my dad through business. He came to the house and once we saw each other . . .” She smiled and looked pretty and young and happy and dumb.

“Love at first sight,” Rufus said.

Myron just looked at him.

“What,” he said, “you don’t think it’s possible?”

“No, Rufus, you seem like quite the catch.”

Rufus shook his head. “This here, this is just a job for me. That’s all. Katie and that baby, they’re my life. You understand?”

Myron still said nothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of Aimee Biel. “Take a look at this, Rufus.”

He did.

“Is she here?”

“Dude, I swear on my unborn child I’ve never seen this chick before and I don’t know where she is.”

“If you’re lying—”

“Enough with the threats, okay? What you got there is a missing girl, right? The police want her. Her parents want her. You think I want that trouble?”

“You have a missing girl right here,” Myron said. “Her father will move heaven and earth to find her. And the police are interested too.”

“But that’s different,” Rufus said, and his tone turned into a plea. “I love her. I’d walk through fire for Katie. Don’t you see? But this girl . . . she’d never be worth it. If I had her here, I’d give her back. I don’t need that kind of hassle.”

It made sad, pathetic sense.

“Aimee Biel used the same ATM,” Myron said again. “Do you have any explanation for that?”

They both shook their heads.

“Did you tell anyone?”

Katie said, “About the ATM machine?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think so.”

Myron kneeled down again. “Listen to me, Katie. I don’t believe in coincidences. There has to be a reason why Aimee Biel went to that ATM. There has to be a connection between you two.”

“I barely knew Aimee. I mean, yeah, we went to the same school, but we never hung out or anything. I’d see her at the mall sometimes, but we wouldn’t even say hello. At school she was always with her boyfriend.”

“Randy Wolf.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know him?”

“Sure. The school’s Golden Boy. Rich daddy who always got him out of trouble. Do you know Randy’s nickname?’

Myron remembered something from the school parking lot. “Farm-boy, something like that?”

“Pharm, not Farm Boy. It’s with a PH, not F. You know how he got it?”

“No.”

“It’s short for Pharmacist. Randy is the biggest dealer at Livingston High.” Katie smiled then. “Wait, you want to know my connection to Aimee Biel? Here’s the only one I can come up with: Her boyfriend sold me nickel bags.”

“Hold up.” Myron felt the room begin to spin ever so slowly. “You said something about his father?”

“Big Jake Wolf. Town hotshot.”

Myron nodded, almost afraid to move now. “You said something about him getting Randy out of trouble.” His own voice suddenly sounded very far away.

“Just a rumor.”

“Tell me.”

“What do you think? A teacher caught Randy dealing on campus. Reported him to the cops. His dad paid them off, the teacher too, I think. They all chuckled about not wanting to ruin the star quarterback’s bright future.”

Myron kept nodding. “Who was the teacher?”

“Don’t know.”

“Heard any rumors?”

“No.”

But Myron thought that maybe he had an idea who it was.

He asked a few more questions. But there was nothing else here. Randy and Big Jake Wolf. It came back to them again. It came back to the teacher/guidance counselor Harry Davis and the musician/ teacher/lingerie buyer Drew Van Dyne. It came back to that town, Livingston, and how the young rebelled, and how much pressure there was on all those kids to succeed.

At the end, Myron looked at Rufus. “Leave us alone for a minute.”

“No way.”

But Katie had some of her poise back. “It’s okay, Rufus.”

He stood. “I’ll be right behind the door,” Rufus said to Myron, “with my associates. You got me?”

Myron bit back the rejoinder and waited until they were alone. He thought about Dominick Rochester, how he was trying to find his daughter, how maybe he knew that Katie was in a place like this with a man like Rufus and how maybe his overreaction—his desire to find his daughter—was suddenly understandable.

Myron bent close to her ear and whispered. “I can get you out of here.”

She leaned away and made a face. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you want to escape your father, but this guy isn’t the answer.”

“How do you know what the answer is for me?”

“He runs a brothel, for crying out loud. He almost hit you.”

“Rufus loves me.”

“I can get you out of here.”

“I wouldn’t go,” she said. “I’d rather die than live without Rufus. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Katie . . .”

“Get out.”

Myron rose.

“You know something,” she said. “Maybe Aimee is more like me than you think.”

“How’s that?”

“Maybe she doesn’t need rescuing either.”

Or, Myron thought, maybe you both do.

CHAPTER 44

Big Cyndi stayed behind and flashed Aimee’s photograph around the neighborhood, just in case. Those employed in these illicit fields wouldn’t talk to cops or Myron, but they’d talk to Big Cyndi. She had her gifts.

Myron and Win headed back to their cars.

“Are you coming back to the apartment?” Win asked.

Myron shook his head. “I got more to do.”

“I’ll relieve Zorra.”

“Thanks.” Then looking back at the warehouse, Myron added: “I don’t like leaving her here.”

“Katie Rochester is an adult.”

“She’s eighteen.”

“Exactly.”

“So what are you saying? You turn eighteen, you’re on your own? We only rescue adults?”

“No,” Win said. “We rescue those we can. We rescue those in trouble. We rescue those who ask and need our help. We do not—repeat, not—rescue those who make choices we don’t agree with. Bad choices are a part of life.”

They kept walking. Myron said, “You know how I like to read the paper at Starbucks, right?”

Win nodded.

“Every teenager who hangs out there smokes. All of them. I sit there and watch them and when they light up, not even thinking about it, just as casual as you please, I think to myself, ‘Myron, you should say something.’ I think I should go up to them and excuse myself for interrupting and then beg them to stop smoking now because it’ll only get harder. I want to shake them and make them understand how stupid they’re being. I want to tell them about all the people I know, people who were living wonderful, happy lives like, say, Peter Jennings, a great guy from all I’ve heard, and how he was living this amazing life and how he lost it because he started smoking young. I want to shout at them the full litany of health problems they will inevitably face because of what they’re so casually doing right now.”

Win said nothing. He looked ahead and kept pace.

“But then I think I should mind my own business. They don’t want to hear it. And who am I anyway? Just some guy. I’m not important enough to make them stop. They’d probably tell me to take a hike. So of course, I keep quiet. I look the other way and go back to my paper and coffee and meanwhile these kids are sitting near me, slowly killing themselves. And I let them.”

“We pick and choose our battles,” Win said. “That one would be a loser.”

“I know, but here’s the thing: If I said something to every kid, every time I saw them, maybe I’d perfect my antismoking pitch. And maybe I’d reach one. Maybe one would stop smoking. Maybe my prying would save just one life. And then I wonder if staying quiet is the right thing—or the easy thing.”

“And then what?” Win asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to hang out at McDonald’s and scold the people eating Big Macs? When you see a mother encouraging her overweight son to snarf down his second supersized order of fries, are you going to warn her about what the boy’s horrible future will be like?”

“No.”

Win shrugged.

“But okay, forget all that,” Myron said. “In this specific case, right now, a few yards away from us, there is a pregnant girl sitting in that whorehouse—”

“—who has made up her own, adult mind,” Win finished for him.

They kept walking.

“It’s like what that Dr. Skylar told me.”

“Who?” Win asked.

“The woman who spotted Katie near the subway. Edna Skylar. She talked about preferring the innocent patients. I mean, she took the Hippocratic oath and all and she follows it, but when push comes to shove, she’d rather work with someone more deserving.”

“Human nature,” Win said. “I assume you weren’t comfortable with that?”

“I’m not comfortable with any of it.”

“But it’s not just Dr. Skylar. You do it too, Myron. Put aside Claire’s guilt trip on you for a moment. Right now, you’re choosing to help Aimee because you perceive her as an innocent. If she were a teenage boy who had a history of drug problems, would you be so apt to find her? Of course not. We all pick and choose, like it or not.”

“It goes beyond that.”

“How so?”

“How important is what college you make?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“We were lucky,” Myron said. “We went to Duke.”

“And your point is?”

“I got Aimee in. I wrote a letter, I made a phone call. I doubt she would have been accepted if it wasn’t for me.”

“So?”

“So where do I get off? As Maxine Chang pointed out to me, when one kid makes it, another is denied.”

Win made a face. “Way of the world.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Someone makes the choice based on a fairly subjective set of criteria.” Win shrugged. “Why shouldn’t it be you?”

Myron shook his head. “I can’t help but think that it’s connected to Aimee’s disappearance.”

“Her college acceptance?”

Myron nodded.

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

They separated. Myron got into his car and checked his cell phone. One new message. He listened to it.

“Myron? Gail Berruti here. That call you asked about, the one that came to the residence of Erik Biel.” There was noise behind her. “What? Damn, hold on a second.”

Myron did. This was the call Claire had received from the robotic voice telling her that Aimee “is fine.” A few seconds later, Berruti was back.

“Sorry about that. Where was I? Right, okay, here it is. The call was placed from a pay phone in New York City. More specifically, from a bank of pay phones in the Twenty-third Street subways. Hope that helps.”

Click.

Myron thought about that. Right where Katie Rochester had been spotted. It made sense, he guessed. Or maybe, with what he’d just learned, it made no sense at all.

His cell phone buzzed again. It was Wheat Manson, calling back from Duke. He did not sound happy.

“What the hell is going on?” Wheat asked.

“What?”

“The ranking you gave me for that Chang kid. It matched.”

“Fourth in the class, and he didn’t get in?”

“Are we going there, Myron?”

“No, Wheat. We’re not. What about Aimee’s ranking?”

“There’s the problem.”

Myron asked a few follow-up questions before hanging up.

It was starting to fit.

Half an hour later Myron arrived at the home of Ali Wilder, the first woman in seven years he’d told that he loved. He parked and sat in the car for a moment. He looked out at the house. Too many thoughts ricocheted through his head. He wondered about her late husband, Kevin. This was the house they’d bought. Myron saw that day, Kevin and Ali coming here with a Realtor, both young, both choosing this vessel as the one where they would live their lives and raise their kids. Did they hold hands as they toured their future abode? What appealed to Kevin, or was it maybe his beloved’s enthusiasm that won him over? And why the hell was Myron thinking about such things?

He had told Ali that he loved her.

Would he have done so—said “I love you” like that—if Jessica hadn’t visited him last night?

Yes.

Are you sure about that, Myron?

His cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Do you plan on sitting out in the car all night?”

He felt his heart soar at the sound of Ali’s voice. “Sorry, just thinking.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

“About what you’d like to do to me?”

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “But I can start now, if you want.”

“Don’t bother. I got it all planned out already. You’ll only interfere with what I’ve come up with.”

“Do tell.”

“I’d rather show. Come to the door. Don’t knock. Don’t talk. Jack is asleep and Erin is upstairs on her computer.”

Myron hung up. He caught his reflection—the goofy smile—in the car’s rearview mirror. He tried not to sprint to the door, but he couldn’t help but do one of those run-walks. The front door opened as he approached. Ali had her hair down. Her blouse was clingy and red and shiny. It stretched at the top, just asking to be unbuttoned.

Ali put a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

She kissed him. She kissed him hard and deep. He felt it in his fingertips. His body sang. She whispered in his ear, “The kids are upstairs.”

“So you said.”

“I’m usually not much of a risk-taker,” she said. Then Ali licked his ear. Myron’s entire body jerked in pleasure. “But I really, really want you.”

Myron held back the quip. They kissed again. She took his hand, quickly leading him down the hall. She closed the kitchen door. They went through the family room. She closed another door.

“How’s the couch work for you?” she said.

“I don’t care if we do it on a bed of nails at half court at Madison Square Garden.”

They dropped to the couch. “Two closed doors,” Ali said, her breathing heavy. They kissed again. Their hands began to wander. “No one can sneak up on us.”

“My, haven’t we been planning,” Myron said.

“Pretty much all day.”

“Worth it,” he said.

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Oh, just you wait and see.”

They kept their clothes on. That was the most amazing thing. Sure, buttons were undone and zippers were lowered. But they’d kept their clothes on. And now, as they panted in each other’s arms, fully spent, Myron said the same thing that he said every time they finished.

“Wow.”

“You’ve got quite the vocabulary.”

“Never use a big word when a small one will suffice.”

“I could make a crack here, but I won’t.”

“Thank you,” he said. Then: “Can I ask you something?”

Ali snuggled closer. “Anything.”

“Are we exclusive?”

She looked at him. “For real?”

“I guess.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me to go steady.”

“What would you say if I did?”

“Asked me to go steady?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I’d exclaim, ‘Oh yes!’ Then I’d ask if I can doodle your name on my notebook and wear your varsity jacket.”

He smiled.

Ali said, “Does your asking have anything to do with our earlier exchange of I-love-yous?”

“I don’t think so.”

Silence.

“We’re adults, Myron. You can sleep with whomever you wish.”

“I don’t want to sleep with anyone else.”

“So why are you asking me this right now?”

“Because, well, before? I don’t, uh, think very clearly when I’m in a state of, you know . . .” He sort of gestured. Ali rolled her eyes.

“Men. No, I mean, why tonight. Why did you ask about exclusivity tonight?”

He debated what to say. He was all for honesty, but did he really want to get into Jessica’s visit? “Just clarifying where we stand.”

Footsteps suddenly began to pound down the stairs.

“Mom!”

It was Erin. A door—that first of two doors—banged open.

Myron and Ali moved with a speed that would intimidate NASCAR. Their clothes were on, but like a couple of teenagers, they made sure everything was fastened and tucked in by the time the second doorknob began to turn. Myron jumped to the other side of the couch as Erin threw open the door. They both tried to wipe the look of guilt off their faces with mixed results.

Erin burst into the room. She looked at Myron. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Ali finished adjusting her shirt. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“You better come quick,” Erin said.

“Why, what’s up?”

“I was on the computer, instant messaging with my friends. And just now—I mean, like thirty seconds ago—Aimee Biel signed on and said hello to me.”

CHAPTER 45

They all hurried up to Erin’s room.

Myron took the stairs three at a time. The house shook. He didn’t much care. The first thing that struck him when he entered the bedroom was how much it reminded him of Aimee’s. The guitars, the photographs in the mirror, the computer on the desk. The colors were different, there were more pillows and stuffed animals, but you would have no doubt that both rooms belonged to high school girls with much in common.

Myron headed to the computer. Erin came in behind him, Ali after her. Erin sat at the computer and pointed to a word:

GuitarlovurCHC.

“CHC stands for Crazy Hat Care,” Erin said, “the name of the band we were forming.”

Myron said, “Ask Aimee where she is.”

Erin typed: WHERE ARE YOU? Then she hit the return button.

Ten seconds passed. Myron noticed the icon on Aimee’s profile. The band Green Day. Her wallpaper was for the New York Rangers. When she typed back a sliver of her “buddy sound,” a song from Usher, came through the speakers:

I can’t say. But I’m fine. Don’t worry.

Myron said, “Tell her that her parents are upset. That she should call them.”

Erin typed: YOUR PARENTS ARE FREAKING OUT. YOU NEED TO CALL THEM.

I know. But I’ll be home soon. I’ll explain everything then.

Myron thought how to approach this. “Tell her I’m here.”

Erin typed: MYRON IS HERE.

Long pause. The cursor blinked.

I thought you were alone.
SORRY. HE’S HERE. NEXT TO ME.
I know I got Myron in trouble. Tell him I’m sorry, but I’m fine.

Myron thought about it. “Erin, ask her something only she would know.”

“Like what?”

“You guys have private talks, right? Share secrets?”

“Sure.”

“I’m not convinced it’s Aimee. Ask her something only you and she would know.”

Erin thought a moment. Then she typed: WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BOY I HAVE A CRUSH ON?

The cursor blinked. She wasn’t going to answer. Myron was pretty sure about that. Then GuitarlovurCHC typed:

Did he finally ask you out?!?!

Myron said, “Insist on a name.”

“Already on it,” Erin said. She typed: WHAT’S HIS NAME?

I have to go.

Erin did not need prompting: YOU’RE NOT AIMEE. AIMEE WOULD KNOW THE NAME.

Long pause. The longest yet. Myron looked back at Ali. Her eyes were on the screen. Myron could hear his own breathing in his ears, as if he’d stuck seashells on them. Then finally an answer came:

Mark Cooper.

The screen name vanished. GuitarLovurCHC was gone.

For a moment, no one moved. Myron and Ali had their eyes on Erin. She stiffened.

“Erin?”

Something happened to her face. A quiet quake in the corner of her lip. It spread.

“Oh God,” Erin said.

“What is it?”

“Who the hell is Mark Cooper?”

“Was it Aimee or not?”

Erin nodded. “It was Aimee. But . . .”

Her tone made the room drop ten degrees.

“But what?” Myron said.

“Mark Cooper is not the boy I have a crush on.”

Myron and Ali both looked confused.

Ali said, “Then who is he?”

Erin swallowed. She looked back, first at Myron, then her mother. “Mark Cooper was this creepy guy who went to my summer camp. I told Aimee about him. He used to follow some of us around with this awful leer, you know. Whenever he’d walk by, we would laugh and whisper to one another. . . .” Her voice dropped off, came back, but lower now. “We’d whisper, ‘Trouble.’ ”

They all watched the monitor now, all hoping that screen name would pop up again. But nothing happened. Aimee did not reappear. She had delivered her message. And now, once again, she was gone.

CHAPTER 46

Claire was on the phone in seconds. She dialed Myron’s cell. When he answered, she said, “Aimee was just online! Two of her friends called!”

Erik Biel sat at the table and listened. His hands were folded. He had spent the past day or so online, searching per Myron’s instructions for people who lived in the area of that cul-de-sac. Now, of course, he knew that he’d been wasting his time. Myron had spotted a car with a Livingston High School decal right away. He had traced it back to one of Aimee’s teachers, a man named Harry Davis, that very night.

He had simply wanted to keep Erik out of the way.

So he gave him busywork.

Claire listened and then let out a little cry. “Oh no, oh my God. . . .”

“What?” Erik said.

She shushed him with her hand.

Erik felt the rage once more. Not at Myron. Not even at Claire. At himself. He stared down at the monogram on his French cuff. His clothes were tailor-made, a custom fit. Big deal. Who did he think he was impressing? He looked up at his wife. He had lied to Myron about the passion. He still longed for her. More than anything he wanted Claire to look at him the way she used to. Maybe Myron had been right. Maybe Claire had indeed loved him. But she had never respected him. She didn’t need him.

She didn’t believe in him.

When their family was in crisis, Claire had run to Myron. She had shut Erik out. And of course, he had taken it.

Erik Biel had done that his whole life. Taken it. His mistress, a mousy thing from his office, was pitiful and needy and treated him like royalty. That made him feel like a man. Claire didn’t. It was that simple. And that pitiful.

“What?” Erik asked again.

She ignored him. He waited. Finally Claire asked Myron to hold on a second. “Myron says he saw her online too. He had Erin ask her a question. She answered in a way . . . it was her, but she’s in trouble.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t have time to go into details right now.” Claire put the phone back to her ear and said to Myron—to Myron!—“We need to do something.”

Do something.

The truth was, Erik Biel was not much of a man. He knew that early on. When he was fourteen, he backed out of a fight. The entire school was there. The bully was ready to pounce. Erik had walked away. His mother called him prudent. In the media, walking away is the “brave” thing to do. What a load of crap. No beating, no hospital stay, no concussion or broken bones could have hurt Erik Biel more than not standing up had. He had never forgotten it, never gotten over it. He had chickened out of a fight. The pattern continued. He abandoned his buddies when they got jumped at fraternity party. At a Jets game, he let someone spill beer on his girlfriend. If a man looked at him wrong, Erik Biel always averted his gaze first.

You can couch it in all the psychological vernacular of modern civilization—all that garbage about strength coming from within and that violence never solved anything—but it was all a bunch of self-rationalization. You can live with fooling yourself like that, for a while anyway. And then a crisis hits, a crisis like this, and you realize what you really are, that nice suits and fancy cars and pressed pants make you nothing.

You’re not a man.

But still, even with wimps like Erik, there was one line you don’t cross. You cross it, you never come back. It had to do with your children. A man protects his family at all costs. No matter what the sacrifice. You will take any hit. You will go to the ends of the earth and risk everything to keep them from harm. You don’t back away. Never. Not until your dying breath.

Someone had taken away his little girl.

You don’t sit that fight out.

Erik Biel took out the gun.

It had been his father’s. A Ruger .22. It was an old gun. Probably hadn’t been fired in three decades. Erik had brought it to a gun shop this morning. He purchased ammunition and other sundries he might need. The man behind the counter had cleaned the Ruger for him, tested it out, smirking in disgust at the little man in front of him, so pitiful that he didn’t even know how to load and use his own damn gun.

But the gun was loaded now.

Erik Biel was listening to his wife talk to Myron. They were trying to figure out what to do next. Drew Van Dyne, he heard them say, wasn’t home. They wondered about Harry Davis. Erik smiled. He was ahead of them on that count. He had used Call Block and dialed the teacher’s number. He pretended to be a mortgage broker. Davis had answered and said he wasn’t interested.

That was half an hour ago.

Erik started toward his car. The gun was tucked into his pants.

“Erik? Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. Myron Bolitar had confronted Harry Davis at the school. The teacher hadn’t talked to Myron. But one way or the other, he sure as hell was going to talk to Erik Biel.

Myron heard Claire say, “Erik? Where are you going?”

His phone clicked.

“Claire, I have someone on the other line. I’ll call you back.” Myron clicked over to the other line.

“Is this Myron Bolitar?”

The voice was familiar. “Yes.”

“This is Detective Lance Banner from the Livingston Police Department. We met yesterday.”

Was it only yesterday? “Sure, Detective, what can I do for you?”

“How far are you from St. Barnabas Hospital?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes, why?”

“Joan Rochester has just been rushed into surgery.”

CHAPTER 47

Myron sped and made it to the hospital in ten minutes. Lance Banner was waiting for him. “Joan Rochester is still in surgery.” “What happened?”

“You want his story or hers?”

“Both.”

“Dominick Rochester said she fell down the stairs. They’ve been here before. She falls down the stairs a lot, if you get my drift.”

“I do. But you said there were his and her stories?”

“Right. She’s always backed up his before.”

“And this time?”

“She said he beat her up,” Banner said. “And that she wants to press charges.”

“That must have surprised him. How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” Banner said. “Several broken ribs. A broken arm. He must have pounded the hell out of her kidneys, because the doctor is speculating about removing one.”

“Jesus.”

“And, of course, not a mark on her face. The guy’s good.”

“Comes with practice,” Myron said. “Is he here?”

“The husband? Yeah. But we’ve got him in custody.”

“For how long?”

Lance Banner shrugged. “You know the answer to that.”

In short: not very.

“Why did you call me?” Myron asked.

“Joan Rochester was awake when she came in. She wanted to warn you. She said to be careful.”

“What else?”

“That was it. It’s a miracle she got that out.”

Rage and guilt consumed him in equal measure. Joan Rochester could handle her husband, Myron had thought. She lived with him. She made her choices. Gee, what would be his next justification for not helping her—she’d been asking for it?

“Do you want to tell me how you’re involved in the lives of the Rochesters?” Banner asked.

“Aimee Biel isn’t a runaway. She’s in trouble.”

He filled him in as quickly as possible. When he finished, Lance Banner said, “We’ll get an APB out on Drew Van Dyne.”

“What about Jake Wolf?”

“I’m not sure how he fits in.”

“Do you know his son?”

“You mean Randy?” Lance Banner shrugged a little too casually. “He’s the high school quarterback.”

“Has Randy ever gotten into any trouble?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I heard his father bribed you guys to get him off a drug charge,” Myron said. “Care to comment?”

Banner’s eyes turned black. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Save the indignation, Lance. Two of your fellow finest braced me on Jake Wolf’s orders. They stopped me from talking to Randy. One punched me in the gut when I was cuffed.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

Myron just looked at him.

“Which officers?” Banner demanded. “I want names, dammit.”

“One was about my height, skinny. The other had a thick mustache and looked like John Oates from Hall and Oates.”

The shadow hit Lance’s face. He tried to cover it.

“You know who I’m talking about.”

Banner tried to hold it back. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“We don’t have the time. Just tell me what the deal with the Wolf kid is.”

“No one got bribed.”

Myron waited. A woman in a wheelchair headed toward them. Banner stepped aside and let her pass. He rubbed his face with his hand.

“Six months ago a teacher claimed that he caught Randy Wolf selling pot. He searched the kid and found two nickel bags on him. I mean, penny-ante stuff.”

“This teacher,” Myron said. “Who was he?”

“He asked us to keep his name out of it.”

“Was it Harry Davis?”

Lance Banner didn’t nod, but he might as well have.

“So what happened?”

“The teacher called us. I had two guys go in. Hildebrand and Peterson. They, uh, fit your description. Randy Wolf claimed that he was framed.”

Myron frowned. “And your guys bought that?”

“No. But the case was weak. The constitutionality of the search was questionable. The amounts were small. And Randy Wolf. He was a good kid. No past record or anything.”

“You didn’t want to get him in trouble,” Myron said.

“None of us did.”

“Tell me, Lance. If he’d been a black kid from Newark caught selling at Livingston High, would you have felt the same way?”

“Don’t start that hypothetical crap with me. We had a weak case to begin with and then, the next day, Harry Davis tells my officers he won’t testify. Just like that. He backs out. So now it’s over. My officers had no choice.”

“My, how convenient,” Myron said. “Tell me: Did the football team have a good season?”

“It was a nothing of a case. The kid had a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth.”

“I keep hearing that,” Myron said. “But I’m beginning to wonder if it’ll happen.”

Then a voice shouted, “Bolitar!”

Myron turned. Dominick Rochester stood at the end of the corridor. His hands were cuffed. His face was red. Two officers were on either side of him. Myron started toward him. Lance Banner jogged behind, calling out a soft warning.

“Myron . . . ?”

“I won’t do anything, Lance. I just want to talk to him.”

Myron stopped two feet in front of him. Dominick Rochester’s black eyes burned. “Where is my daughter?”

“Proud of yourself, Dominick?”

“You,” Rochester said. “You know something about Katie.”

“Did your wife tell you that?”

“No.” He grinned. It was one of the most frightening sights Myron had ever seen. “Just the opposite, in fact.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dominick leaned in closer and whispered. “No matter what I did to her, no matter how much she suffered, my dearest wife wouldn’t talk. See, that’s why I’m sure you know something. Not because she talked—but because no matter how much hell I put her through, she wouldn’t.”

Myron was back in his car when Erin Wilder called him.

“I know where Randy Wolf is.”

“Where?”

“There’s a senior party at Sam Harlow’s house.”

“They’re having a party? Aren’t any of Aimee’s friends concerned?”

“Everyone thinks she ran away,” Erin said. “Some of them saw her online tonight, so they’re even more sure.”

“Wait, if they’re at a party, how did they see her online?”

“They have BlackBerrys. They can IM from their phones.”

Technology, he thought. Keeping people together by allowing them to be apart. Erin gave him the address. Myron knew the area. He hung up and started on his way. The ride did not take long.

There were a bunch of cars parked out on the Harlows’ street. Someone had set up a big tent in the backyard. This was a real party, an invite party, as opposed to a few kids hanging out and sneaking beers. Myron threw the car into park and entered the yard.

There were parents here—chaperones, he guessed. That would make this more difficult. But he didn’t have time to worry about it. The police might be mobilizing, but they weren’t anxious to look at the big picture. Myron was getting it now. It was coming into focus. Randy Wolf, he knew, was one of the keys.

The festivities were nicely partitioned. The parents hung out in the house’s screened-in porch. Myron could see the adults in the dim light. They were laughing and had a keg. The men wore long shorts and loafers and smoked cigars. The women sported bright Lilly Pulitzer skirts and flip-flops.

The seniors gathered at the far end of the tent, as far away from adult supervision as possible. The dance floor was empty. The DJ played a song by the Killers, something about having a girlfriend who looked like a boyfriend that somebody had in February. Myron headed straight for Randy and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Randy shrugged Myron’s hand away. “Get off me.”

“We need to talk.”

“My father said—”

“I know all about what your father said. We’re talking anyway.”

Randy Wolf was surrounded by about six guys. Some were huge. The quarterback and his offensive line, Myron figured.

“This butt-face bothering you, Pharm?”

The one who said that was huge. He grinned at Myron. The guy had spiky blond hair, but what you first noticed, what you couldn’t help but notice, was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Here they were at a party. There were girls and punch and music and dancing and even parents. And this guy wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Randy didn’t say anything.

Shirtless had barbed-wire tattoos around his bloated biceps. Myron frowned. The tattoos couldn’t have been more wannabe without the word wannabe actually being stenciled in. The guy was slabs and slabs of beef. His chest was so smooth it looked like someone had taken a sander to it. He rippled. His forehead was sloped. His eyes were red, indicating that at least some of the beer had found its way to the underaged. He wore calf-length pants that might have been capris, though Myron didn’t know if guys wore those or not.

“What are you looking at, Butt-face?”

Myron said, “Absolutely—and I mean this sincerely—absolutely nothing.”

There were several gasps from the crowd. One of them said, “Oh man, is this old dude gonna get a beating or what!”

Another said, “Bring it on, Crush!”

Shirtless aka Crush made his best tough-guy face. “Pharm ain’t talking to you, you got me, Butt-face?”

That got a laugh from his friends.

“Butt-face,” Myron repeated. “It’s even funnier the third time you say it.” He took a step toward the kid. Crush didn’t budge. “This isn’t your business.”

“I’m making it my business.”

Myron waited. Then he said, “Don’t you mean, ‘I’m making it my business, Butt-face’?”

There was another gasp. One of the other guys said, “Oh, mister, run and hide. Nobody wises off to Crush like that.”

Myron looked at Randy. “We need to talk now. Before this gets out of hand.”

Crush smiled, flexed his pecs, stepped forward. “It’s already out of hand.”

Myron didn’t want to take out a kid, not with the parents around. It would cause too many problems.

“I don’t want trouble,” Myron said.

“You already got it, Butt-face.”

Some of the guys oooed at that one. Crush folded his massive arms across his chest. A stupid move. Myron needed to get this out of the way fast, before the parents started noticing. But Crush’s friends were watching. Crush was the resident tough guy. He couldn’t afford to back down.

Arms folded across the chest. How macho. How dumb.

Myron made the move. When you need to take out somebody with a minimum of fuss or mess, this technique was one of the most effective. Myron’s hand started at his side. The natural resting spot. That was the key. You don’t cock the wrist. You don’t pull the arm back. You don’t wind up or make a fist. The smallest distance between two points is a straight line. That’s what you remember. Using his natural hand speed and the element of surprise, Myron shot the hand in that straight line, from the resting point near his hip to Crush’s throat.

He didn’t hit him hard. Myron used the knife edge below the pinky and found the neck’s sweet spot. Few points on the human body are more vulnerable. If you hit someone in the throat, it hurts. It makes them gasp and cough and freeze. But you have to know what you’re doing. You hit it too hard, you could do some serious damage. Myron’s hand darted in and struck cobra-like.

Crush’s eyes bulged. A choking sound got locked in his throat. With almost casual ease, Myron swept out Crush’s legs with his instep. Crush went down. Myron did not wait. He grabbed Randy by the scruff of the neck and started dragging him away. If any kid so much as moved, Myron froze them with a stare-down, all the while hustling Randy into the neighbor’s backyard.

Randy said, “Ow, let me go!”

Screw that. Randy was eighteen, an adult, right? No reason to go soft on him because he was a kid. He took him behind the garage two houses down. When Myron released him, Randy rubbed the back of his neck.

“What the hell is your problem, man?”

“Aimee is in trouble, Randy.”

“She ran away. Everyone said so. People talked to her online tonight.”

“Why did you two break up?”

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard you.” Randy thought about it, then shrugged. “We outgrew each other, that’s all. We’re both going to college. It was time to move on.”

“Last week you went to the prom together.”

“Yeah, so? We’d been planning for it all year. The tux, the dress, we rented a stretch Hummer with a bunch of friends. The whole group of us. We didn’t want to ruin everyone’s time. So we went together.”

“Why did you two break up, Randy?”

“I just told you.”

“Did Aimee find out you were dealing drugs?”

Randy smiled then. He was a handsome kid and he had a damn good smile. “You make it sound like I’m hanging in Harlem hooking kids on heroin.”

“I’d get into a moral debate with you, Randy, but I’m a little pressed for time.”

“Of course Aimee knew about it. She even partook on more than one occasion. No big deal. I was only providing for a few friends.”

“One of those friends Katie Rochester?”

He shrugged. “She asked a few times. I helped her out.”

“So again, Randy: Why did you and Aimee break up?”

He shrugged again and his tone quieted just enough. “You’d have to ask Aimee.”

“She broke up with you?”

“Aimee changed.”

“Changed how?”

“Why don’t you ask her old man?”

That made Myron pull up. “Erik?” He frowned. “What does he have to do with it?”

He didn’t reply.

“Randy?”

“Aimee found out her father was screwing around.” He shrugged. “It made her change.”

“Change how?”

“I don’t know. It’s like she wanted to do anything to piss him off. Her dad liked me. So all of a sudden”—another shrug—“she didn’t.”

Myron thought about it. He remembered what Erik had said last night, on the end of that cul-de-sac. It added up.

“I cared about her, man,” Randy went on. “You have no idea how much. I tried to win her back, but it just backfired in my face. I’m over her now. Aimee’s not a part of my life anymore.”

Myron could hear the crowd gather. He reached to grab Randy again by the neck, drag him farther away, but Randy pulled back. “I’m fine!” Randy yelled out to his approaching friends. “We’re just talking here.”

Randy turned back to Myron. His eyes were suddenly clear. “Go ahead. What else do you want to know?”

“Your father called Aimee a slut.”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Aimee started seeing somebody else?”

Randy nodded.

“Was it Drew Van Dyne?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Nah, not really. With all due respect, none of this does. Look, high school is over. I’m going to Dartmouth. Aimee is going to Duke. My mom, she told me something. She said that high school isn’t important. The people who are happiest in high school end up being the most miserable adults. I’m lucky. I know that. And I know it won’t last unless I take the next step. I thought . . . we talked about it. I thought Aimee understood that too. How important the next step was. And in the end, we both got what we wanted. We got accepted to our first choices.”

“She’s in danger, Randy.”

“I can’t help you.”

“And she’s pregnant.”

He closed his eyes.

“Randy?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“You said you did something to try to win her back, but it backfired. What did you do, Randy?”

He shook his head. He wouldn’t say. But Myron thought that maybe he had an idea. Myron gave him his card. “If you think of anything . . .”

“Yeah.”

Randy turned away then. He headed back to the party. The music still played. The parents kept laughing. And Aimee was still in trouble.

CHAPTER 48

When Myron got back to his car, Claire was there. “It’s Erik,” she said.

“What about him?”

“He ran out of the house. With his father’s old gun.”

“Did you call his cell?”

“No answer,” Claire said.

“Any idea where he went?”

“A few years ago I represented a company called KnowWhere,” Claire said. “You heard of it?”

“No.”

“They’re like OnStar or LoJack. They put a GPS in your car for emergencies, that kind of thing. Anyway, we got one installed in both cars. I just called the owner at home and begged him to get me the location.”

“And?”

“Erik is parked in front of Harry Davis’s house.”

“Jesus.”

Myron jumped into his car. Claire slipped into the passenger seat. He wanted to argue, but there was no time.

“Call Harry Davis’s home,” he said.

“I tried,” Claire said. “There was no answer.”

Erik’s car was indeed parked directly in front of the Davis residence. If he’d wanted to hide his approach, he hadn’t done a very good job.

Myron stopped the car. He took out his own gun.

Claire said, “What the hell is that for?”

“Just stay here.”

“I asked you—”

“Not now, Claire. Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.”

His voice left no room for argument and, for once, Claire just obeyed. He started up the path, keeping a low crouch. The front door was slightly ajar. Myron didn’t like that. He ducked low and listened.

There were noises, but he couldn’t make out what they were.

Using the barrel of the gun, he pushed the door open. There was no one in the foyer. The sounds were coming from the left. Myron crawled in. He turned the corner and there, lying on the floor, was a woman he assumed was Mrs. Davis.

She was gagged. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her eyes were wide with fear. Myron put a finger to his lips. She looked to her right, then back at Myron, then back to her right again.

He heard more noises.

There were other people in the room. On her right.

Myron debated his next move. He considered backing out and calling the police. They could surround the house, he guessed, start talking Erik down. But that might be too late.

He heard a slap. Someone cried out. Mrs. Davis squeezed her eyes shut.

There was no choice. Not really. Myron had the gun at the ready. He was about to leap, preparing to turn and aim in the direction where Mrs. Davis had been looking. He bent his legs. And then he stopped.

Jumping in with a gun. Would that be the prudent move here?

Erik was armed. He might, of course, react by surrendering. He might also react by firing in a panic.

Fifty-fifty.

Myron tried something else.

“Erik?”

Silence.

Myron said, “Erik, it’s me. Myron.”

“Come on in, Myron.”

The voice was calm. There was almost a lilt in it. Myron moved into the center of the room. Erik stood with a gun in his hand. He had on a dress shirt with no tie. There were splatters of blood across the chest.

Erik smiled when he saw Myron. “Mr. Davis is ready to talk now.”

“Put the gun down, Erik.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I said—”

“What? Are you going to shoot me?”

“Nobody is shooting anybody. Just put the gun down.”

Erik shook his head. The smile remained. “Come all the way in. Please.”

Myron stepped into the room, his gun still up. Now he could see Harry Davis in a chair. His back was to Myron. Nylon cuffs were around his wrists. Davis’s head lolled on the neck, chin down.

Myron came around the front and took a look.

“Oh, man.”

Davis had been beaten. There was blood on his face. A tooth was out and on the floor. Myron turned to Erik. Erik’s posture was different. He wasn’t as ramrod as usual. He didn’t look nervous or agitated. In fact, Myron had never seen him look more relaxed in his life.

“He needs a doctor,” Myron said.

“He’s fine.”

Myron looked at Erik’s eyes. They were placid pools.

“This isn’t the way, Erik.”

“Sure it is.”

“Listen to me—”

“I don’t think so. You’re good at this stuff, Myron, no question. But you have to follow rules. A certain code. When your child is in danger, those niceties go out the window.”

Myron thought about Dominick Rochester, how he had said something so very similar in the Seidens’ house. You couldn’t start off with two guys more different than Erik Biel and Dominick Rochester. Desperation and fear had rendered them near identical.

Harry Davis raised his bloodied face. “I don’t know where Aimee is, I swear.”

Before Myron could do much of anything, Erik aimed his gun at the ground and fired. The sound was loud in the small room. Harry Davis screamed. A groan came from behind Mrs. Davis’s gag.

Myron’s own eyes widened as he looked down at Davis’s shoe.

There was a hole in it.

It was near the edge of the big toe. Blood began to run. Myron raised his gun and pointed it at Erik’s head. “Put it down now!”

“No.”

He said it simply. Erik looked at Harry Davis. The man was in pain, but his head was up now, his eyes more focused. “Did you sleep with my daughter?”

“Never!”

“He’s telling the truth, Erik.”

Erik turned to Myron. “How do you know?”

“It was another teacher. A guy named Drew Van Dyne. He works at the music store where she hung out.”

Erik looked confused. “But when you dropped Aimee off, she came here, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

They both looked at Harry Davis. There was blood on his shoe now. It oozed out slowly. Myron wondered if the neighbors had heard the gunfire, if they’d call the police. Myron doubted it. People out here assume the sound is a car backfiring or fireworks, something explainable and safe.

“It’s not what you think,” Harry Davis said.

“What’s not?”

And then Harry Davis’s eyes darted toward his wife. Myron understood. He pulled Erik to the side. “You cracked him,” Myron said. “He’s ready to talk.”

“So?”

“So he’s not going to talk in front of his wife. And if he did something to Aimee, he’s not going to talk in front of you.”

Erik still had the small smile on his face. “You want to take over.”

“It’s not about taking over,” Myron said. “It’s about getting the information.”

Erik surprised Myron then. He nodded. “You’re right.”

Myron just looked at him as if waiting for the punch line.

“You think this is about me,” Erik said. “But it’s not. It’s about my daughter. It’s about what I’d do to save her. I’d kill that man in a second. I’d kill his wife. Hell, Myron, I’d kill you too. But none of that will do any good. You’re right. I cracked him. But if we want him to talk freely, his wife and I should leave the room.”

Erik walked over to Mrs. Davis. She cowered.

Harry Davis shouted, “Leave her alone!”

Erik ignored him. He reached down and helped Mrs. Davis to her feet. Then Erik looked back at Harry. “Your wife and I will wait in the other room.”

They moved into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. Myron wanted to untie Davis, but those nylon cuffs were tough to do by hand. He grabbed a blanket and stemmed the blood flow from the foot.

“It doesn’t hurt much,” Davis said.

His voice was far away. Strangely enough, he too looked more relaxed. Myron had seen that before. Confession is indeed good for the soul. The man was carrying a heavy load of secrets. It was going to feel good, at least temporarily, to unburden himself.

“I’ve been teaching high school for twenty-two years,” Davis began without being prompted. “I love it. I know the pay isn’t great. I know it’s not prestigious. But I adore the students. I love to teach. I love to help them on their way. I love when they come back and visit me.”

Davis stopped.

“Why did Aimee come here the other night?” Myron asked.

He didn’t seem to hear. “Think about it, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-plus years. With high-schoolers. I don’t say high school kids. Because many of them aren’t kids. They’re sixteen, seventeen, and even eighteen. Old enough to serve in the military and vote. And unless you’re blind, you know that those are women, not girls. You ever check out the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue? You ever look on the runway at top fashion shows? Those models are the same age as the beautiful, fresh-faced ones that I’m with five days a week, ten months a year. Women, Mr. Bolitar. Not girls. This isn’t about some sick attraction or pedophilia.”

Myron said, “I hope you’re not trying to justify sexual affairs with students.”

Davis shook his head. “I just want to put what I’m about to say in context.”

“I don’t need context, Harry.”

He almost laughed at that. “You understand what I’m saying more than you want to admit, I think. The thing is, I am a normal man—by that I mean, a normal heterosexual male with normal urges and desires. I’m surrounded year after year with mind-bogglingly beautiful women wearing tight clothes and low-cut jeans and plunging necklines and bare midriffs. Every day, Mr. Bolitar. They smile at me. They flirt with me. And we teachers are supposed to be strong and resist it every day.”

“Let me guess,” Myron said. “You stopped resisting?”

“I’m not trying to make you sympathize. What I’m telling you is, the position we’re in is unnatural. If you see a sexy seventeen-year-old walking down the street, you look. You desire. You might even fantasize.”

“But,” Myron said, “you don’t act.”

“But why don’t you? Because it’s wrong—or because you don’t really have a chance? Now imagine seeing hundreds of girls like that every day, for years on end. From the earliest times, man has striven to be powerful and wealthy. Why? Most anthropologists will tell you that we do it to attract more and better females. That’s nature. Not looking, not desiring, not being attracted—that would make you a freak, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t have time for this, Harry. You know it’s wrong.”

“I do,” he said. “And for twenty years I fought back those impulses. I stuck with the looking, the imagining, the fantasizing.”

“And then?”

“Two years ago I had a wonderful, gifted, beautiful student. No, it wasn’t Aimee. I won’t tell you her name. There’s no reason for you to know. She sat in the front of the class, this amazing bounty. She stared at me like I was a deity. She kept the top two buttons of her blouse undone. . . .”

Davis closed his eyes.

“You gave in to your natural urgings,” Myron said.

“I don’t know many men who could have resisted.”

“And this has what to do with Aimee Biel?”

“Nothing. I mean, not directly. This young woman and I started an affair. I won’t go into details.”

“Thank you.”

“But eventually we got found out. It was, as you might imagine, a disaster. Her parents went crazy. They told my wife. She still hasn’t forgiven me. Not really. But Donna has family money. We paid them off. They wanted to keep it quiet too. They were worried about their daughter’s reputation. So we all agreed to not say anything. She went on to college. And I went back to teaching. I’d learned my lesson.”

“So?”

“So I put it behind me. I know you want to make me out a monster. But I’m not. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I know you think I’m just trying to rationalize, but there’s more to it. I’m a good teacher. You pointed out how impressive winning Teacher of the Year was—and that I’d won it more than any other teacher in that school’s history. That’s because I care about the kids. It’s not a contradiction—having these urges and caring about my students. And you know how perceptive teens are. They can spot a phony a mile away. They vote for me, they come to me when they have a problem, because they know I truly care.”

Myron wanted to vomit, and yet the arguments, he knew, were not without some perverse merit. “So you went back to teaching,” he said, trying to get him back on track. “You put it behind you and . . . ?”

“And then I made a second mistake,” he said. He smiled again. There was blood on his teeth. “No, it’s not what you think. I didn’t have another affair.”

“What then?”

“I caught a student selling pot. And I turned him in to both the principal and the police.”

“Randy Wolf,” Myron said.

Davis nodded.

“What happened?”

“His father. Do you know the man?”

“We’ve met.”

“He did some digging. There were a few scant rumors about my liaison with the student. He hired a private eye. He also got another teacher, a man named Drew Van Dyne, to help him. Van Dyne, you see, was Randy’s drug supplier.”

“So if Randy was prosecuted,” Myron said, “Van Dyne had a lot to lose too.”

“Yes.”

“So let me guess. Jake Wolf found out about your affair.”

Davis nodded.

“And he blackmailed you into keeping quiet.”

“Oh, he did more than that.”

Myron looked down at the man’s foot. The blood had let up. Myron should get him to a hospital, he knew that, but he didn’t want to lose this momentum either. The odd thing was, Davis did not seem in pain. He wanted to talk. He had probably been thinking about these crazy justifications for years, rattling alone in his brain, and now finally he was being given the chance to express them.

“Jake Wolf had me now,” Davis went on. “Once you start down the blackmail road, you never really get off it. Yes, he offered to pay me. And yes, I took the money.”

Myron thought about what Wheat Manson had told him on the phone. “You were not just a teacher. You were a guidance counselor.”

“Yes.”

“You had access to student transcripts. I’ve seen how far parents in this town will go to get their kids into the right college.”

“You have no idea,” Davis said.

“Yeah, I do. It wasn’t that different when I was a kid. So Jake Wolf had you change his son’s grades.”

“Something like that. I just switched the academic part of his transcript. Randy wanted to go to Dartmouth. Dartmouth wanted Randy because of his football. But they needed him to be in the top ten percent. There are four hundred kids in his class. Randy was ranked fifty-third—not bad, but not top ten percent. There is another student, a bright kid named Ray Clarke. He’s ranked fifth in the class. Clarke got into Georgetown early decision. So I knew he wouldn’t be applying anywhere else. . . .”

“So you switched Randy’s transcript with this Clarke kid’s?”

“Yes.”

Now Myron remembered something else, something Randy had said about trying to win Aimee back, about that backfiring, about having the same goal. “And you did the same thing for Aimee Biel. To make sure she got into Duke. Randy asked you to do that, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And when Randy told Aimee what he’d done, he figured that she’d be grateful. Except she wasn’t. She started investigating. She tried to break into the school computer and see what happened. She called Roger Chang, the number-four kid in the class, to see what his grades and extracurricular activities were. She was trying to put together what you guys had done.”

“That I don’t know,” Davis said. He was losing the adrenaline flow. He was wincing in pain now. “I never talked to Aimee about it. I don’t know what Randy said to her—that’s what I was asking him about when you saw us in the school parking lot. He said he hadn’t used my name, that he’d just told her he was going to help her get into Duke.”

“But Aimee put it together. Or at least she was trying to.”

“That could be.”

He winced again. Myron didn’t care.

“So now we’re up to the big night, Harry. Why did Aimee have me drop her off here?”

The kitchen door swung open. Erik stuck his head into the room. “How are we doing?”

“We’re doing okay,” Myron said.

Myron expected an argument, but Erik just disappeared back into the kitchen.

“He’s crazy,” Davis said.

“You have daughters, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Then he nodded as if he suddenly understood.

“You’re stalling, Harry. Your foot is bleeding. You need medical attention.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“You’ve come this far. Let’s get it done. Where is Aimee?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did she stop by?”

He closed his eyes.

“Harry?”

His voice was soft. “God forgive me, but I don’t know.”

“You want to explain?”

“She knocked on the door. It was ridiculously late. Two, three in the morning. I don’t know. Donna and I were asleep. She scared the hell out of us. We went to the window. We both saw her. I turned to my wife. You should have seen the look on her face. There was so much hurt. All the distrust, all that I’d been fighting to mend, it all ripped apart. She started to cry.”

“So what did you do?”

“I sent Aimee away.”

Silence.

“I opened the window. I said it was late. I told her we could talk Monday.”

“What did Aimee do?”

“She just looked up at me. She didn’t say a word. She was disappointed, I could tell that.” Davis squeezed his eyes shut. “But I was also afraid that maybe she was angry.”

“She just walked away?”

“Yes.”

“And now she’s missing,” Myron said. “Before she could reveal what she knew. Before she could destroy you. And if the cheating scandal came out, well, it was like I said when we first talked. It’s over for you. It would all come out.”

“I know. I thought of that.”

He stopped. Tears started running down his cheeks.

“What?” Myron said.

“My third big mistake,” he said, his voice soft.

Myron felt a chill run down his spine. “What did you do?”

“I wouldn’t hurt her. Not ever. I cared about her.”

“What did you do, Harry?”

“I was confused. I didn’t know what the situation was. So I got scared when she showed up. I knew what it could mean—like you said. Everything could come out. All of it. And I panicked.”

“What did you do?” Myron asked again.

“I called someone. As soon as she left. I called someone I thought could help figure out what to do next.”

“Who did you call, Harry?”

“Jake Wolf,” he said. “I called Jake Wolf and told him that Aimee Biel was right outside my door.”

CHAPTER 49

Claire met them as they ran out.

“What the hell happened in there?”

Erik did not break stride. “Go home, Claire. In case she calls.”

Claire glanced at Myron, as though looking for help. Myron did not offer any. Erik was already in the driver’s seat, figuratively and literally. Myron quickly slid to the passenger side before Erik zoomed off.

“You know the way to the Wolfs’ house?” Myron asked.

“I dropped my daughter off there plenty of times,” he said.

He hit the gas. Myron studied his face. Normally Erik’s expression landed somewhere in the vicinity of disdainful. There’d be furrowed brows and deep lines of disapproval. None of that was there now. His face was smooth, untroubled. Myron half expected him to snap on the radio and start whistling along.

“You’re going to get arrested,” Myron said.

“Doubtful.”

“You think they’ll keep quiet?”

“Probably.”

“The hospital will have to report the bullet wound.”

Erik shrugged. “Even if they do talk, what would they say? I’m entitled to a jury of my peers. That would mean some parents with teenagers. I take the stand. I talk about how my daughter was missing and how the victim is a teacher who seduced a student and took bribes to change academic records. . . .”

He let his voice trail off as if the verdict was too obvious to mention. Myron was not sure what to say. So he sat back.

“Myron?”

“What?”

“I’m to blame, aren’t I? My affair was the catalyst.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Myron said. “Aimee is pretty strong willed. It may have contributed, but in a weird way, it sort of adds up. Van Dyne is a music teacher and works in her favorite music store. There would be some appeal there. She had probably outgrown Randy. Aimee has always been a good kid, right?”

“The best,” he said softly.

“So maybe she just needed to rebel. That would be normal, right? And there was Van Dyne, at the ready. I mean, I don’t know if that’s how it worked. But I wouldn’t put all of it on you.”

He nodded, but he didn’t seem to be buying it. Then again, Myron wasn’t selling that hard either. Myron considered calling the police, but what exactly would he tell them? And what would they do? The local police could be in Jake Wolf’s pocket. They might warn him. Either way, they’d have to respect his rights. He and Erik need not worry about that.

“So how do you figure this all played out?” Erik asked.

“We have two suspects left,” Myron said. “Drew Van Dyne and Jake Wolf.”

Erik shook his head. “It’s Wolf.”

“What makes you so sure?”

He cocked his head. “You still don’t get the parental bond, do you, Myron?”

“I have a son, Erik.”

“He’s over in Iraq, right?”

Myron said nothing.

“And what would you give to save him?”

“You know the answer.”

“I do. The same as me. And the same as Jake Wolf. He’s already shown how far he’ll go.”

“There’s a big difference between paying off a teacher to switch transcripts and . . .”

“Murder?” Erik finished for him. “It probably doesn’t start that way. You start by talking to her, trying to make her see things your way. You explain how she could get in trouble too, what with her acceptance to Duke and all. But she won’t back down. And suddenly you understand: It’s a classic us-or-them scenario. She holds your son’s future in her hands. It’s either her future or your son’s. Which are you going to choose?”

“You’re speculating,” Myron said.

“Perhaps.”

“You have to keep your hopes up.”

“Why?”

Myron turned toward him.

“She’s dead, Myron. We both know that.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Last night, when we were on that cul-de-sac, do you remember what you said?”

“I said a lot of things.”

“You said you didn’t think she’d been randomly abducted by a psycho.”

“I still don’t. So?”

“So think about it. If it was someone she knew—Wolf, Davis, Van Dyne, take your pick—why would they abduct her?”

Myron said nothing.

“They all had reasons to keep her quiet. But think it through. You said it could be either Van Dyne or Wolf. My money is on Wolf. But either way, they were all afraid of what Aimee could reveal, right?”

“Right.”

“You don’t simply abduct someone if that’s what you’re after. You kill them.”

He said it all so calmly, his hands at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel. Myron was not sure what to say. Erik had spelled it out in pretty convincing fashion. You don’t kidnap if the goal is to silence. That doesn’t work. That fear had been gnawing around in Myron too. He had tried to smother it, not let it free, but now here it was, excavated by the one man who’d want to paint the rosiest picture of what could have happened.

“And right now,” Erik went on, “I’m fine. You see? I’m fighting. I’m battling to find out what happened. When we find her, if she’s dead, it’s over. Me, I mean. I’m done. I’ll put on a façade. I’ll move on for the sake of my other children. That’s the only reason I won’t just shrivel up and die. Because of my other kids. But trust me on this: My life will be over. You might as well bury me with Aimee. That’s what this is about. I’m dead, Myron. But I’m not going out a coward.”

“Hang on,” Myron said. “We don’t know anything yet.”

Then Myron remembered something else. Aimee had been online tonight. He was going to remind Erik of this, give him some hope, but he wanted to play it through in his head first. It wasn’t adding up. Erik had raised an interesting point. From what they had learned, there’d be no reason to abduct Aimee—only reason to kill her.

Had it really been Aimee online? Had she sent Erin a warning?

Something wasn’t adding up.

They veered off Route 280 at a speed that put the car on two tires. Erik braked as they hit the Wolfs’ street. The car crawled up the hill, stopping two houses away from the Wolfs’.

“What’s our next move?” Erik asked.

“We knock on the door. We see if he’s home.”

They both got out of the car and started up the drive. Myron took the lead. Erik let him. He rang Wolf’s doorbell. The sound was trilling and pretentious and droned on too long. Erik stood a few steps back, in the dark. Myron knew that Erik had the gun. He wondered how to play that. Erik had already shot one man tonight. He didn’t seem disinclined to doing it again.

Lorraine Wolf’s voice came over a speaker. “Who is it?”

“It’s Myron Bolitar, Mrs. Wolf.”

“It’s very late. What do you want?”

Myron remembered the short white tennis dress and double-entendre tone. There was no double entendre now. The voice was drum-tight.

“I need to talk to your husband.”

“He’s not here.”

“Mrs. Wolf, could you please open the door?”

“I’d like you to leave.”

Myron wondered how to play this. “I spoke to Randy tonight.”

Silence.

“He was at a party. We talked about Aimee. Then I talked to Harry Davis. I know everything, Mrs. Wolf.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You either open this door or I go to the police.”

More silence. Myron turned and looked at Erik. He was still at ease. Myron didn’t like that.

“Mrs. Wolf?”

“My husband will be back in an hour. Come back then.”

Erik Biel took that one. “I don’t think so.”

He took out the gun, put it against the lock, and fired. The door flew open. Erik rushed in, gun drawn. So did Myron.

Lorraine Wolf screamed.

Erik and Myron veered toward the sound. When they arrived in the family room, they both pulled up.

Lorraine Wolf was alone.

For a moment, no one moved. Myron just studied the situation. Lorraine Wolf stood in the center of the room. She wore rubber gloves. That was the first thing he noticed. Bright yellow rubber gloves. Then he looked at those hands more closely. In one of them, her right hand, she held a sponge. In the other—the left, obviously—she carried a yellow bucket that matched the gloves.

There was a wet spot on the carpet where she had just been cleaning.

Erik and Myron both took a step forward. Now they could see that there was water in the bucket. The water had an awful pink tinge.

Erik said, “Oh no . . .”

Myron turned to grab him, but he was too late. Something behind Erik’s eyes exploded. He let out a howl and leapt toward the woman. Lorraine Wolf screamed. The bucket dropped to the carpet. The pink liquid poured out.

Erik tackled her. They both went over the back of the couch. Myron was right behind, not sure how to play it. If he made too aggressive a move, Erik might just pull the trigger. But if he did nothing . . .

Erik had Lorraine Wolf now. He pressed the gun against her temple. She cried out, gripping his hand with her own. Erik did not move.

“What did you do to my daughter?”

“Nothing!”

Myron said, “Erik, don’t.”

But Erik wasn’t listening. Myron raised his own gun. He pointed it at Erik. Erik saw it, but it was obvious he didn’t care.

“If you kill her . . .” Myron began.

“What?” Erik shouted. “What do we lose, Myron? Look at this place. Aimee is already dead.”

Lorraine Wolf shouted, “No!”

“Where is she then, Lorraine?” Myron asked.

She pressed her lips shut.

“Lorraine, where is Aimee?”

“I don’t know.”

Erik raised the gun. He was going to hit her with the butt end.

“Erik, don’t.”

He hesitated. Lorraine looked up, meeting Erik’s eye. She was scared, but Myron could see that she was bracing herself, ready to take the blow.

“Don’t,” Myron said again. He took a step closer.

“She knows something.”

“And we’ll find out what, okay?”

Erik looked at him. “What would you do? If it was somebody you love?”

Myron inched closer. “I do love Aimee.”

“Not like a father.”

“No, not like that. But I’ve been there. I’ve pushed too hard. It doesn’t work.”

“It worked with Harry Davis.”

“I know, but—”

“She’s a woman. That’s the only difference. I shot him in the foot and you asked him questions and let him bleed. Now we’re face-to-face with someone who is cleaning up blood and all of a sudden you’re squeamish?”

Even in this haze, even in this craziness, Myron could actually see his point. It was the guy-gal thing again. If Aimee was a boy. If Harry Davis had been a pretty, flirty woman.

Erik put the gun back against her temple. “Where is my daughter?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Whose blood are you cleaning up?”

Erik aimed the gun at her foot. But the control was gone. Myron could see that. Tears started streaming down Erik’s face. His hand shook.

“If you shoot her,” Myron said, “it contaminates the evidence. The blood will be mixed up. They’ll never put together what happened here. The only one who will go to jail is you.”

The argument didn’t make full sense, but it was enough to slow Erik down. His entire face collapsed now. He was crying. But he held on to the gun. He kept it pointed at her foot.

“Just take a breath,” Myron said.

Erik shook his head. “No!”

The air was still. Everything had stopped. Erik looked down at Lorraine Wolf. She looked up without a flinch. Myron could see Erik’s finger on the trigger.

No choice now.

Myron had to make a move.

And then Myron’s cell phone chirped.

It made everyone stop. Erik took his finger off the trigger and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Check it,” he said.

Myron took a quick glance at the caller ID. It was Win. He hit the answer button and put it to his ear.

“What?”

“Drew Van Dyne’s car just pulled into his driveway,” Win said.

CHAPTER 50

County homicide inspector Loren Muse was working on her new case, the one involving the two murders in East Orange, when her line rang. It was late, but Muse wasn’t surprised. She often worked late. Her colleagues knew that.

“Muse.”

The voice was muffled but sounded female. “I have some information for you.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s about that missing girl.”

“Which missing girl?”

“Aimee Biel.”

Erik was still holding the gun on Lorraine Wolf. “What is it?” he asked Myron.

“Drew Van Dyne. He’s home.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we should talk to him.”

Erik gestured at Lorraine Wolf with his gun. “We can’t just leave her here.”

“Agreed.”

The smartest move, Myron realized, would be to get Erik to stay here and keep an eye on Lorraine Wolf, not let her warn anybody or clean up or whatever. But he didn’t want to leave her alone with Erik. Not like this. Not in the state he was in.

“We should bring her with us,” Myron said.

Erik pressed the gun against her head. “Get up,” he said to her. She obeyed. They led her outside. Myron called Detective Lance Banner as they headed for the car.

“Banner.”

“Get your best crime lab guys over to Jake Wolf’s house,” Myron said. “I don’t have time to explain.”

He hung up. In other circumstances, he might have asked for backup. But Win was at Drew Van Dyne’s home. There would be no need.

Myron drove. Erik sat in the back with Lorraine Wolf. He kept the gun pointed at her. Myron glanced into the rearview mirror and met her eye.

“Where’s your husband?” Myron asked, making a right turn.

“Out.”

“Where?”

She did not reply.

“Two nights ago, you got a call,” Myron said. “At three in the morning.”

Her eyes found his in the mirror again. She didn’t nod, but he thought that he could see agreement.

“The call came from Harry Davis. Did you answer it or did your husband?”

Her voice was soft. “Jake did.”

“Davis told him that Aimee had been there, that he was worried. And then Jake ran to his car.”

“No.”

Myron paused, considered the answer. “What did he do then?”

Lorraine shifted in her seat again, looking straight at Erik. “We liked Aimee very much. For God’s sake, Erik, she dated Randy for the past two years.”

“But then she dumped him,” Myron said.

“Yes.”

“How did Randy react to that?”

“It broke his heart. He cared about her. But you can’t think . . .” Her voice died off.

“I’ll ask you again, Mrs. Wolf. After Harry Davis called your house, what did your husband do?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “What could he do?”

Myron paused.

“What, you think Jake drove up there and grabbed her? Come on. Even with no traffic it’s half an hour from Livingston to Ridgewood. Do you think Aimee would just wait on the street for Jake to come along?”

Myron opened his mouth, closed it. He tried to picture it now. Harry Davis had just rejected her. Would she just stand there, on that dark street, for half an hour or more? Did that make sense?

“So what happened?” Myron asked.

She said nothing.

“You get this call from Harry Davis. He’s in a panic about Aimee. What did you and Jake do?”

Myron made a left. They were on Northfield Avenue now, one of Livingston’s bigger roads. He hit the accelerator harder.

“What would you have done?” she asked.

No one replied. Lorraine locked eyes on Myron’s via the rearview.

“It’s your son,” she went on. “His entire future is on the line. He had this girlfriend. This wonderful sweet girlfriend. Something happened to her. She changed. I don’t know why.”

Erik squirmed, but he kept the gun on her.

“All of a sudden she wants no part of him. She has an affair with a teacher. She goes knocking on doors at three in the morning. She’s erratic and if she talks, she could bring your whole world down. So what would you have done, Mr. Bolitar?” She turned to look at Erik. “If the situation was reversed—if Randy had dumped Aimee and started acting like this, threatening to destroy her future—what would you have done, Erik?”

“I wouldn’t have killed him,” Erik said.

“We didn’t kill her. All we did . . . We worried. Jake and I sat up and talked. We wondered how to handle it. We tried to plan it out. First, we’d have Harry Davis change the computer records. Put them back the way they were, if he could. Make it look like there’d been a computer glitch or something. People might suspect the truth, but if they couldn’t prove it, maybe we’d be safe. We tried to think up other scenarios. I know you want to call Randy a drug dealer, but he was just a contact. Every school has a few. I won’t defend it. I remember when I went to Middlebury, I won’t mention his name, but a man who is a leading politician now, he was the supplier. You graduate, it’s over and done with. But now we needed to make sure that it didn’t come out. And mostly we wanted to figure out a way to reach Aimee. We were going to call you, Erik. We thought maybe you could reason with her. Because it wasn’t just Randy’s future. It was hers too.”

They were getting close to Drew Van Dyne’s house now.

“That’s a nice story, Mrs. Wolf,” Myron said. “But you left out one part.”

She closed her eyes.

“Whose blood is on your carpet?”

No answer.

“You heard me call the police. They’re on their way there now. There are tests. DNA and whatever. They’ll find out.”

Lorraine Wolf still said nothing. They were on Drew Van Dyne’s street now. The homes were smaller and older. The lawns weren’t quite as green. The shrubbery dipped and teetered. Win had told Myron exactly where he’d be standing, otherwise Myron would have never spotted him. He pulled to a stop and looked back at Erik.

“Stay here a second.”

Myron put the car in park and moved behind the tree. Win was there.

Myron said, “I don’t see Van Dyne’s car.”

“It’s in the garage.”

“How long has he been here?”

“How long ago did I call?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

Win nodded. “There you go then.”

Myron looked at the house. It was dark. “No lights on.”

“I noticed that too.”

“He backed into his garage ten minutes ago and he hasn’t gone into the house yet?”

Win shrugged.

There was a grinding noise. The garage door opened. Headlights shone in their faces. The car zoomed out. Win took out his gun, preparing to shoot. Myron put his hand on his friend’s arm.

“Aimee could be in there.”

Win nodded.

The car flew down the drive and squealed right. It drove past the parked car, the one with Erik Biel and Lorraine Wolf in the back. Van Dyne’s Toyota Corolla hesitated and then accelerated.

Myron and Win sprinted back to the car. Myron got in the driver’s side, Win the passenger’s. In the backseat, Erik Biel still had the gun pointed at Lorraine Wolf.

Win turned and smiled at Erik. “Hi,” he said.

Win reached back as though to shake Erik’s hand. Instead, he quickly grabbed Erik’s gun and pulled it away from him. Just like that. One second Erik Biel was holding a gun. The next he wasn’t.

Myron threw the car into drive as Van Dyne’s vehicle disappeared around the corner. Win looked at the gun, frowned, emptied it out.

The chase was on. But it wouldn’t last long.

CHAPTER 51

It was not Drew Van Dyne driving the car.

It was Jake Wolf.

Jake drove fast. He made a few quick turns, but he only drove about a mile. He had a big enough lead. He hit the old Roosevelt Mall, sped around back, shifted into park. He walked across the dark soccer fields in the general direction of Livingston High School. He figured that Myron Bolitar was following him. But he also figured that he had enough of a head start.

He heard the party noises. After a few more steps, he could start to see the glow of lights. The night air felt good in his lungs. Jake tried to look at the trees, the houses, the cars in the driveways. He loved this town. He loved his life here.

As he came closer, he could hear the laughter. He thought about what he was doing here. He swallowed and moved behind a row of pine trees on the neighboring property. He found a spot between two of them and looked out at the tent.

Jake Wolf spotted his son right away.

It had always been like that with Randy. You never missed him. He stood out, no matter what the circumstance. Jake remembered going to Randy’s first soccer program when the boy was in first grade. There must have been three, four hundred kids, all there, all running and bouncing around like molecules in heat. Jake had arrived late, but it took mere seconds to find his radiant boy in the waves of look-alike children. Like there was a spotlight coming down from above, illuminating his every step.

Jake Wolf just watched. His son was talking to a bunch of his pals. They were all laughing at something Randy said. Jake stared and felt his eyes well up. There was plenty of blame to go around, he guessed. He tried to think where it all started. With Dr. Crowley maybe. Damn history teacher calls himself doctor. What kind of pretentious crap was that anyhow?

Crowley was a small, meaningless man with a bad comb-over and slumped shoulders. He hated athletes. You could smell the envy a mile away. Crowley looked at someone like Randy, someone so good-looking and athletic and special, and he saw all his own adolescent failures.

That was how it all began.

Randy had written a wonderful essay on the Tet Offensive for Crowley’s history class. Crowley had given him a C-minus. A goddamn C-minus. A friend of Randy’s, a guy named Joel Fisher, had gotten an A. Jake read both essays. Randy’s was better. It wasn’t just Jake Wolf who thought so. He tried them both out on various people. He didn’t let them know which essay was his son’s and which was Joel’s.

“Which is better?” he’d asked.

And almost all agreed. Randy’s paper—the C-minus paper—was superior.

It might have seemed like a small thing, but it wasn’t. That paper was three-quarters of the grade. Dr. Crowley gave Randy a C. It kept Randy off the honor roll for that semester, but more than that, more than anything else, it knocked him out of the class’s top ten percent. Dartmouth had been clear. With Randy’s SATs, he needed to be in the top ten percent. If that C had been a B, Randy would have been accepted.

That was the difference.

Jake and Lorraine had gone in to talk to Dr. Crowley. They had explained the situation. Crowley wouldn’t budge. He had been dismissive, enjoying his power play, and it took all Jake’s willpower not to put the man through a plate-glass window. But Jake was not about to give up that easy. He’d hired a private eye to dig into the man’s past, but Crowley’s life had been so pathetic, so nothing, so obviously unremarkable, especially next to the bright beacon that was Jake’s son . . . There was nothing he could use against the man.

So if Jake Wolf had played by the rules, that would have been it. That would have kept his son out of an Ivy League education—the whim of a nothing like Crowley.

Uh-uh. No way.

And so it began.

Jake swallowed and stared. His son stood in the middle of the party, the sun with dozens of orbiting planets. He had a cup in his hand. Randy had such natural ease. Such poise in everything he did. Jake Wolf stood there, in the shadows, and wondered if there was any way to save it all. He didn’t think so. It was like holding water in your hand. He had tried to sound confident for Lorraine. He thought that maybe he could dump the body in Drew Van Dyne’s house. Lorraine would clean up the stain. It could have still worked.

But Myron Bolitar had showed up. Jake had spotted him from the garage. He was trapped. Jake hoped to speed away, lose them, dump the body somewhere else. But when he made that first turn and saw that Lorraine was in the backseat, he knew that it was over.

He’d hire a good attorney. The best. He knew a guy in town, Lenny Marcus. Great defense lawyer. He’d call him, see what they could work out. But in his heart, Jake Wolf knew that it was over. For him, at least.

That was why he was here now. In the shadows. Watching his beautiful, perfect son. Randy was the only thing he had ever gotten right. His boy. His precious boy. But that was enough. From the first time he had laid eyes on the baby in the hospital, Jake Wolf was mesmerized. He went to every practice he could. He went to every game. It wasn’t just to show support—often, during practices, Jake would stand behind a tree, almost hide, as he was doing now. He just liked to watch his son. That was all. He liked getting lost in this very simple bliss. And sometimes, when he did, he couldn’t believe how lucky he was, how someone like Jake Wolf, also a nothing when you thought about it, could have been part of creating something so miraculous. The world was cruel and awful and you had to do all you could to get that edge, but then every once in a while, he’d look at Randy and realize that there was something other than the dog-eat-dog horror, that there had to be something better out there, some higher being, because here, in front of him, there was indeed perfection and beauty.

“Hey, Jake.”

He turned at the sound of the voice. “Hi, Jacques.”

It was Jacques Harlow, the father of one of Randy’s closest friends and the party host. Jacques came up next to him. They both looked out at the party, at their sons, soaking it in for almost a full minute without speaking.

“Can you believe how fast it went by?” Harlow said.

Jake just shook his head, afraid to speak. His eyes never left his son.

“Hey, how about coming in for a drink?”

“I can’t. I just had to drop something off for Randy. Thanks though.”

Harlow slapped his back. “Sure.” He headed back toward the porch.

It took another five minutes. Jake enjoyed every second. Then he heard the footsteps. He turned and saw Myron Bolitar. Myron had a gun in his hand. Jake Wolf smiled and turned back to his son.

“What are you doing here, Jake?”

“What’s it look like?”

Jake Wolf did not want to move, but he knew that it was time. He soaked up one last look at his son. That was what this felt like. The last time he would see him like this. He wanted to say something to his son, offer some words of wisdom, but Jake wasn’t good with words.

So instead he turned and raised his hands.

“In the trunk,” Jake Wolf said. “The body is in the trunk.”

CHAPTER 52

Win stood a few feet behind Myron. Just in case. But he could see right away that Jake Wolf was not about to make a move. He was surrendering. For now. There might be something else, something later. Win had dealt with men like Jake Wolf. They never really believe that it’s over. They look for an out, an escape hatch, a loophole, a legal maneuver, something.

A few minutes earlier, they’d spotted Van Dyne’s car in the Roosevelt Mall lot. Myron and Win had run ahead, leaving Lorraine Wolf and Erik Biel in the car. Erik still had a few nylon cuffs he’d bought at the same store where he’d picked up the ammunition. So they cuffed Lorraine’s hands behind her back and hoped like hell that Erik wouldn’t do something stupid.

Not long after Myron and Win disappeared into the dark, Erik got out of the backseat. He moved toward Van Dyne’s car. He opened the front door. He didn’t know what he was doing exactly. He just knew he had to do something. He slid into the driver’s seat. There were guitar picks on the floor. He remembered his own daughter’s collection, how much she loved them, how her eyes would close when she strummed the strings. He remembered Aimee’s first guitar, a crappy thing he’d bought at a toy store for ten bucks. She’d been only four years old. She banged on it and did a wonderful rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” More like Bruce Springsteen than something you’d see from a preschooler. He and Claire had clapped like mad when she finished.

“Aimee rocks,” Claire had declared.

They had all been smiling. They had all been so happy.

Erik looked out the windshield, back toward his car, back toward Lorraine Wolf. Their eyes met. He had known Lorraine for two years now, since Aimee had first started dating her son. He liked her. Truth be told, he had even semi-fantasized about her. Not that he would have ever done anything about it. Not like that. Just a harmless fantasy for an attractive woman. Normal stuff.

He looked in the backseat now. There was sheet music, handwritten. He froze. His hand moved slowly. He saw the handwriting and realized that it was Aimee’s. He picked it up, brought it closer, holding it as if it were strands of porcelain.

Aimee had written this.

Something caught in his throat. His fingertips touched down on the words, the notes. His daughter had held this paper. She had scrunched up her face the way she always did and delved into her life experiences and produced this. It was a simple thought, really, but suddenly it meant the world to him. His anger was gone. It would be back. He knew that. But at that moment, his heart just felt heavy. There was no anger. Just pain.

That was when Erik decided to pop the trunk.

He looked back over at Lorraine Wolf. Something crossed her face. He didn’t know what. He opened the car door and stepped back into the night. He moved toward the trunk, took hold of the hatch with one hand, began to lift it. He heard rustling from the field. He turned and saw Myron come flying into view.

“Erik, wait. . . .”

Erik opened the trunk then.

The black tarp. That was what he saw first. Something wrapped in black tarp. His knees buckled, but he held on. Myron started toward him, but Erik held up a hand as if telling him to stay back. He tried to rip the tarp. It wouldn’t give. He pulled and tugged. The tarp held in place. Erik started to panic now. His chest heaved. His breath caught.

He took out his key chain and dug the end of a key into the plastic. It made a hole. There was blood. He slit the tarp and reached his hands in. They grew wet and sticky. Erik desperately pulled at the tarp, ripping at it as if he were trapped inside, running out of air.

He saw the dead face and fell back.

Myron was next to him now.

“Oh my God,” Erik said. He collapsed. “Oh thank you. . . .”

It wasn’t his daughter in the trunk. It was Drew Van Dyne.

CHAPTER 53

Lorraine Wolf said, “I shot him in self-defense.”

In the distance Myron could hear the police sirens. Myron stood next to the trunk with Erik Biel and Lorraine Wolf. He had called the police. They’d be here soon. He looked across the field. He could see distant silhouettes of Win and Jake Wolf. Myron had run ahead. Win had taken care of securing their suspect.

“Drew Van Dyne was in the house,” she went on. “He pulled a gun on Jake. I saw it. He was yelling all kinds of crazy stuff about Aimee—”

“What stuff?”

“He said that Jake didn’t care about her. That she was just some dumb slut to him. That she was pregnant. He was ranting.”

“So what did you do?”

“We keep guns in the house. Jake likes to hunt. So I got a rifle. I pointed it at Drew Van Dyne. I told him to put down the gun. He wouldn’t. I could see that. So . . .”

“No!” It was Wolf who had said that. They were close enough to hear. “I shot Van Dyne!”

Everyone stared at him. The police sirens sounded.

“I shot him in self-defense,” Jake Wolf insisted. “He pulled a gun on me.”

“So why did you stick the body in the trunk?” Myron asked.

“I was afraid no one would believe that. I was going to bring him home, dump him in his own house. Then I realized that would be stupid.”

“When did you realize that?” Myron said. “When you saw us?”

“I want a lawyer,” Jake Wolf said. “Lorraine, don’t say anything else.”

Erik Biel stepped forward. “I don’t care about any of this. My daughter. Where the hell is my daughter?”

No one moved. No one spoke. The night stayed silent except for the scream of sirens.

Lance Banner was the first cop out of his car, but dozens of squad cars descended on the Roosevelt Mall parking lot. They kept the flashing lights on. Everyone’s face went from blue to red. The effect was dizzying.

“Aimee,” Erik said softly. “Where is she?”

Myron tried to keep calm, tried to concentrate. He stepped to the side with Win. Win’s face, as ever, remained unruffled.

“So,” Win said, “where are we?”

“It’s not Davis,” Myron said. “We checked him out. It doesn’t look like it was Van Dyne. He pulled a gun on Jake Wolf because he thought that he’d done it. And the Wolfs claim, somewhat convincingly, that it wasn’t them.”

“Any other suspects?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Win said, “Then we need to look at them again.”

“Erik thinks she’s dead.”

Win nodded. “That’s what I mean,” he said. “When I say we need to look at them again.”

“You think one of them killed her and got rid of the body?”

Win did not bother replying.

“My God,” Myron said. He looked back over at Erik. “Have we been looking at this wrong from the beginning?”

“I can’t see how.”

Myron’s cell phone chirped. He looked down at the caller ID and saw the number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“It’s Investigator Loren Muse. Do you remember me?”

“Of course.”

“I just got an anonymous call,” she said. “Someone claimed they spotted Aimee Biel yesterday.”

“Where?”

“On Livingston Avenue. Aimee was in the passenger seat of a Toyota Corolla. The driver pretty much fits the description of Drew Van Dyne.”

Myron frowned. “Are you sure?”

“That’s what she said.”

“He’s dead, Muse.”

“Who?”

“Drew Van Dyne.”

Erik came over and stood next to Myron.

And that was when it happened.

Erik’s cell phone rang.

He brought the phone up. When he saw the number on the caller ID, Erik nearly screamed.

“Oh my God. . . .”

Erik snapped the phone to his ear. His eyes were wet. His hand shook so badly he hit the wrong button to answer. He tried again and brought the phone back up. His voice was a panicked scream. “Hello?”

Myron leaned in close enough to hear. There was a moment of static. And then a voice, a teary voice, a familiar voice said, “Daddy?”

Myron’s heart stopped.

Erik’s face collapsed, but his voice was all father. “Where are you, honey? Are you all right?”

“I don’t . . . I’m fine, I think. Daddy?”

“It’s okay, honey. I’m here. Just tell me where you are.”

And she did.

CHAPTER 54

Myron drove. Erik stayed in the passenger seat.

The ride was not a long one.

Aimee had said that she was behind the Little Park near the high school—that same park that Claire had taken her to when she was only three. Erik would not let her off the line. “It’s okay,” he kept saying. “Daddy’s on his way.”

Myron cut time by taking the circle in the wrong direction. He drove over two curbs. He didn’t care. Neither did Erik. Speed was the thing here. The lot was empty. The headlights danced through the night and then, as they made the final turn, the lights landed on a solitary figure.

Myron hit the brake.

Erik said, “Oh my God, oh my sweet dear God. . . .”

He was out of the car. Myron was out fast too. They both started sprinting. But somewhere along the way, Myron let up. Erik took the lead. That was how it should be. Erik swept his daughter into his arms. He took careful hold of her face, as though fearing it was only a dream, a puff of smoke, and that she might vanish again.

Myron stopped and watched. Then he picked up his own cell phone and called Claire.

“Myron? What the hell is going on?”

“She’s okay,” he said.

“What?”

“She’s safe. We’re bringing her home to you now.”

In the car, Aimee was groggy.

“What happened?” Myron asked.

“I think,” Aimee began. Her eyes went wide. Her pupils were dilated. “I think they drugged me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know who kidnapped you?”

She shook her head.

Erik sat in the back with Aimee. He held her. He stroked her hair. He told her over and over again that it was okay now, everything was okay.

Myron said, “Maybe we should take her to a doctor.”

“No,” Erik said. “She needs to go home first.”

“Aimee, what happened?”

“She’s been through hell, Myron,” Erik said. “Give her a chance to catch her breath.”

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

“Why were you in New York?”

“I was supposed to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“About . . .” Her voice faded. Then she said, “This is tough to talk about.”

“We know about Drew Van Dyne,” Myron said. “We know you’re pregnant.”

She closed her eyes.

“Aimee, what happened?”

“I was going to get rid of it.”

“The baby?”

She nodded. “I went to the corner of Fifty-second Street and Sixth. That’s what they told me to do. They were going to help me out. They pulled up in a black car. They told me to get money from the ATM.”

“Who?”

“I never saw them,” Aimee said. “The windows were tinted. They were always in disguise.”

“Disguise?”

“Yes.”

“They. There was more than one?”

“I don’t know. I know I heard a woman’s voice. That much I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you just go to St. Barnabas?”

Aimee hesitated. “I’m so tired.”

“Aimee?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Someone from St. Barnabas called. A woman. If I went there, my parents would find out. Something about shield laws. I just . . . I’d made so many mistakes. I just wanted to . . . But then I wasn’t so sure. I got the money. I was going to get in the car. But then I panicked. That’s when I called you, Myron. I wanted to talk to someone. It was going to be you, but, I don’t know, I know you were trying, but I thought maybe it would be better to talk to someone else.”

“Harry Davis?”

Aimee nodded. “I know this other girl,” she said. “Her boyfriend got her pregnant. She said Mr. D was really helpful.”

“That’s enough,” Erik said.

They were almost at Aimee’s house. Myron did not want to let this go. Not yet.

“So what happened then?”

“The rest is fuzzy,” Aimee said.

“Fuzzy?”

“I know I got into a car.”

“Whose?”

“The same one that was waiting for me in New York, I think. I felt so deflated after Mr. D sent me away. So I thought I might as well go with them. Get it over with. But . . .”

“But what?”

“It’s all fuzzy.”

Myron frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was drugged almost the whole time. I only remember waking up for a few minutes at a time. Whoever it was, they held me in some kind of log cabin. That’s all I remember. It had this fireplace with white and brown stone. And then suddenly I was in that field behind the playground. I called you, Daddy. I don’t even know . . . how long was I gone?”

She started crying then. Erik put his arms around her.

“It’s okay,” Erik said. “Whatever happened, it’s over now. You’re safe.”

Claire was in the yard. She sprinted up to the car. Aimee managed to get out, but she could barely stand. Claire let out a primordial cry and grabbed for her daughter.

They hugged, they cried, they kissed, the three of them. Myron felt like an intruder. They started toward the door then. Myron waited. Claire looked back. She caught Myron’s eyes. She ran back to him.

Claire kissed him. “Thank you.”

“The police are still going to need to talk to her.”

“You kept your promise.”

He said nothing.

“You brought her home.”

Then she ran back to the house.

Myron stood there and watched them disappear inside. He wanted to celebrate. Aimee was home. She was healthy.

But he didn’t feel in the mood.

He drove again to the cemetery that overlooked a schoolyard. The gate was open. He found Brenda’s grave and sat next to it. The night closed in. He could hear the swishing of highway traffic. He thought about what had just happened. He thought about what Aimee had just said. He thought about her being home, safe and with her family, while Brenda lay in the ground.

Myron sat there until another car pulled up. He almost smiled as Win stepped into view. Win kept his distance for a moment. Then he approached the headstone. He looked down at it.

“Nice to have one in the win column, no?” Win said.

“I’m not so sure.”

“Why not?”

“I still don’t know what happened.”

“She’s alive. She’s home.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough.”

Win gestured toward the stone. “If you could go back in time, would you need to know everything that happened? Or would it be enough if she were alive and home?”

Myron closed his eyes, tried to imagine that bliss. “It would be enough if she were alive and home.”

Win smiled. “There you go then. What else is there?”

He stood. He didn’t know the answer. He only knew that he had spent enough time with ghosts, with the dead.

CHAPTER 55

The police took Myron’s statement. They asked questions. They told him nothing. Myron slept in the house in Livingston that night. Win stayed with him. Win rarely did that. They both woke up early. They watched SportsDesk on TV and ate cold cereal.

It felt normal and right and rather wonderful.

Win said, “I’ve been thinking about your relationship with Ms. Wilder.”

“Don’t.”

“No, no, I think I owe you an apology,” Win continued. “I may have misjudged her. Her looks do grow on you. I’m thinking that perhaps her derriere is of a finer quality than I originally thought.”

“Win?”

“What?”

“I don’t much care what you think.”

“Yes, my friend, you do.”

At eight in the morning Myron walked over to the Biel house. He figured that they were awake by now. He knocked gently on the door. Claire answered it. She wore a bathrobe. Her hair was disheveled. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

“Aimee is still sleeping,” Claire said. “Whatever drugs the kidnappers gave her, they really knocked her out.”

“Maybe you should take her to the hospital.”

“Our friend David Gold—do you know him? He’s a doctor. He came by last night and checked her out. He said she’d be fine once the drugs wear off.”

“What drugs did they give her?”

Claire shrugged. “Who knows?” They both stood there a moment. Claire took a deep breath and looked up and down the street. Then she said, “Myron?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to let the police handle it from here.”

He did not reply.

“I don’t want you to ask Aimee about what happened.”

There was just enough steel in her voice. Myron waited to see if she’d say more. She did. “Erik and I, we just want it to end. We hired an attorney last night.”

“Why?”

“We’re her parents. We know how to protect our daughter.”

The implication being: Myron didn’t. She hadn’t needed to mention again that first night, how Myron had dropped Aimee off and hadn’t looked out for her. But that was what she was saying here.

“I know how you are, Myron.”

“How am I?”

“You want answers.”

“You don’t?”

“I want my daughter to be happy and healthy. That’s more important than answers.”

“You don’t want whoever did this to pay?”

“It was probably Drew Van Dyne. And he’s dead. So what’s the point? We just want Aimee to be able to put this behind her. She’s going to college in a few months.”

“Everyone keeps talking about college like it’s a great big do-over card,” Myron said. “Like the first eighteen years of your life don’t count.”

“In a way, they don’t.”

“That’s crap, Claire. What about her baby?”

Claire moved back to the door. “With all due deference—and no matter what you want to think about our decisions—that’s not your concern.”

Myron nodded to himself. She had him on that one.

“Your part in this is over,” she said, and again he heard the steel. “Thank you for what you’ve done. I have to get back to my daughter now.”

And then Claire closed the door on him.

CHAPTER 56

A week later, Myron sat at Baumgart’s Restaurant with Livingston police detective Lance Banner and Essex County investigator Loren Muse. Myron had ordered the Kung Pao Chicken. Banner had ordered a Chinese fish special. Muse was having a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Grilled cheese at a Chinese restaurant?” Myron said.

Loren Muse shrugged mid-bite.

Banner used chopsticks. “Jake Wolf is pleading self-defense,” he said. “He claims that Drew Van Dyne pulled a gun on him. Said that he made wild threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Van Dyne was ranting that Wolf hurt Aimee Biel. Something like that. They’re both a little vague on the specifics.”

“Both?”

“Jake Wolf’s star witness. His wife, Lorraine.”

“That night,” Myron said, “Lorraine told us she pulled the trigger.”

“My guess is, she did. We did a powder residue check on Jake Wolf’s hand. He was clean.”

“Did you check his wife?”

“She refused,” Banner said. “Jake Wolf forbade it.”

“So he’s taking the hit for his wife?”

Banner looked at Loren Muse. He nodded slowly.

“What?” Myron asked.

“We’ll get to that.”

“Get to what?”

“Look, Myron, I think you’re right,” Banner said. “Jake Wolf is trying to take the hit for the whole family. On the one hand, he’s claiming self-defense. There is some evidence to back it up. Van Dyne had a bit of a history. He also had a gun on him—it’s registered in his name. On the other hand, Jake Wolf is willing to do some time in exchange for giving his wife and kid a pass.”

“His kid?”

“He wants a guarantee that his son still goes to Dartmouth. And that Randy will be cleared of all subsequent allegations, including anything related to the shooting, the cheating scandal, and his possible relationship with Van Dyne and drugs.”

“Well,” Myron said. But it added up. Jake Wolf was an ass, but Myron had seen the way he looked at his son at that graduation party. “He’s still trying to salvage Randy’s future.”

“Yep.”

“Will he be able to?”

“I don’t know,” Banner said. “The prosecutor has no jurisdiction over Dartmouth. If they want to rescind their acceptance, they can and probably will.”

“What Jake is doing,” Myron said. “It’s almost admirable.”

“If not twisted,” Banner added.

Myron looked at Loren Muse. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Because I think Banner has it wrong.”

Banner frowned. “I don’t have it wrong.”

Loren put down the sandwich and brushed the crumbs off her hands. “For starters, you’re going to put the wrong person in jail. The powder residue test proves that Jake Wolf didn’t shoot Drew Van Dyne.”

“He said he wore gloves.”

Now Loren Muse frowned.

Myron said, “She has a point.”

“Gee, Myron, thanks.”

“Hey, I’m on your side here. Lorraine Wolf told me she shot Drew Van Dyne. Shouldn’t she be the one on trial?”

Loren Muse turned to him. “I never said I thought it was Lorraine Wolf.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sometimes the most obvious answer is the right one.”

Myron shook his head. “I’m not following you.”

“Go back a second,” Loren Muse said.

“How far back?”

“All the way to Edna Skylar on the streets of New York City.”

“Right.”

“Maybe we had it right all along. From the moment she called us.”

“I’m still not following.”

“Edna Skylar confirmed what we already knew: that Katie Rochester was a runaway. And at first, that’s what we all thought about Aimee Biel too, right?”

“So?”

Loren Muse said nothing.

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you think Aimee Biel ran away?”

“There are a lot of unanswered questions,” Loren said.

“So ask them.”

“Ask who?”

“What do you mean, who? Ask Aimee Biel.”

“We tried.” Loren Muse smiled. “Aimee’s lawyer won’t let us talk to her.”

Myron sat back.

“Don’t you find that odd?”

“Her parents want her to put it behind her.”

“Why?”

“Because it was a traumatic experience for her,” Myron said.

Loren Muse just looked at him. So did Lance Banner.

“That story she told you,” Loren said. “About being drugged and held in some log cabin.”

“What about it?”

“There are holes.”

A cold pinprick started at the base of Myron’s neck and slid south down his spine. “What holes?”

“First off, we have the anonymous source who called me. The one who saw her tooling around with Drew Van Dyne. If Aimee were kidnapped, how could that be exactly?”

“Your witness was wrong.”

“Right. She happened to pick out the make of the car and described Drew Van Dyne to a tee. But hey, she’s probably wrong.”

“You can’t trust anonymous sources,” Myron tried.

“Fine, then let’s move on to hole two. This late-night abortion story. We checked at St. Barnabas. Nobody told her anything about parental notification. More than that, it’s not true. The laws might change on that subject, but either way, in her case—”

“She’s eighteen,” Myron interrupted. Eighteen. An adult. That age again.

“Exactly. And there’s more.”

Myron waited.

“Hole three: We found Aimee’s fingerprints at Drew Van Dyne’s house.”

“They had an affair. Of course her prints were there. They could be weeks old.”

“We found prints on a soda can. The can was still on the kitchen counter.”

Myron said nothing, but he felt something deep inside of him start to give way.

“All your suspects—Harry Davis, Jake Wolf, Drew Van Dyne. We checked them all out thoroughly. None of them could have pulled off a purported kidnapping.” Loren Muse spread her hands. “So it’s like that old axiom in reverse. When you’ve eliminated all the other possibilities, you have to go back to your first, most obvious solution.”

“You think Aimee ran away.”

Loren Muse shrugged, shifted in her chair. “Here she is, a confused young woman. Pregnant with a teacher’s child. Her dad is having an affair. She’s caught up in this cheating scandal. She must have felt trapped, don’t you think?”

Myron found himself almost nodding.

“There is no physical evidence—none at all—that Aimee was abducted. And think about it. Why would someone kidnap her anyway? What would be the motive in a case like this? The normal motives are, what, sexual assault, for one. We know that didn’t happen. Her doctor told us that much. There was no physical or sexual trauma. Why else are people kidnapped? For ransom. Well, we know that didn’t happen either.”

Myron kept very still. It was almost exactly what Erik had said. If you wanted to keep Aimee quiet, you didn’t kidnap her. You killed her. But now she was alive. Ergo . . .

Loren Muse kept pounding at him. “Do you have a motive for a kidnapping, Myron?”

“No,” he said. “But what about the ATM machine? How do you figure that in?”

“You mean both girls using the same one?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was a coincidence after all.”

“Come on, Muse.”

“Okay, fine, then let’s turn it around.” She pointed at him. “How does that ATM transaction fit into a kidnapping scenario? Would Wolf know about it? Davis, Van Dyne?”

Myron saw her point. “But there are other things too,” he countered. “Like that phone call from a pay phone in the subway. Or the fact that she was online.”

“All of which fit into her being a runaway,” Loren said. “If someone did abduct her like she claims, why would they risk a call from a pay phone? Why would you put her on the Internet?”

Myron shook his head. He knew that she was making sense. He just refused to accept it. “So that’s how this ends? It’s not Davis. It’s not Wolf or Van Dyne or anyone. Aimee Biel just ran away?”

Loren Muse and Lance Banner exchanged another glance.

Then Lance Banner said, “Yes, that’s the working theory. And remember: There’s no law against what she did. In the end a lot of people got hurt or even killed. But running away is not against the law.”

Loren Muse kept quiet again. Myron didn’t like it. “What?” he snapped at her.

“Nothing. What Banner said—the evidence all points that way. It might even explain why Aimee’s parents don’t want us talking to her. They don’t want all that coming out—her affair, her pregnancy, heck, like it or not, she was helped in the cheating scandal too. So keeping it all quiet. Making her look like a victim instead of a runaway. It’s the right move.”

“But?”

She looked at Banner. He sighed and shook his head. Loren Muse started fiddling with her fork. “But both Jake and Lorraine Wolf wanted to take the blame for shooting Drew Van Dyne.”

“So?”

“You don’t find that odd?”

“No. We just explained why. Lorraine killed him. Jake wants to take the fall to protect her.”

“And the fact that they were cleaning up the evidence and moving the body?”

Myron shrugged. “That would be the natural reaction.”

“Even if you killed in self-defense?”

“In their case, yes. They were trying to protect it all. If Van Dyne is found dead in their house, even if they shot him in self-defense, all the stuff about Randy would come out. The drugs, the cheating, all of it.”

She nodded. “That’s the theory. That’s what Lance here believes. And that’s probably what happened.”

Myron tried not to sound too impatient. “But?”

“But maybe that’s not how it happened. Maybe Jake and Lorraine came home and found the body there.”

Myron stopped breathing. There is something inside of you. It can bend. It can stretch. But then, every once in a while, you can feel it pulling too far. If you let it go there, you will break inside. You will snap in two. You know that. Myron had known Aimee his whole life. And right now, if he was right about where Loren Muse was going, he was close to breaking. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Maybe the Wolfs came home and saw a body. And maybe they assumed that Randy had done it.” She leaned closer. “Van Dyne was Randy’s drug supplier. He had also stolen Randy’s girlfriend. So maybe Mom and Dad saw the body and figured that Randy shot him. Maybe they panicked and loaded the body in his car.”

“What, you think Randy killed Drew Van Dyne?”

“No. I said that’s what they thought. Randy has an alibi.”

“So what’s your point?”

“If Aimee Biel hadn’t been kidnapped,” Muse said, “if she ran away and stayed with Drew Van Dyne, maybe she was with him in the house. And maybe, just maybe, Aimee, our scared little girl, really did want to put it all behind her. Maybe she was ready for college, ready to move on and cut off all ties, except this guy, this Drew Van Dyne, wouldn’t let go. . . .”

Myron closed his eyes. That little thing inside of him—it was being pulled hard. He stopped it, shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

She shrugged. “Probably.”

“I’ve known this girl all my life.”

“I know, Myron. She’s a young, sweet girl, right? Young sweet girls can’t be killers, can they?”

He thought about Aimee Biel, the way she laughed at him in his basement, the way she climbed up the jungle gym when she was three. He remembered her blowing out candles at her birthday party. He remembered watching her in a school play when she was in eighth grade. He remembered it all and he felt the anger starting to mount.

“You’re wrong,” Myron said again.

He waited on the sidewalk across the street from their house.

Erik came out first. His face was tight, grim. Aimee and Claire followed. Myron stood there and watched. Aimee spotted him first. She smiled at him and waved. Myron studied that smile. It looked the same to him. The same smile he’d seen on the playground when she was three. The same one he’d seen in the basement a few weeks ago.

There was nothing different.

Except now the smile gave him a chill.

He looked at Erik and then at Claire. Their eyes were hard, protective, but there was something else there, something beyond exhaustion and surrender, something primitive and instinctive. Erik and Claire walked with their daughter. But they did not touch her. That was what Myron noticed. They were not touching their own daughter.

“Hi, Myron!” Aimee shouted.

“Hi.”

Aimee ran across the street. Her parents did not move. Neither did Myron. Aimee threw her arms around him, almost knocking him over. Myron tried to hug her back. But he couldn’t quite do it. Aimee gripped him harder.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He didn’t say anything. Her embrace, it felt the same. It felt warm and strong. No different than before.

And yet he wanted it to end.

Myron felt his heart drop and shatter. God help him, he just wanted her to let go, to get her away from him. He wanted this girl he’d loved for so long to be gone. He took hold of her shoulders and gently pushed her off.

Claire was behind her now. She said to Myron, “We’re in a rush. We’ll get together soon.”

He nodded. The two women walked away. Erik waited by the car. Myron watched them. Claire was next to her daughter, but she still wouldn’t touch her. Aimee got in the car. Erik and Claire glanced at each other. They did not speak. Aimee was in the back. They both sat in the front. Natural enough, Myron supposed, but it still seemed to him as if they were trying to keep their distance from Aimee, as if they wondered—or perhaps knew—about the stranger who now lived with them. Claire looked back at him.

They know, Myron thought.

Myron watched the car pull away. As it disappeared down the street, he realized something:

He hadn’t kept his promise.

He hadn’t brought home their baby.

Their baby was gone.

CHAPTER 57

Four Days Later

Jessica Culver did indeed marry Stone Norman at Tavern on the Green.

Myron was in his office when he read about it in the paper. Esperanza and Win were both there too. Win was standing near a full-length mirror, checking out his golf swing. Win did that a lot. Esperanza watched Myron carefully.

“You okay?” she asked him.

“I am.”

“You realize that her getting hitched is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“I do.” Myron put the paper down. “I came to a realization that I wanted to share with both of you.”

Win stopped his air swing midway. “My arm isn’t straight enough.”

Esperanza waved him quiet. “What?”

“I’ve always tried to run away from what I now see are my natural instincts,” Myron said. “You know. Playing the hero. You both warn me against it. And I’ve listened. But I’ve figured something out. I’m supposed to do it. I’ll have my defeats, sure, but I’ll have more victories. I’m not going to run away from it anymore. I don’t want to end up being cynical. I want to help people. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Win turned toward him. “Are you done?”

“I am.”

Win looked at Esperanza. “Should we applaud?”

“I think we should.”

Esperanza stood and applauded wildly. Win put down his air club and offered up a polite golf clap.

Myron bowed and said, “Thank you so very much, you’re a beautiful audience, don’t forget your waitress on the way out, hey, try the veal.”

Big Cyndi popped her head through the doorway. She’d gone heavy on the rouge this morning and looked like a traffic light.

“Line two, Mr. Bolitar.” Big Cyndi batted her eyes. Picture two scorpions trapped on their backs. Then she added, “It’s your new sweetie pie.”

Myron picked up the phone. “Hey!”

Ali Wilder said, “What time are you coming over?”

“I should be there about seven.”

“How about pizza and a DVD with the kids?”

Myron smiled. “Sounds great.”

He hung up. He was smiling. Esperanza and Win exchanged a glance.

“What?” Myron said.

“You’re so doofy when you’re in love,” Esperanza said.

Myron looked at his watch. “It’s time.”

“Good luck,” Esperanza said.

Myron turned to Win. “You want to come along?”

“No, my friend. This one is all yours.”

Myron stood. He kissed Esperanza on the cheek. He hugged Win. Win was surprised by the gesture, but he took it. Myron drove back to New Jersey. It was a glorious day. The sun shone like it’d just been created. Myron fiddled with the radio dial. He kept hitting all his favorite songs.

It was that kind of day.

He did not bother stopping at Brenda’s grave. He thought that she’d understand. Actions speak louder and all that.

Myron parked at St. Barnabas Medical Center. He headed up to Joan Rochester’s room. She was sitting up when he got there, ready to leave.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine,” Joan Rochester said.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you.”

“Don’t be.”

“Are you going home?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going to press charges?”

“That’s right.”

Myron figured as much. “Your daughter can’t run forever.”

“I know that.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Katie came home last night.”

So much for the happy ending, Myron thought. He closed his eyes. This was not what he’d wanted to hear.

“She and Rufus had a fight. So Katie came home. Dominick forgave her. It’s all going to be okay.”

They looked at each other. It wouldn’t be okay. He knew that. She knew that.

“I want to help you,” Myron said.

“You can’t.”

And maybe she was right.

You help those you can. That was what Win had said. And you always, always keep a promise. That was why he had come today. To keep his promise.

He met up with Dr. Edna Skylar in the corridor outside the cancer ward. He had hoped to see her in her office, but this would be okay.

Edna Skylar smiled when she saw him. She wore very little makeup. The white coat was wrinkled. No stethoscope hung around her neck this time.

“Hello, Myron,” she said.

“Hi, Dr. Skylar.”

“Call me Edna.”

“Okay.”

“I was just on my way out.” She pointed with her thumb toward the elevator. “What brings you here?”

“You, actually.”

Edna Skylar had a pen tucked behind her ear. She took it out, made a note on a chart, put it back. “Really?”

“You taught me something when I was here last time,” Myron said.

“What’s that?”

“We talked about the virtuous patient, remember? We talked about the pure versus the sullied. You were so honest with me—about how you’d rather work with people who seemed more deserving.”

“A lot of talk, yes,” she said. “But at the end of the day, I took an oath. I treat those I don’t like too.”

“Oh I know. But you see, you got me thinking. Because I agreed with you. I wanted to help Aimee Biel because I thought she was . . . I don’t know.”

“Innocent?” Skylar said.

“I guess.”

“But you learned that she’s not.”

“More than that,” Myron said. “What I learned was, you were wrong.”

“About?”

“We can’t prejudge people like that. We become cynical. We assume the worst. And when we do that, we start to see only the shadows. You know that Aimee Biel is back home?”

“I heard that, yes.”

“Everyone thinks she ran away.”

“I heard that too.”

“So nobody listened to her story. I mean, really listened. Once that assumption came about, Aimee Biel was no longer an innocent. You see? Even her parents. They had her best interests at heart. They wanted so much to protect her that even they couldn’t see the truth.”

“Which is?”

“Innocent until proven guilty. It’s not just for the courtroom.”

Edna Skylar made a production of checking her watch. “I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at.”

“I believed in that girl her whole life. Was I wrong? Was it a lie? But at the end of the day, it’s like her parents said—it’s their job to protect her, not mine. So I was able to be more dispassionate. I was willing to risk learning the truth. So I waited. When I finally got Aimee alone, I asked her to tell me the whole story. Because there were too many holes in the other one—the one where she ran away and maybe killed her lover. That ATM machine, for one. That call from the pay phone, for another. Stuff like that. I didn’t want to just shove it all aside and help her get on with her life. So I talked to her. I remembered how much I loved and cared for her. And I did something truly strange.”

“What?”

“I assumed that Aimee was telling the truth. If she was, then I knew two things. The kidnapper was a woman. And the kidnapper knew that Katie Rochester used the ATM machine on Fifty-second Street. The only people who fit that bill? Katie Rochester. Well, she didn’t do it. Loren Muse. No way. And you.”

“Me?” Edna Skylar began to blink. “Are you serious?”

“Do you remember when I called and asked you to look up Aimee’s medical file?” Myron asked. “To see if she was pregnant?”

Again Edna Skylar checked her watch. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“I said it wasn’t just about one innocent, it was about two.”

“So?”

“Before I called you, I asked your husband to do the same thing. He worked in that department. I thought he’d have an easier time. But he refused.”

“Stanley is a stickler for the rules,” Edna Skylar said.

“I know. But you see, he told me something interesting. He told me that with all the new HIP laws nowadays, the computer date-stamps a patient’s file every time you look into it. You can see the name of the doctor who viewed the file. And you get the time he or she viewed it.”

“Right.”

“So I checked Aimee’s file. Guess what it shows?”

Her smile began to falter.

“You, Dr. Skylar, looked at that file two weeks before I asked you to. Why would you do that?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t.”

“The computer is wrong?”

“Sometimes Stanley forgets his code. He probably used mine.”

“I see. He forgets his own code but remembers yours.” Myron tilted his head and edged closer. “You think he’ll say that under oath?”

Edna Skylar did not reply.

“Do you know where you were really clever?” he went on. “Telling me about your son. The one who was trouble from day one and ran away to make it big. You said that he was still a mess, do you remember?”

A small, pain-filled sound escaped her lips. Her eyes filled with tears.

“But you never mentioned your son’s name. No reason you should, of course. And there’s no reason why anybody would know. Even now. It wasn’t part of the investigation. I don’t know the name of Jake Wolf’s mother. Or Harry Davis’s. But once I saw that you’d been in Aimee’s medical file, I did a little checking. Your first husband, Dr. Skylar, was named Andrew Van Dyne, am I right? Your son’s name was Drew Van Dyne.”

She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she opened them again, she shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but not even coming close. “So?”

“Odd, don’t you think? When I asked you about Aimee Biel, you never mentioned that your son knew her.”

“I told you that I was estranged from my son. I didn’t know anything about him and Aimee Biel.”

Myron grinned. “You have all the answers, don’t you, Edna?”

“I’m just telling the truth.”

“No, you’re not. It was yet another coincidence. So many damn coincidences, don’t you think? That’s what I couldn’t shake from the beginning. Two pregnant girls at the same high school? Okay, that one was no big deal. But all the rest—both girls running away, both using the same ATM, all that. Again, let’s assume Aimee was telling the truth. Let’s assume that someone—a woman—did indeed tell Aimee to wait on that corner. Let’s say that this mystery woman did tell Aimee to take money out of that ATM. Why? Why would someone do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do, Edna. Because they weren’t coincidences. None of them. You arranged them all. The two girls using the same ATM? Only one reason for that. The kidnapper—you, Edna—wanted to hook Aimee’s disappearance with Katie Rochester’s.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because the police were sure that Katie Rochester had run away—in part because of what you saw in the city. But Aimee Biel was different. She didn’t have a Mob-connected, abusive daddy, for example. Her disappearance would cause commotion. The best way—the only way—to keep that heat from coming down was to make Aimee look like a runaway too.”

For a moment they both just stood there. Then Edna Skylar shifted to the right as if preparing to pass him. Myron shifted with her, blocking the path. She looked up at him.

“Are you wearing a wire, Myron?”

He raised his arms. “Frisk me.”

“No need. This is all nonsense anyway.”

“Let’s go back to that day on the street. You and Stanley are walking in Manhattan. Fate lends a hand here. You see Katie Rochester, just like you told the police. You realize that she’s not missing or in serious trouble. She’s a runaway. Katie begs you not to tell. And you listen. For three weeks, you say nothing. You go back to your regular life.” Myron studied her face. “You with me so far?”

“I’m with you.”

“So why the change? Why after three weeks do you suddenly call your old buddy Ed Steinberg?”

She folded her arms. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because your situation changed, not Katie’s.”

“How?”

“You talked about your son being trouble from day one. That you’d given up on him.”

“That’s right.”

“Maybe you did, I don’t know. But you were in touch with Drew. At least somewhat. You knew that Drew fell in love with Aimee Biel. He told you about it. He probably told you that she was pregnant.”

She crossed her arms. “You can prove that?’

“No. That part is speculation. The rest isn’t. You looked up Aimee’s medical files on the computer. That we know. You saw that yes, she was indeed pregnant. But more than that, you saw that she was going to terminate it. Drew didn’t know about that. He thought that they were in love and going to get married. But Aimee just wanted out. Drew Van Dyne had been nothing but a foolish, albeit not uncommon, high school mistake. Aimee was on her way to college now.”

“Sounds like motive for Drew to kidnap her,” Edna Skylar said.

“It does, doesn’t it? If that had been all. But again I kept wondering about all the coincidences. The ATM machine again. Who knew about it? You called your old buddy Ed Steinberg and pumped him for info on the case. He talked. Why not? Nothing was confidential. There wasn’t really even a case. When he mentioned the Citibank ATM, you realized that would be the clincher. Everyone would assume Aimee was a runaway too. And that’s exactly what happened. Then you called Aimee. You said you were from the hospital, which was true enough. You told her what she had to do to terminate the pregnancy in secret. You set up that meeting in New York. She’s waiting at the corner. You drive by. You tell her to pick up some cash at the machine. Your clincher. Aimee does as she’s told. And then she panics. She wants to think it through now. There you are, waiting to grab her, a syringe in your hand, and all of a sudden she runs off. She calls me. I get there. I drive her to Ridgewood. You follow—it was your car I saw that night follow us into the cul-de-sac. When she gets rejected by Harry Davis, you’re waiting. Aimee doesn’t remember much after that. She claims she was drugged. That fits—her memory would be fuzzy. Propofol would cause a lot of the symptoms. You’re familiar with that drug, aren’t you, Edna?”

“Of course I am. I’m a doctor. It’s an anesthetic.”

“You’ve used it in your practice?”

She hesitated. “I have.”

“And that will be your downfall.”

“Really? How’s that.”

“I have other evidence, but it’s mostly circumstantial. Those medical records, for one. They show you not only viewed Aimee’s medical records earlier than you indicated, but you didn’t even bring them up again when I called. Why would you? You already knew she was pregnant. I’ll also have phone records. Your son called you, you called your son.”

“So?”

“Right, so. And I can even show how you called the school and spoke to your son right after I left you the first time. Harry Davis wondered how Drew knew something was up before he confronted him. That’s how. You called and warned him. And you remember the call you made to Claire, the one from that pay phone near Twenty-third Street . . . first off, that was overkill. It was nice of you, trying to comfort the parents a little. But see, why would Aimee call from there—right where Katie Rochester had been spotted? She wouldn’t know about that. Only you would. And we already checked your E-ZPass records. You went into Manhattan. Took the Lincoln Tunnel twenty minutes before the call was made.”

“Hardly rock-solid,” Edna said.

“No, probably not. But here’s where you’re going down. The Propofol. You can write prescriptions, sure, but you also had to order it. The police at my behest already checked with your office. You did purchase plenty of Propofol, but no one can explain where it went. Aimee was given a blood test. The stuff was still in her bloodstream. You see?”

Edna Skylar took a deep breath, held it, let it loose. “Do you have a motive for this purported kidnapping, Myron?”

“Are we really going to play this game?”

She shrugged. “We’ve played it this far.”

“Fine, okay. The motive. That was the problem for everyone. Why would anyone kidnap Aimee? We all thought that someone wanted to keep her quiet. Your son could lose his job. Jake Wolf’s son could lose everything. Harry Davis, well, he had a ton to lose too. But abducting her wouldn’t help. There was also no ransom demand, no sexual assault, nothing like that. So I kept asking myself. Why would someone kidnap a young woman?”

“And?”

“You talked about the innocent.”

“Right.” There was resignation in her smile now. Edna Skylar knew what was coming next, Myron thought, but she won’t move out of the way.

“Who was more innocent,” Myron said, “than your unborn grandchild?”

She may have nodded. It was hard to tell. “Go on.”

“You said it yourself when we talked about choosing patients. It’s about prioritizing. It’s about saving the innocents. Your motives were almost pure, Edna. You were trying to save your own grandchild.”

Edna Skylar turned and looked down the corridor. When she faced Myron again, the sad smile was gone. Her face was oddly blank. “Aimee was already almost three months pregnant,” she began. Her tone had changed. There was something gentle in it, something distant too. “If I could have held that girl for another month or two, it would have been too late to terminate. If I could just put off Aimee’s decision for a little while longer, I would save my grandchild. Is that so wrong?”

Myron said nothing.

“And you’re right. I wanted Aimee’s disappearance to parallel Katie Rochester’s. Part of it was already there for me, of course. They both went to the same school and both were pregnant. So I added the ATM. I did all I could to make it look like Aimee was a runaway. But not for the reasons you said—not because she was a nice girl with a nice family. Pretty much the opposite, in fact.”

Myron nodded, seeing it now. “If the police started investigating,” he said, “they may have found out about her affair with your son.”

“Yes.”

“None of the suspects owned a log cabin. But you do, Edna. It even has the brown and white fireplace like Aimee said.”

“You’ve been a busy boy.”

“Yes, I have.”

“I had it pretty well planned out. I would treat her well. I would monitor the baby. I made that call to the parents hoping to offer some comfort. I would keep doing stuff like that—leaving hints that Aimee was a runaway and was okay.”

“Like going online?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get her password and screen name?”

“She gave it to me in a drug stupor.”

“You wore a disguise when you were with her?”

“I kept my face covered, yes.”

“And the name of Erin’s boyfriend. Mark Cooper. How did you get that?”

Edna shrugged. “She gave me that too.”

“It was the wrong answer. Mark Cooper was a boy nicknamed Trouble. That was another thing that bothered me.”

“Clever of her,” Edna Skylar said. “Still. I would have held her a few months. I would have kept leaving hints that she ran away. Then I would let her go. She would have told the same story about being abducted.”

“And no one would have believed her.”

“She would have the baby, Myron. That was all I was concerned with. The plan would have worked. Once that ATM charge came in, the police were certain that she was a runaway. So they were out of it. Her parents, well, they’re parents. Their concerns were dismissed just like the Rochesters’.” She met his eye. “Only one thing messed me up.”

Myron spread his hands. “Modesty prevents me from saying it.”

“Then I will. You, Myron. You messed me up.”

“You’re not going to call me a meddlesome kid, are you? Like on Scooby-Doo?”

“You think this is funny?”

“No, Edna. I don’t think it’s funny at all.”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone. Yes, it would inconvenience Aimee. It might even be somewhat traumatic for her, though I’m pretty good at administering drugs. I could have kept her comfortable and the baby safe. And her parents, of course they’d go through hell. I thought if I could convince them that she was a runaway—that she was all right—it might make it easier on them. But add up the pros and cons. Even if they all had to suffer a little, don’t you see? I was saving a life. It was like I told you. I messed up with Drew. I didn’t look out for him. I didn’t protect him.”

“And you weren’t going to make those same mistakes with your grandchild,” Myron said.

“That’s right.”

There were patients and visitors, doctor and nurses, all sorts of people moving to and fro. There were dinging noises from above. Someone walked by with a huge bouquet of flowers. Myron and Edna saw none of that.

“You said it to me on the phone,” Edna went on. “When you asked me to look up Aimee’s records. Protect the innocent. That’s all I was trying to do. But when she vanished, you blamed yourself. You felt obligated to find her. You started digging.”

“And when I got too close, you had to cut your losses.”

“Yes.”

“So you let her go.”

“I had no choice. Everything went to hell. Once you got involved, people started dying.”

“You’re not blaming me for that, are you?”

“No, and I’m not blaming me either,” she said, head high. “I never killed anyone. I never asked Harry Davis to switch transcripts. I never asked Jake Wolf to pay anybody off. I never asked Randy Wolf to sell drugs. I never told my son to sleep with a student. And I didn’t tell Aimee Biel to get pregnant with his baby.”

Myron said nothing.

“You want to take it another step?” Her voice edged up a notch. “I didn’t tell Drew to pull a gun on Jake Wolf. Just the opposite. I tried to keep my son calm, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. Maybe I should have. But Drew had always been such a screw-up. So I just told him to relax. That Aimee would be okay. But he didn’t listen. He thought Jake Wolf must have done something to her. So he went after him. My guess is, the wife was telling the truth. She shot him in self-defense. That’s how my son ended up dead. But I didn’t do any of that.”

Myron waited. Her lips were trembling, but Edna fought through it. She would not collapse. She would not show weakness, not even now when it was all unraveling, when her actions not only failed to produce the desired results but had ended the life of her own son.

“All I wanted to do was save my grandchild’s life,” she said. “How else could I have done it?”

Myron still didn’t reply.

“Well?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please.” Edna Skylar clutched his arm as if it were a life preserver. “What is she going to do about the baby?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“You’ll never be able to prove any of this.”

“That’s up to the police. I just wanted to keep my promise.”

“What promise?”

Myron looked down the corridor and called out, “It’s okay now.”

When Aimee Biel stepped into view, Edna Skylar gasped and put her hand to her mouth. Erik was there too, on one side of Aimee. Claire stood on the other. They both had their arms around their daughter.

Myron walked away then, smiling. His step felt light. Outside the sun would still be shining. He knew that. The radio would play his favorite songs. He had the whole conversation on tape—yes, he’d lied to her about that—and he’d give it to Muse and Banner. They might make a case. They might not.

You do what you can.

Erik nodded at Myron as he passed. Claire reached out to him. There were tears of gratitude in her eyes. Myron touched her hand but he kept moving. Their eyes met. He saw her as a teen again, in high school, in the study hall. But none of that mattered anymore.

He had made a promise to Claire. He had promised to bring back her baby.

And now, at long last, he had.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Over the past six years, the one question I always get on the road is, “How tall are you?” The answer: Six-four. But the second most common question is, “When are you going to bring Myron and the gang back?” The answer: Now. I’ve always said that I wouldn’t force his return, that I’d wait for the right idea. Well, the right idea came, but your encouragement and enthusiasm inspired and touched me. So first acknowledgment—to those who missed Myron, Win, Esperanza, Big Cyndi, El-Al and the rest of this motley crew. Hope you had fun. And for those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, there are seven other novels featuring Myron Bolitar. Go to HarlanCoben.com for more information.

This is my fourth book working with Mitch Hoffman as my editor and Lisa Johnson as my everything else. They both rock. Brian Tart, Susan Petersen Kennedy, Erika Kahn, Hector DeJean, Robert Kempe, and everyone at Dutton rock too. Lots of rocking. Thanks also to Jon Wood, Susan Lamb, Malcolm Edwards, Aaron Priest, and Lisa Erbach Vance.

David Gold, M.D., had helped me with medical research on a lot of books. This time he even gets his name mentioned as a character. You’re a good friend, David.

Christopher J. Christie, the U.S. Attorney for the state of New Jersey, provides great and wonderfully twisted legal insights. I’ve known Chris since we played Little League together when we were ten. For some reason, he does not put that on his resume.

I’m grateful to the Clarke family—Ray, Maureen, Andrew, Devin, Jeff, and Garrett—for inspiring the idea. The boys have always been open with me about what it’s like to be a kid, a teenager, and now young men. I thank them for it.

Lastly, thanks to Linda Fairstein, Dyan Machan, and, of course, Anne Armstrong-Coben, M.D. Too much brains and beauty—that’s the problem with all three of you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Winner of the Edgar Award, the Shamus Award, and the Anthony Award, Harlan Coben is the author of twelve previous novels, including the New York Times bestsellers The Innocent, Just One Look, No Second Chance, Gone for Good, and Tell No One, as well as the popular Myron Bolitar novels. His books are published in more than thirty-three languages all around the world. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and four children.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

no second chance

ASignet Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2003 byHarlan Coben

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN: 1-101-13399-6

ASIGNET BOOK®

SignetBooks first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNETand the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

In loving memory of my mother-in-law, Nancy Armstrong

And in celebration of her grandchildren:

Thomas, Katharine, McCallum, Reilly, Charlotte, Dovey, Benjamin, Will, Ana, Eve, Mary, Sam, Caleb, and Annie

Contents
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
eighteen months later
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
epilogue
acknowledgments
about the author

chapter 1

When the firstbullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter.

At least, that is what I want to believe. I lost consciousness pretty fast. And, if you want to get technical about it, I don’t even remember being shot. I know that I lost a lot of blood. I know that a second bullet skimmed the top of my head, though I was probably already out by then. I know that my heart stopped. But I still like to think that as I lay dying, I thought of Tara.

FYI: I saw no bright light or tunnel. Or if I did, I don’t remember that either.

Tara, my daughter, is only six months old. She was lying in her crib. I wonder if the gunfire frightened her. It must have. She probably began to cry. I wonder if the familiar albeit grating sound of her cries somehow sliced through my haze, if on some level I actually heard her. But again I have no memory of it.

What I do remember, however, was the moment Tara was born. I remember Monica—that’s Tara’s mother—bearing down for one last push. I remember the head appearing. I was the first to see my daughter. We all know about life’s forks in the road. We all know about opening one door and closing another, life cycles, the changes in seasons. But the moment your child is born . . . it’s beyond surreal. You have walked through aStar Trek –like portal, a full-fledged reality transformer. Everything is different. You are different, a simple element hit with a startling catalyst and metamorphosed into one far more complex. Your world is gone; it shrinks down to the dimensions of—in this case, anyway—a six-pound fifteen-ounce mass.

Fatherhood confuses me. Yes, I know that with only six months on the job, I am an amateur. My best friend, Lenny, has four kids. A girl and three boys. His oldest, Marianne, is ten, his youngest just turned one. With his face permanently set on happily harried and the floor of his SUV permanently stained with congealed fast food, Lenny reminds me that I know nothing yet. I agree. But when I get seriously lost or afraid in the realm of raising a child, I look at the helpless bundle in the crib and she looks up at me and I wonder what I would not do to protect her. I would lay down my life in a second. And truth be told, if push came to shove, I would lay down yours too.

So I like to think that as the two bullets pierced my body, as I collapsed onto the linoleum of my kitchen floor with a half-eaten granola bar clutched in my hand, as I lay immobile in a spreading puddle of my own blood, and yes, even as my heart stopped beating, that I still tried to do something to protect my daughter.

I came to in the dark.

I had no idea where I was at first, but then I heard the beeping coming from my right. A familiar sound. I did not move. I merely listened to the beeps. My brain felt as if it’d been marinated in molasses. The first impulse to break through was a primitive one: thirst. I craved water. I had never known a throat could feel so dry. I tried to call out, but my tongue had been dry-caked to the bottom of my mouth.

A figure entered the room. When I tried to sit up, hot pain ripped like a knife down my neck. My head fell back. And again, there was darkness.

When I awoke again, it was daytime. Harsh streaks of sunlight slashed through the venetian blinds. I blinked through them. Part of me wanted to raise my hand and block the rays, but exhaustion would not let the command travel. My throat was still impossibly parched.

I heard a movement and suddenly there was someone standing over me. I looked up and saw a nurse. The perspective, so different from the one I was used to, threw me. Nothing felt right. I was supposed to be the one standing looking down, not the other way around. A white hat—one of those small, harshly triangular numbers—sat like a bird’s nest on the nurse’s head. I’ve spent a great deal of my life working in a wide variety of hospitals, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a hat like that outside of TV or the movies. The nurse was heavyset and black.

“Dr. Seidman?”

Her voice was warm maple syrup. I managed a very slight nod.

The nurse must have read minds because she already had a cup of water in her hand. She put the straw between my lips and I sucked greedily.

“Slow down,” she said gently.

I was going to ask where I was, but that seemed pretty obvious. I opened my mouth to find out what had happened, but again she was one step ahead of me.

“I’ll go get the doctor,” she said, heading for the door. “You just relax now.”

I croaked, “My family . . .”

“I’ll be right back. Try not to worry.”

I let my eyes wander about the room. My vision had that medicated, shower-curtain haze. Still, there were enough stimuli getting through to make certain deductions. I was in a typical hospital room. That much was obvious. There was a drip bag and IV pump on my left, the tube snaking down to my arm. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed almost, but not quite, imperceptibly. A small TV on a swinging arm jutted out from the upper right-hand corner.

A few feet past the foot of the bed, there was a large glass window. I squinted but could not see through it. Still, I was probably being monitored. That meant I was in an ICU. That meant that whatever was wrong with me was something pretty bad.

The top of my skull itched, and I could feel a pull at my hair. Bandaged, I bet. I tried to check myself out, but my head really did not want to cooperate. Dull pain quietly boomed inside me, though I couldn’t tell from where it originated. My limbs felt heavy, my chest encased in lead.

“Dr. Seidman?”

I flicked my eyes toward the door. A tiny woman in surgical scrubs complete with the shower cap stepped into the room. The top of the mask was untied and dangled down her neck. I am thirty-four years old. She looked about the same.

“I’m Dr. Heller,” she said, stepping closer. “Ruth Heller.” Giving me her first name. Professional courtesy, no doubt. Ruth Heller gave me a probing stare. I tried to focus. My brain was still sluggish, but I could feel it sputtering to life. “You are at St. Elizabeth Hospital,” she said in a properly grave voice.

The door behind her opened and a man stepped inside. It was hard to see him clearly through the shower-curtain haze, but I don’t think I knew him. The man crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with practiced casualness. Not a doctor, I thought. You work with them long enough, you can tell.

Dr. Heller gave the man a cursory glance and then she turned her full attention back to me.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You were shot,” she said. Then added: “Twice.”

She let that hang for a moment. I glanced toward the man against the wall. He hadn’t moved. I opened my mouth to say something, but Ruth Heller pressed on. “One bullet grazed the top of your head. The bullet literally scraped off your scalp, which, as you probably know, is incredibly rich with blood.”

Yes, I knew. Serious scalp wounds bled like beheadings. Okay, I thought, that explained the itch on top of my head. When Ruth Heller hesitated, I prompted her. “And the second bullet?”

Heller let out a breath. “That one was a bit more complicated.”

I waited.

“The bullet entered your chest and nicked the pericardial sac. That caused a large supply of blood to leak into the space between your heart and the sac. The EMTs had trouble locating your vital signs. We had to crack your chest—”

“Doc?” the leaning man interrupted—and for a moment, I thought he was talking to me. Ruth Heller stopped, clearly annoyed. The man peeled himself off the wall. “Can you do the details later? Time is of the essence here.”

She gave him a scowl, but there wasn’t much behind it. “I’ll stay here and observe,” she said to the man, “if that’s not a problem.”

Dr. Heller faded back and now the man loomed over me. His head was too big for his shoulders so that you feared his neck would collapse from the weight of it. His hair was crew cut all around, except in the front, where it hung down in a Caesar line above his eyes. A soul patch, an ugly smear of growth, sat on his chin like a burrowing insect. All in all, he looked like a member of a boy band gone to serious seed. He smiled down at me, but there was no warmth behind it. “I’m Detective Bob Regan of the Kasselton Police Department,” he said. “I know you’re confused right now.”

“My family—” I began.

“I’ll get to that,” he interrupted. “But right now, I need to ask you some questions, okay? Before we get into the details of what happened.”

He waited for a response. I tried my best to clear the cobwebs and said, “Okay.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

I scanned my memory banks. I remembered waking up that morning, getting dressed. I remembered looking in on Tara. I remembered turning the knob on her black-n-white mobile, a gift from a colleague who insisted it would help stimulate a baby’s brain or something. The mobile hadn’t moved or bleated out its tinny song. The batteries were dead. I’d made a mental note to put in new ones. I headed downstairs after that.

“Eating a granola bar,” I said.

Regan nodded as if he’d expected this answer. “You were in the kitchen?”

“Yes. By the sink.”

“And then?”

I tried harder, but nothing came. I shook my head. “I woke up once before. At night. I was here, I think.”

“Nothing else?”

I reached out again but to no avail. “No, nothing.”

Regan flipped out a pad. “Like the doc here told you, you were shot twice. You have no recollection of seeing a gun or hearing a shot or anything like that?”

“No.”

“That’s understandable, I guess. You were in a bad way, Marc. The EMTs thought you were a goner.”

My throat felt dry again. “Where are Tara and Monica?”

“Stay with me, Marc.” Regan was staring down at the pad, not at me. I felt the dread begin to press down on my chest. “Did you hear a window break?”

I felt groggy. I tried to read the label on the drip bag to see what they were numbing me with. No go. Pain medication, at the very least. Probably morphine in the IV pump. I tried to fight through the effects. “No,” I said.

“You’re sure? We found a broken window near the rear of the house. It may have been how the perpetrator gained entry.”

“I don’t remember a window breaking,” I said. “Do you know who—”

Regan cut me off. “Not yet, no. That’s why I’m here asking these questions. To find out who did this.” He looked up from his pad. “Do you have any enemies?”

Did he really just ask me that? I tried to sit up, tried to gain some sort of angle on him, but there was no way that was going to happen. I did not like being the patient, on the wrong end of the bed, if you will. They say doctors make the worst patients. This sudden role reversal is probably why.

“I want to know about my wife and daughter.”

“I understand that,” Regan said, and something in his tone ran a cold finger across my heart. “But you can’t afford the distraction, Marc. Not right yet. You want to be helpful, right? Then you need to stay with me here.” He went back to the pad. “Now, what about enemies?”

Arguing with him any further seemed futile or even harmful, so I grudgingly acquiesced. “Someone who would shoot me?”

“Yes.”

“No, no one.”

“And your wife?” His eyes settled hard on me. A favorite image of Monica—her face lighting up when we first saw Raymondkill Falls, the way she threw her arms around me in mock fear as the water crashed around us—rose like an apparition. “Did she have enemies?”

I looked at him. “Monica?”

Ruth Heller stepped forward. “I think that might be enough for now.”

“What happened to Monica?” I asked.

Dr. Heller met up with Detective Regan, standing shoulder to shoulder. Both looked at me. Heller started to protest again, but I stopped her.

“Don’t give me this protect-the-patient crap,” I tried to shout, fear and fury battling against whatever had put my brain in this fuzz. “Tell me what happened to my wife.”

“She’s dead,” Detective Regan said. Just like that. Dead. My wife. Monica. It was as if I hadn’t heard him. The word couldn’t reach me.

“When the police broke into your home, you had both been shot. They were able to save you. But it was too late for your wife. I’m sorry.”

There was another quick flash now—Monica at Martha’s Vineyard, on the beach, tan bathing suit, that black hair whipping across those cheekbones, giving me the razor-sharp smile. I blinked it away. “And Tara?”

“Your daughter,” Regan began with a quick throat-clear. He looked at his pad again, but I don’t think he planned on writing anything down. “She was home that morning, correct? I mean, at the time of the incident?”

“Yes, of course. Where is she?”

Regan closed the pad with a snap. “She was not at the scene when we arrived.”

My lungs turned to stone. “I don’t understand.”

“We originally hoped that maybe she was in the care of a family member or friend. A baby-sitter even, but . . .” His voice faded.

“Are you telling me you don’t know where Tara is?”

There was no hesitation this time. “Yes, that’s correct.”

It felt as if a giant hand were pushing down on my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and fell back. “How long?” I asked.

“Has she been missing?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Heller started speaking too quickly. “You have to understand. You were very seriously injured. We were not optimistic you would survive. You were on a respirator. A lung collapsed. You also contracted sepsis. You’re a doctor, so I know I don’t have to explain to you how serious that is. We tried to slow down the meds, help you wake up—”

“How long?” I asked again.

She and Regan exchanged another glance, and then Heller said something that ripped the air out of me all over again. “You’ve been out for twelve days.”

chapter 2

“We’re doing allwe can,” Regan said in a voice that sounded too rehearsed, as if he’d been standing over my bed while I was unconscious, working on his delivery. “As I told you, we were not sure we had a missing child at first. We lost valuable time there, but we’ve recovered now. Tara’s photo has been sent out to every police station, airport, tollbooth plaza, bus and train station—anything like that within a hundred-mile radius. We’ve run background profiles on similar abduction cases, see if we can find a pattern or a suspect.”

“Twelve days,” I repeated.

“We have a trace on your various phones—home, business, cell—”

“Why?”

“In case someone calls in a ransom demand,” he said.

“Have there been any calls?”

“Not yet, no.”

My head dropped back to the pillow. Twelve days. I’d been lying in this bed for twelve days while my baby girl was . . . I pushed the thought away.

Regan scratched at his beard. “Do you remember what Tara was wearing that morning?”

I did. I had developed something of a morning routine—wake up early, tiptoe toward Tara’s crib, stare down. A baby is not all joy. I know that. I know that there are moments of mind-numbing boredom. I know that there are nights when her screams work on my nerve endings like a cheese grater. I don’t want to glorify life with an infant. But I liked my new morning routine. Looking down at Tara’s tiny form fortified me somehow. More than that, this act was, I guess, a form of rapture. Some people find rapture in a house of worship. Me—and yeah, I know how corny this sounds—I found rapture in that crib.

“A pink one-piece with black penguins,” I said. “Monica got it at Baby Gap.”

He jotted it down. “And Monica?”

“What about her?”

His face was back in the pad. “What was she wearing?”

“Jeans,” I said, remembering the way they slid over Monica’s hips, “and a red blouse.”

Regan jotted some more.

I said, “Are there—I mean, do you have any leads?”

“We’re still investigating all avenues.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Regan just looked at me. There was too much weight in that stare.

My daughter. Out there. Alone. For twelve days. I thought of her eyes, the warm light only a parent sees, and I said something stupid. “She’s alive.”

Regan tilted his head like a puppy hearing a new sound.

“Don’t give up,” I said.

“We won’t.” He continued with the curious look.

“It’s just that . . . are you a parent, Detective Regan?”

“Two girls,” he said.

“It’s stupid, but I’d know.” The same way I knew the world would never be the same when Tara was born. “I’d know,” I said again.

He did not reply. I realized that what I was saying—especially coming from a man who scoffs at notions of ESP or the supernatural—was ridiculous. I knew that this “sense” merely came from want. You want to believe so badly that your brain rearranges what it sees. But I clung to it anyway. Right or wrong, it felt like a lifeline.

“We’ll need some more information from you,” Regan said. “About you, your wife, friends, finances—”

“Later.” It was Dr. Heller again. She moved forward as if to block me from his gaze. Her voice was firm. “He needs to rest.”

“No, now,” I said to her, upping the firm-o-meter a notch past hers. “We need to find my daughter.”

Monica had been buried at the Portman family plot on her father’s estate. I missed her funeral, of course. I don’t know how I felt about that, but then again, my feelings for my wife, in those stark moments when I was honest with myself, have always been muddled. Monica had that beauty of privilege, what with the too-fine cheekbones, straight silk-black hair, and that country-club lockjaw that both annoyed and aroused. Our marriage was an old-fashioned one—shotgun. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. Monica was pregnant. I was fence-sitting. The upcoming arrival tilted me into the matrimonial pasture.

I heard the funeral details from Carson Portman, Monica’s uncle and the only member of her family who kept in touch with us. Monica had loved him dearly. Carson sat at my hospital bedside with his hands folded in his lap. He looked very much like your favorite college professor—the thick-lensed spectacles, the nearly shedding tweed coat, and the overgrown shock of Albert Einstein-meets-Don King hair. But his brown eyes glistened as he told me in his sad baritone that Edgar, Monica’s father, had made sure that my wife’s funeral was a “small, tasteful affair.”

Of that, I had no doubt. The small part, at least.

Over the next few days I had my share of visitors at the hospital. My mother—everyone called her Honey—exploded into my room every morning as if fuel propelled. She wore Reebok sneakers of pure white. Her sweatsuit was blue with gold trim, as if she coached the St. Louis Rams. Her hair, though neatly coifed, had the brittle of too many colorings, and there was the whiff of a last cigarette about her. Mom’s makeup did little to disguise the anguish of losing her only grandchild. She had amazing energy, staying by my bedside day after day and managing to exude a steady stream of hysteria. This was good. It was as though she was, in part, being hysterical for me, and thus, in a strange way, her eruptions kept me calm.

Despite the room’s nearly supernova heat—and my constant protestations—Mom would put an extra blanket over me when I was asleep. I woke up one time—my body drenched in sweat, naturally—to hear my mother telling the black nurse with the formal hat about my previous stay at St. Elizabeth’s when I was only seven.

“He had salmonella,” Honey stated in a conspiratorial whisper that was only slightly louder than a bullhorn. “You never smelled diarrhea like that. It was just pouring out of him. His stench practically seeped into the wallpaper.”

“He ain’t all roses now either,” the nurse replied.

The two women shared a laugh.

On Day Two of my recovery, Mom was standing over my bed when I awoke.

“Remember this?” she said.

She was holding a stuffed Oscar the Grouch someone had given me during that salmonella stay. The green had faded to a light mint. She looked at the nurse. “This is Marc’s Oscar,” she explained.

“Mom,” I said.

She turned her attention back to me. The mascara was a little too heavy today, crinkling into the wrinkle lines. “Oscar kept you company back then, remember? He helped you get better.”

I rolled and then closed my eyes. A memory came to me. I had gotten the salmonella from raw eggs. My father used to add them into milk-shakes for the protein. I remember the way pure terror had gripped me when I’d first learned that I would have to stay in the hospital overnight. My father, who had recently ruptured his Achilles tendon playing tennis, was in a cast and constant pain. But he saw my fear and as always, he made the sacrifice. He worked all that day at the plant and spent all night in a chair by my hospital bed. I stayed at St. Elizabeth’s for ten days. My father slept in that chair every night of them.

Mom suddenly turned away, and I could see she was remembering the same thing. The nurse quickly excused herself. I put a hand on my mother’s back. She didn’t move, but I could feel her shudder. She stared down at the faded Oscar in her hands. I slowly took it from her.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mom wiped her eyes. Dad, I knew, would not come to the hospital this time, and while I am sure my mother had told him what had happened, there was no way to know if he even understood. My father had had his first stroke when he was forty-one years old—one year after staying those nights with me at the hospital. I was eight at the time.

I also have a younger sister, Stacy, who is either a “substance abuser” (for the more politically correct) or “crack-head” (for the more accurate). I sometimes look at old pictures from before my dad’s stroke, the ones with the young, confident family of four and the shaggy dog and the well-groomed lawn and the basketball hoop and the coal-overloaded, lighter fluid–saturated barbecue. I look for hints of the future in my sister’s front-teeth-missing smile, her shadow self perhaps, a sense of foreboding. But I see none. We still have the house, but it’s like a sagging movie prop. Dad is still alive, but when he fell, everything shattered Humpty-Dumpty style. Especially Stacy.

Stacy had not visited or even called, but nothing she does surprises me anymore.

My mother finally turned to face me. I gripped the faded Oscar a little tighter as a thought struck me anew: It was just us again. Dad was pretty much a vegetable. Stacy was hollowed out, gone. I reached out and took Mom’s hand, feeling both the warmth and the more recent thickening of her skin. We stayed like that until the door opened. The same nurse leaned into the room.

Mom straightened up and said, “Marc also played with dolls,”

“Action figures,” I said, quick on the correction. “They were action figures, not dolls.”

My best friend, Lenny, and his wife, Cheryl, also stopped by the hospital every day. Lenny Marcus is a big-time trial lawyer, though he also handles my small-time stuff like the time I fought a speeding ticket and the closing on our house. When he graduated and began working for the county prosecutor, friends and opponents quickly dubbed Lenny “the Bulldog” because of his aggressive courtroom behavior. Somewhere along the line, it was decided that the name was too mild for Lenny, so now they called him “Cujo.” I’ve known Lenny since elementary school. I’m the godfather of his son Kevin. And Lenny is Tara’s godfather.

I haven’t slept much. I lie at night and stare at the ceiling and count the beeps and listen to the hospital night sounds and try very much not to let my mind wander to my little daughter and the endless array of possibilities. I am not always successful. The mind, I have learned, is indeed a dark, snake-infested pit.

Detective Regan visited later with a possible lead.

“Tell me about your sister,” he began.

“Why?” I said too quickly. Before he could elaborate, I held up my hand to stop him. I understood. My sister was an addict. Where drugs roamed, so too did a certain criminal element. “Were we robbed?” I asked.

“We don’t think so. Nothing seems to be missing, but the place was tossed.”

“Tossed?”

“Someone made a mess. Any thoughts on why?”

“No.”

“So tell me about your sister.”

“You have Stacy’s record?” I asked.

“We do.”

“I’m not sure what I can add.”

“You two are estranged, correct?”

Estranged. Did that apply to Stacy and me? “I love her,” I said slowly.

“And when was the last time you saw her?”

“Six months ago.”

“When Tara was born?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Where did I see her?”

“Yes.”

“Stacy came to the hospital,” I said.

“To see her niece?”

“Yes.”

“What happened during that visit?”

“Stacy was high. She wanted to hold the baby.”

“You refused?”

“That’s right.”

“Did she get angry?”

“She barely reacted. My sister is pretty flat when she’s stoned.”

“But you threw her out?”

“I told her she couldn’t be a part of Tara’s life until she was clean.”

“I see,” he said. “You were hoping that would force her back into rehab?”

I might have chuckled. “No, not really.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

I wondered how to put this. I thought of the smile in the family photo, the one without the front teeth. “We’ve threatened Stacy with worse,” I said. “The truth is that my sister won’t quit. The drugs are part of her.”

“So you hold out no hope for recovery?”

There was no way I was about to voice that. “I didn’t trust her with my daughter,” I said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Regan headed over to the window and looked out. “When did you move into your current residence?”

“Monica and I bought the house four months ago.”

“Not far from where you both grew up, no?”

“That’s right.”

“Had you two known each other long?”

I was puzzled by the line of questioning. “No.”

“Even though you grew up in the same town?”

“We traveled in different circles.”

“I see,” he said. “And just so I have it straight, you bought your house four months ago and you hadn’t seen your sister in six months, correct?”

“Correct.”

“So your sister has never visited you at your current residence?”

“That’s right.”

Regan turned to me. “We found a set of Stacy’s fingerprints at your house.”

I said nothing.

“You don’t seem surprised, Marc.”

“Stacy is an addict. I don’t think she’s capable of shooting me and kidnapping my daughter, but I’ve underestimated how low she could sink before. Did you check her apartment?”

“No one has seen her since you were shot,” he said.

I closed my eyes.

“We don’t think your sister could pull off something like this by herself,” he went on. “She might have had an accomplice—a boyfriend, a dealer, someone who knew your wife was from a wealthy family. Do you have any thoughts?”

“No,” I said. “So, what, you think this whole thing was a kidnapping plot?”

Regan started clawing at his soul patch again. Then he gave a small shrug.

“But they tried to kill us both,” I went on. “How do you collect ransom from dead parents?”

“They could have been so doped up that they made a mistake,” he said. “Or maybe they thought they could extort money from Tara’s grandfather.”

“So why haven’t they yet?”

Regan did not reply. But I knew the answer. The heat, especially after the shooting, would be too much for crack-heads. Crack-heads don’t handle conflict well. It is one of the reasons they snort or shoot themselves up in the first place—to escape, to fade away, to avoid, to dive down into the white. The media would be all over this case. The police would be making inquiries. Crack-heads would freak under that kind of pressure. They would flee, abandon everything.

And they would get rid of all the evidence.

But the ransom demand came two days later.

Now that I had regained consciousness, my recovery from the gunshot wounds was proceeding with surprising smoothness. It could be that I was focused on getting better or that lying in a quasi-catatonic state for twelve days had given my injuries time to heal. Or it could be that I was suffering from a pain way beyond what the physical could inflict. I would think of Tara and the fear of the unknown would stop my breath. I would think of Monica, of her lying dead, and steel claws would shred me from within.

I wanted out.

My body still ached, but I pressed Ruth Heller to release me. Noting that I was proving the adage about doctors making the worst patients, she reluctantly gave me the okay to go home. We agreed that a physical therapist would come by every day. A nurse would pop by periodically, just to be on the safe side.

On the morning of my departure from St. Elizabeth, my mother was at the house—the former crime scene—getting it “ready” for me, whatever that meant. Oddly enough, I wasn’t afraid to go back there. A house is mortar and brick. I didn’t think the sight of it alone would move me, but maybe I was just blocking.

Lenny helped me pack and get dressed. He is tall and wiry with a face darkened by a Homer Simpson five-o’clock shadow that pops up six minutes after he shaves. As a child Lenny wore Coke-bottle glasses and too-thick corduroy, even in the summer. His curly hair had a habit of getting outgrown to the point where he’d start resembling a stray poodle. Now he keeps the curls religiously close cropped. He had laser eye surgery two years ago, so the glasses are gone. His suits lean toward the upscale side.

“You sure you won’t stay with us?” Lenny said.

“You have four kids,” I reminded him.

“Oh yeah, right.” He paused. “Can I stay with you?”

I tried to smile.

“Seriously,” Lenny said, “you shouldn’t be alone in that house.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Cheryl cooked you some dinners. She put them in the freezer.”

“That was nice of her.”

“She’s still the world’s most godawful cook,” Lenny said.

“I didn’t say I was going to eat them.”

Lenny looked away, busying himself with the already packed bag. I watched him. We have known each other a long time, since Mrs. Roberts’s first-grade class, so it probably did not surprise him when I said, “You want to tell me what’s up?”

He’d been waiting for the opening and thus quickly exploited it. “Look, I’m your lawyer, right?”

“Right.”

“So I want to give you some legal advice.”

“I’m listening.”

“I should have said something earlier. But I knew you wouldn’t listen. Now, well, now it’s a different story, I think.”

“Lenny?”

“Yeah?’

“What are you talking about?”

Despite his physical enhancements, I still saw Lenny as a kid. It made it hard to take his advice too seriously. Don’t get me wrong. I knew that he was smart. I had celebrated with him when he got his acceptance to Princeton and then Columbia Law. We took the SATs together and were in the same AP chemistry class our junior year. But the Lenny I saw was the one I desperately cruised with on muggy Friday and Saturday nights. We used his dad’s wood-paneled station wagon—not exactly a “babe trawler”—and tried to hit the parties. We were always let in but never really welcome, members of that high school majority I call the Great Unseen. We would stand in corners, holding a beer, bopping our heads to the music, trying hard to be noticed. We never were. Most nights we ended up eating a grilled cheese at the Heritage Diner or, better, at the soccer field behind Benjamin Franklin Middle School, lying on our backs, checking out the stars. It was easier to talk, even with your best friend, when you were looking at the stars.

“Okay,” Lenny said, overgesturing as was his custom, “it’s like this: I don’t want you talking to the cops anymore without my being present.”

I frowned. “For real?”

“Maybe it’s nothing, but I’ve seen cases like this. Notlike this, but you know what I mean. The first suspect is always family.”

“Meaning my sister.”

“No, meaning close family. Or closerfamily, if possible.”

“Are you saying the police suspect me?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t.” He paused but not for very long. “Okay, yeah, probably.”

“But I was shot, remember? My kid was the one taken.”

“Right, and that cuts both ways.”

“How do you figure that?”

“As the days pass, they’re going to start suspecting you more and more.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. That’s just how it works. Look, the FBI handles kidnappings. You know that, right? Once a child is gone twenty-four hours, they assume it’s interstate and the case is theirs.”

“So?”

“So for the first, what, ten days or so, they had a ton of agents here. They monitored your phones and waited for the ransom call, that kinda thing. But the other day, they pretty much pulled up stakes. That’s normal, of course. They can’t wait indefinitely, so they scale back to an agent or two. And their thinking shifted too. Tara became less a possible kidnapping-for-ransom and more a straight-on abduction. But my guess is, they still have the taps on the phones. I haven’t asked yet, but I will. They’ll claim they’re leaving them there in case a ransom demand is eventually made. But they’ll also be hoping to hear you say something incriminating.”

“So?”

“So be careful,” Lenny said. “Remember that your phones—home, biz, cell—are probably tapped.”

“And again I ask: So? I didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do . . . ?” Lenny waved his hands as if preparing to take flight. “Look, just be careful is all. This might be hard for you to believe, but—and try not to gasp when I say this—the police have been known to twist and distort evidence.”

“You’re confusing me. Are you saying I’m a suspect simply because I’m the father and husband?”

“Yes,” Lenny said. “And no.”

“Well, okay, thanks, that clears it up.”

A phone next to my bed rang. I was on the wrong side of the room. “You mind?” I said.

Lenny picked it up. “Dr. Seidman’s room.” His face clouded over as he listened. He spat out the words “Hold on,” and handed the phone to me, as if it might have germs. I gave him a puzzled look and said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Marc. This is Edgar Portman.”

Monica’s father. That explained Lenny’s reaction. Edgar’s voice was, as always, way too formal. Some people weigh their words. A select few, like my father-in-law, take each one and put it on a scale before letting it leave their mouths.

I was momentarily taken aback. “Hello, Edgar,” I said stupidly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I feel remiss, of course, for not having called you earlier. I understood from Carson that you were busy recuperating from your wounds. I felt it best if I let you be.”

“Thoughtful,” I said with nary a whiff of sarcasm.

“Yes, well, I understand you’re being released today.”

“That’s right.”

Edgar cleared his throat, which seemed out of character for him. “I was wondering if perhaps you could stop by the house.”

Thehouse. Meaning his. “Today?”

“As soon as possible, yes. And alone please.”

There was silence. Lenny gave me a puzzled look.

“Is something wrong, Edgar?” I asked.

“I have a car waiting downstairs, Marc. We’ll talk more when you arrive.”

And then, before I could say another word, he was gone.

The car, a black Lincoln Town Car, was indeed waiting.

Lenny wheeled me outside. I was familiar with this area, of course. I had grown up scant miles from St. Elizabeth. When I was five years old, my father had rushed me to the emergency room here (twelve stitches) and when I was seven, well, you already know too much about my salmonella visit. I’d gone to medical school and did my residency at what was then called Columbia Presbyterian in New York, but I returned to St. Elizabeth for a fellowship in ophthalmology for reconstruction.

Yes, I am a plastic surgeon, but not in the way you think. I do the occasional nose job, but you won’t find me working with sacks of silicone or any of that. Not that I’m judging. It just isn’t what I do.

I work in pediatric reconstructive surgery with my former medical school classmate, a fireball from the Bronx named Zia Leroux. We work for a group called One World WrapAid. Actually, Zia and I founded it. We take care of children, mostly overseas, who suffer deformities either through birth, poverty, or conflict. We travel a lot. I have worked on facial smashes in Sierra Leone, on cleft palates in Upper Mongolia, on Crouzon’s in Cambodia, on burn victims in the Bronx. Like most people in my field, I’ve done extensive training. I’ve studied ENT—ears, nose, and throat—with a year of reconstructive, plastics, oral, and, as I mentioned above, ophthalmology. Zia’s training history is similar, though she’s stronger with the maxillofacial.

You may think of us as do-gooders. You’d be wrong. I had a choice. I could do boob jobs or tuck back the skin of those who were already too beautiful—or I could help wounded, poverty-stricken children. I chose the latter, not so much to help the disadvantaged, but alas, because that is where the cool cases lie. Most reconstructive surgeons are, at heart, puzzle lovers. We’re weird. We get jazzed on circus-sideshow congenital anomalies and huge tumors. You know those medical textbooks that have hideous facial deformities that you have to dare yourself to look at? Zia and I love that stuff. We get off on repairing it—taking what’s shattered and making it whole—even more.

The fresh air tickled my lungs. The sun shone as if it were the first day, mocking my gloom. I tilted my face toward the warmth and let it soothe me. Monica used to like to do that. She claimed that it “destressed” her. The lines in her face would disappear as if the rays were gentle masseurs. I kept my eyes closed. Lenny waited in silence, giving me the time.

I have always thought of myself as an overly sensitive man. I cry too easily at dumb movies. My emotions are easily manipulated. But with my father, I never cried. And now, with this terrible blow, I felt—I don’t know—beyond tears. A classic defense mechanism, I assumed. I had to push forward. It’s not so different from my business: When cracks appear, I patch them up before they become full-fledged fissures.

Lenny was still fuming from the phone call. “Any idea what that old bastard wants?”

“Not a one.”

He was quiet a moment. I know what he was thinking. Lenny blamed Edgar for his father’s death. His old man had been a middle manager at ProNess Foods, one of Edgar’s holdings. He had slaved for the company twenty-six years and had just turned fifty-two years old when Edgar orchestrated a major merger. Lenny’s father lost his job. I remember seeing Mr. Marcus sitting slump shouldered at the kitchen table, meticulously stuffing his résumé into envelopes. He never found work and died two years later of a heart attack. Nothing could convince Lenny that the two events were unrelated.

He said, “You sure you don’t want me to come?”

“Nah, I’ll be all right.”

“Got your cell?”

I showed it to him.

“Call me if you need anything.”

I thanked him and let him walk away. The driver opened the door. I winced my way in. The drive was not far. Kasselton, New Jersey. My hometown. We passed the split-levels of the sixties, the expanded ranches of the seventies, the aluminum sidings of the eighties, the McMansions of the nineties. Eventually the trees grew denser. The houses sat farther back from the road, protected by the lush, away from the great unwashed who might happen by. We were nearing old wealth now, that exclusive land that always smelled of autumn and woodsmoke.

The Portman family had first settled in this thicket immediately following the Civil War. Like most of suburban Jersey, this had been farmland. Great-great-grandfather Portman slowly sold off acreage and made a fortune. They still had sixteen acres, making their lot one of the largest in the area. As we climbed the drive, my eyes drifted left—toward the family burial plot.

I could see a small mound of fresh dirt.

“Stop the car,” I said.

“Sorry, Dr. Seidman,” the driver replied, “but I was told to bring you right up to the main house.”

I was about to protest but thought better of it. I waited until the car stopped by the front door. I got out and headed back down the drive. I heard the driver say, “Dr. Seidman?” I kept going. He called after me again. I ignored him. Despite the lack of rain, the grass was a green usually reserved for rain forests. The rose garden was in full bloom, an explosion of color.

I tried to hurry on, but my skin still felt as if it might rip. I slowed. This was only my third visit inside the Portman family estate—I had seen it from the outside dozens of times in my youth—and I had never visited the family plot. In fact, like most rational people, I did my best to avoid it. The idea of burying your kin in your backyard like a family pet . . . it was one of those things that rich people do that we regular folk could never quite grasp. Or would want to.

The fence around the plot was maybe two feet high and blindingly white. I wondered if it’d been freshly painted for the occasion. I stepped over the superfluous gate and walked past the modest gravestones, keeping my eye on the dirt mound. When I reached the spot, a shudder tore through me. I looked down.

Yep, a recently dug grave. No stone yet. The marker on it, printed up in wedding-invitation calligraphy, read simply:OUR MONICA .

I stood there and blinked. Monica. My wild-eyed beauty. Our relationship had been turbulent—a classic case of too much passion in the beginning and not enough near the end. I don’t know why that happens. Monica was different, no question. At first that crackle, that excitement, had been a draw. Later, the mood swings simply made me weary. I didn’t have the patience to dig deeper.

As I looked down at the pile of dirt, a painful memory jabbed at me. Two nights before the attack, Monica had been crying when I came to the bedroom. It was not the first time. Not even close. Playing my part in the stage show that was our lives, I asked her what was wrong, but my heart was not in it. I used to ask with more concern. Monica never replied. I would try to hold her. She would go rigid. After a while the nonresponsiveness got tiresome, taking on a boy-who-cried-wolf aspect that eventually frosts the heart. Living with a depressive is like that. You can’t care all the time. At some point, you have to start to resent.

At least, that was what I told myself.

But this time, there was something different: Monica did indeed reply to me. Not a long reply. One line, actually. “You don’t love me,” she said. That was it. There was no pity in her voice. “You don’t love me.” And while I managed to utter the necessary protestations, I wondered if maybe she was right.

I closed my eyes and let it all wash over me. Things had been bad, but for the past six months anyway, there had been an escape for us, a calm and warm center in our daughter. I glanced at the sky now, blinked again, and then looked back down at the dirt that covered my volatile wife. “Monica,” I said out loud. And then I made my wife one last vow.

I swore on her grave that I would find Tara.

A servant or butler or associate or whatever the current term was led me down the corridor and into the library. The décor was understated though unequivocally rich—finished dark floors with simple oriental carpets, old-Americana furniture that was solid rather than ornate. Despite his wealth and large plot of land Edgar was not one for show wealth. The termnouveau riche was to him profane, unspeakable.

Dressed in a blue cashmere blazer, Edgar rose from behind his expansive oak desk. There was a feather quill pen on the top—his great-grandfather’s, if I recall—and two bronze busts, one of Washington and one of Jefferson. I was surprised to see Uncle Carson sitting there too. When he’d visited me in the hospital, I had been too frail to embrace. Carson made up for that now. He pulled me close. I held on to him in silence. He, too, smelled of autumn and woodsmoke.

There were no photographs in the room—no family-vacation snapshots, no school portraits, no shot of the man and his missus decked out at a charity formal. In fact, I do not think I had ever seen a photograph anywhere in the house.

Carson said, “How are you feeling, Marc?”

I told him that I was as well as could be expected and turned toward my father-in-law. Edgar did not come around the desk. We did not embrace. We did not, in fact, even shake hands. He gestured toward the chair in front of the desk.

I did not know Edgar very well. We had only met three times. I do not know how much money he has, but even out of these dwellings, even on a city street or at a bus depot, hell, even naked, you could tell that the Portmans were from money. Monica had the bearing too, the one ingrained over generations, the one that cannot be taught, the one that may literally be genetic. Monica’s choice to live in our relatively modest dwelling was probably a form of rebellion.

She had hated her father.

I was not a big fan of his either, probably because I had met his type before. Edgar thinks himself a pull-up-by-the-bootstraps sort, but he himself earned his money the old-fashioned way: He inherited it. I don’t know many superwealthy people, but I noticed that the more things were handed to you on a silver platter, the more you complain about welfare mothers and government handouts. It is bizarre. Edgar belongs to that unique class of the entitled who have deluded themselves into believing that they somehow earned their status through hard work. We all live with self-justification, of course, and if you have never fended for yourself, if you live in luxury and have done nothing to deserve it, well, that is going to compound your insecurities, I guess. But it shouldn’t make you such a prig, to boot.

I sat. Edgar followed suit. Carson remained standing. I stared at Edgar. He had the plump of the well fed. His face was all soft edges. The normal ruddy on his cheeks, so far from anything rawbone, was gone now. He laced his fingers and rested them on his paunch. He looked, I was somewhat surprised to see, devastated, drawn, and sapless.

I saysurprised , because Edgar always struck me as pure id, a person whose own pain and pleasure trumped all others’, who believed those who inhabited the space around him were little more than window dressing for his own bemusement. Edgar had now lost two children. His son, Eddie the Fourth, had died while speeding under the influence ten years ago. According to Monica, Eddie veered across the double yellow line and plowed into the semi on purpose. For some reason, she blamed her father. She blamed him for a lot of things.

There is also Monica’s mother. She “rests” a lot. She takes “extended vacations.” In short, she is in and out of institutions. Both times we met, my mother-in-law was propped up for some social affair, well dressed and powdered, lovely and too pale, a vacancy in her eyes, a slur in her speech, a sway in her stance.

Except for Uncle Carson, Monica had been estranged from her family. As you might imagine, I hardly minded.

“You wanted to see me?” I said.

“Yes, Marc. Yes, I did.”

I waited.

Edgar put his hands on his desk. “Did you love my daughter?”

I was caught off guard, but I still said, “Very much,” with no hesitation.

He seemed to see the lie. I worked hard to keep my gaze steady. “She still wasn’t happy, you know.”

“I’m not sure you can blame me for that,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Fair point.”

But my own pass-the-buck defense didn’t really work on me. Edgar’s words were a fresh body blow. The guilt came roaring back.

“Did you know that she was seeing a psychiatrist?” Edgar asked.

I turned toward Carson first, then back to Edgar. “No.”

“She didn’t want anyone to know.”

“How did you find out?”

Edgar did not reply. He stared down at his hands. Then he said: “I want to show you something.”

I sneaked another look at Uncle Carson. His jaw was set. I thought I saw a tremble. I turned back to Edgar. “Okay.”

Edgar opened his desk drawer, reached in, and pulled out a plastic bag. He raised it into view, gripping the bag at the corner between his forefinger and thumb. It took a moment, but when I realized what I was looking at, my eyes went wide.

Edgar saw my reaction. “You recognize it then?”

I couldn’t speak at first. I glanced over at Carson. His eyes were red. I looked back at Edgar and nodded numbly. Inside the plastic bag was a small swatch of clothing, maybe three inches by three inches. The pattern was one I had seen two weeks ago, moments before being shot.

Pink with black penguins.

My voice was barely a hush. “Where did you get this?”

Edgar handed me a large brown envelope, the kind with bubble wrap on the inside. This too, was protected in plastic. I turned it around. Edgar’s name and address had been printed on a white label. There was no return address. The postmark read New York City.

“It came in today’s mail,” Edgar said. He gestured to the swatch. “Is it Tara’s?”

I think I said yes.

“There’s more,” Edgar said. He reached into the drawer again. “I took the liberty of putting everything in plastic bags. In case the authorities need to test it.”

Again he handed me what looked like a Ziploc bag. Smaller this time. There were hairs inside. Little wisps of hair. With mounting dread, I realized what I was looking at. My breath stopped.

Baby hair.

From far away, I heard Edgar ask, “Are they hers?”

I closed my eyes and tried to picture Tara in the crib. The image of my daughter, I was horrified to realize, was already fading in the mind’s eye. How could that be? I could no longer tell if I was seeing memory or something I conjured up to replace what I was already forgetting. Damn it. Tears pressed against my eyelids. I tried to bring back the feel of my daughter’s soft scalp, the way my finger would trace the top.

“Marc?”

“They could be,” I said, opening my eyes. “There’s no way for me to know for sure.”

“Something else,” Edgar said. He handed me another plastic bag. Gingerly, I put down the bag with her hair on the desk. I took the new bag. There was a sheet of white paper in it. A note from some kind of laser printer.

If you contact the authorities, we disappear. You will never know what happened to her. We will be watching. We will know. We have a man on the inside. Your calls are being monitored. Do not discuss this over the phone. We know that you, Grandpa, are rich. We want two million dollars. We want you, Daddy, to deliver the ransom. You, Grandpa, will get the money ready. We are enclosing a cell phone. It is untraceable. But if you dial out or use it in any way, we will know. We will disappear and you will never see the child again. Get the money ready. Give it to Daddy. Daddy, keep the money and phone near you. Go home and wait. We will call and tell you what to do. Deviate from what we ask, and you will never see your daughter again. There will be no second chance.

The syntax was odd, to put it mildly. I read the note three times and then I looked up at Edgar and Carson. A funny calm spread over me. Yes, this was terrifying, but receiving this note . . . it was also a relief. Something had finally happened. We could act now. We could get Tara back. There was hope.

Edgar stood and headed toward the corner of the room. He opened a closet door and pulled out a gym bag with a Nike logo on it. Without preamble, he said, “It’s all here.”

He dropped the bag onto my lap. I stared down at it. “Two million dollars?”

“The bills are not sequential, but we have a list of all the serial numbers, just in case.”

I looked at Carson and then back at Edgar. “You don’t think we should contact the FBI?”

“Not really, no.” Edgar perched himself on the lid of the desk, folding his arms across his chest. He smelled of barbershop bay rum, but I could sense something more primitive, more rancid, that lay just beneath. Up close, his eyes had the dark rings of exhaustion. “It’s your decision, Marc. You’re the father. We’ll respect whatever you do. But as you know, I have had some dealings with the federal authorities. Perhaps my views are colored by my own sense of their incompetence, or perhaps I am biased because I’ve witnessed the degree to which they are ruled by personal agendas. If it were my daughter, I’d rather trust my own judgment than theirs.”

I was not sure what to say or do. Edgar took care of that. He clapped his hands once and then gestured toward the door.

“The note says that you should go home and wait. I think it’s best if we obey.”

chapter 3

The same driverwas there. I slid into the backseat, the Nike bag pressed against my chest. My emotions rocketed between abject fear and the strangest tinge of elation. I could get my daughter back. I could blow it all.

But first things first: Should I tell the police?

I tried to calm myself, to look at it coldly, at a distance, weigh the pros and cons. That was impossible, of course. I am a doctor. I have made life-altering decisions before. I know that the best way to do that is to remove the baggage, the ardent excess, from the equation. But my daughter’s life was at stake. My own daughter. To echo what I said in the beginning: my world.

The house Monica and I bought is literally around the corner from the house I grew up in and where my parents still reside. I am ambivalent about that. I really don’t like living so close to my parents, but I dislike the guilt of abandoning them even more. My compromise: Live near them and then travel a lot.

Lenny and Cheryl live four blocks away, near the Kasselton Mall, in the house where Cheryl’s parents had raised her. Cheryl’s parents moved to Florida six years ago. They keep a condo up here in neighboring Roseland so they can visit their grandchildren and escape the molten-lava summers of the Sunshine State.

I don’t particularly like living in Kasselton. The town has changed very little over the past thirty years. In our youth, we scoffed at our parents, their materialism, their seemingly aimless values. Now we are our parents. We have simply replaced them, pushed Mom and Dad into whatever retirement village would have them. And our children have replaced us. But Maury’s Luncheonette is still on Kasselton Avenue. The fire department is still mostly volunteer. The Little League still plays at Northland Field. The high-tension wires are still too close to my old elementary school. The woods behind the Brenners’ house on Rockmont Terrace is still a place where kids hang out and smoke. The high school still gets between five and eight national merit finalists a year, though when I was younger the list was more Jewish while today it tilts toward the Asian community.

We turned right on Monroe Avenue and drove past the split-level where I was raised. With its white paint and black shutters, with its kitchen, living room, and dining room up three steps on the left and its den and garage entrance two steps down on the right, our house, though a bit more threadbare than most, was pretty much indistinguishable from the other cookie-cutters on the block. What did make it stand out, the only thing really, was the wheelchair ramp. We put it in after my dad’s third stroke when I was twelve years old. My friends and I liked to skateboard down it. We built a jump out of plywood and cinder blocks and put it at the bottom.

The nurse’s car was in the driveway. She comes in during the days. We don’t have someone full time. My father has been confined to a wheelchair for more than two decades now. He cannot speak. His mouth has an ugly down-hook curve on the left side of it. Half his body is totally paralyzed and the other half is not that much better.

When the driver made the turn at Darby Terrace, I saw that my house—our house—looked the same as it had a few weeks before. I didn’t know what I’d expected. Yellow crime-scene tape maybe. Or a big bloodstain. But there was nothing hinting at what had occurred two weeks earlier.

When I’d bought the house, it’d been in foreclosure. For thirty-six years the Levinsky family had lived there, but no one really knew them. Mrs. Levinsky had been a seemingly sweet woman with a facial tic. Mr. Levinsky was an ogre who always yelled at her out on the lawn. He scared us. One time, we saw Mrs. Levinsky run out of the house in a nightgown, Mr. Levinsky chasing her with a shovel. Kids cut through every yard but theirs. When I was fresh out of college, rumors surfaced that he had abused his daughter Dina, a sad-eyed, stringy-haired waif I’d gone to school with since the first grade. Looking back on it, I must have been in a dozen classes with Dina Levinsky and I don’t remember ever hearing her speak above a whisper and only then when forced to by well-meaning teachers. I never reached out to Dina. I don’t know what I could have done, but I still wished that I’d tried.

Sometime during that year out of college, when the rumors of Dina’s abuse began to take root, the Levinskys had upped and moved away. No one knew where. The bank took over the house and began to rent it out. Monica and I made an offer a few weeks before Tara was born.

Months later, when we first settled in, I’d stay awake at night and listen for—I don’t know—sounds of some sort, for signs of the house’s past, of the unhappiness within. I would try to figure out which bedroom had been Dina’s and try to imagine what it’d been like for her, what it was like now, but there were no clues here. As I said earlier, a house is mortar and brick. Nothing more.

Two strange cars were parked in front of my house. My mother was standing by the front door. When I got out, she rushed me like those newscasts of returning POWs. She hugged me hard, and I got a whiff of too much perfume. I was still holding the Nike bag with the money, so it was hard for me to reciprocate.

Over my mother’s shoulder, Detective Bob Regan stepped out of my house. Next to him stood a large black man with a gleaming shaved head and designer sunglasses. My mother whispered, “They’ve been waiting for you.”

I nodded and moved toward them. Regan cupped a hand over his eyes, but only for effect. The sun was not that strong. The black man remained stonelike.

“Where have you been?” Regan asked. When I didn’t reply right away, he added, “You left the hospital more than an hour ago.”

I thought about the cell phone in my pocket. I thought about the bag of money in my hand. For now, I’d go for the semitruth. “I visited my wife’s grave,” I said.

“We need to talk, Marc.”

“Step inside,” I said.

We all moved back into the house. I stopped in the foyer. Monica’s body had been found less than ten feet from where I now stood. Still in the entranceway, my eyes scanned the walls, looking for any telltale sign of violence. There was only one. I found it fairly quickly. Above the Behrens lithograph near the stairwell, a bullet hole—one created from the only bullet that had not hit either Monica or me—had been spackled over. The spackle was too white for the wall. It would need a coat of paint.

I stared at it for a long moment. I heard a throat being cleared. It snapped me out of it. My mother rubbed my back and then headed to the kitchen. I showed Regan and his buddy to the living room. They took the two chairs. I took the couch. Monica and I hadn’t truly decorated yet. The chairs dated back to my college dorm and looked it. The couch had come from Monica’s apartment, a too-formal hand-me-down that looked like something kept in storage at Versailles. It was heavy and stiff and, even in its heyday, had had very little padding.

“This is Special Agent Lloyd Tickner,” Regan began, motioning toward the black man. “He’s with the FBI.”

Tickner nodded. I nodded back.

Regan tried to smile at me. “Good to see you’re feeling better,” he began.

“I’m not,” I said.

He looked puzzled.

“I won’t be better until I have my daughter back.”

“Right, of course. About that. We have a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”

I let them know I didn’t.

Regan coughed into his fist, buying himself time. “You have to understand something. We need to ask these questions. I don’t necessarily like it. I’m sure you don’t either, but these questions need to be asked. You understand?”

I didn’t really, but this was no time to encourage elaboration. “Go ahead,” I said.

“What can you can tell us about your marriage?”

A warning light flashed across my cortex. “What does my marriage have to do with anything?”

Regan shrugged. Tickner remained still. “We’re just trying to put some pieces together, that’s all.”

“My marriage has nothing to do with any of this.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but look, Marc, the truth is, the trail is getting cold here. Every day that passes hurts us. We need to explore every avenue.”

“The only avenue I’m interested in is the one that leads to my daughter.”

“We understand that. That’s the main focus of our investigation. Finding out what happened to your daughter. And you too. Let’s not forget that someone tried to kill you too, am I right?”

“I guess.”

“But, see, we can’t just ignore these other issues.”

“What other issues?”

“Your marriage, for example.”

“What about it?”

“When you got married, Monica was already pregnant, right?”

“What does that . . . ?” I stopped myself. I wanted to attack with both barrels, but Lenny’s words roared back at me. Don’t talk to the cops without him present. I should call him. I knew that. But something about their tone and posture . . . if I stopped now and said I wanted to call my lawyer, it would make me look guilty. I had nothing to hide. Why feed into their suspicions? It would only distract them. Of course, I also knew that this was how they worked, how the police played the game, but I’m a doctor. Worse, a surgeon. We often make the mistake of thinking we’re smarter than everyone else.

I went with honesty. “Yes, she was pregnant. So?”

“You’re a plastic surgeon, correct?”

The change of subjects threw me. “That’s right.”

“You and your partner travel overseas and repair cleft palates, serious facial trauma, burns, that kind of thing?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“You travel a lot then?”

“A fair amount,” I said.

“In fact,” Regan said, “in the two years before your marriage, isn’t it fair to say that you were probably out of the country more than you were in it?”

“Possibly,” I said. I squirmed against the padless cushion. “Could you tell me what the relevance of any of this is?”

Regan gave me his most disarming smile. “We’re just trying to get a complete picture here.”

“Picture of what?”

“Your work partner”—he checked his notes—“a Ms. Zia Leroux.”

“Dr. Leroux,” I corrected.

“Dr. Leroux, yes, thank you. Where is she now?”

“Cambodia.”

“She’s performing surgery on deformed children over there?”

“Yes.”

Regan tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Weren’t you originally scheduled to take that trip?”

“A long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“How long ago did you take yourself off the schedule?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Eight, nine months ago maybe.”

“And so Dr. Leroux went instead, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct. And the point of that is . . . ?”

He wouldn’t bite. “You like your job, don’t you, Marc?”

“Yes.”

“You like traveling overseas? Doing this commendable work?”

“Sure.”

Regan scratched his head too dramatically, pretending in the most obvious way to be bewildered. “So if you like the traveling, why did you cancel and let Dr. Leroux go in your place?”

Now I saw where he was heading. “I was cutting back,” I said.

“On travel, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I had other obligations.”

“Those obligations being a wife and daughter, am I correct?”

I sat up and met his eye. “Point,” I said. “Is there a point to all this?”

Regan settled back. The silent Tickner did likewise. “Just trying to get a complete picture, that’s all.”

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, hold on, give me a second here.” Regan flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Jeans and a red blouse.”

“What?”

“Your wife.” He pointed at his notes. “You said that she was wearing jeans and a red blouse that morning.”

More images of Monica flooded me. I tried to stem the tide. “So?”

“When we found her body,” Regan said, “she was naked.”

The tremors began in my heart. They spread down my arms, tingling my fingers.

“You didn’t know?”

I swallowed. “Was she . . . ?” My voice died in my throat.

“No,” Regan said. “Not a mark on her, other than the bullet holes.” He did that help-me-understand head-tilt again. “We found her dead in this very room. Did she often parade in here with no clothes on?”

“I told you.” Overload. I tried to process this new data, keep up with him. “She was wearing jeans and a red blouse.”

“So she was dressed already?”

I remembered the sound of the shower. I remembered her coming out, throwing her hair back, lying on the bed, working the jeans over the hips. “Yes.”

“Definitely?”

“Definitely.”

“We’ve been through the whole house. We can’t find a red blouse. Jeans, sure. She had several pairs. But no red blouse. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Wait a second,” I said. “Her clothes weren’t near her body?”

“Nope.”

This made no sense. “I’ll look in her closet, then,” I said.

“We already did that, but sure, go ahead. Of course, I’d still like to know how clothes she was wearing ended up back in her closet, wouldn’t you?”

I had no answer.

“Do you own a gun, Dr. Seidman?”

Another subject shift. I tried to keep up, but my head was spinning. “Yes.”

“What kind?”

“A Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. It belonged to my father.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“There’s a compartment in the bedroom closet. It’s on the top shelf in a lockbox.”

Regan reached behind him and pulled out the metal lockbox. “This it?”

“Yes.”

“Open it.”

He tossed it to me. I caught it. The gray-blue metal was cold. But more than that, it felt shockingly light. I moved the wheels to the right combination and flipped it open. I poked through the legal documents—the car title, the deed on the house, the property survey—but that was just to get my bearings. I knew right away. The gun was gone.

“You and your wife were both shot with a thirty-eight,” Regan said. “And yours seems to be missing.”

I kept my eyes on the box, as if I expected the weapon to suddenly materialize in it. I tried to put it together, but nothing was coming to me.

“Any idea where the gun is?”

I shook my head.

“And something else strange,” Regan said.

I looked up at him.

“You and Monica were shot withdifferent thirty-eights.”

“Excuse me?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I found it hard to believe too. I made ballistics check it twice. You and your wife were shot with two different guns, both thirty-eights—and yours seems to be missing.” Regan shrugged theatrically. “Help me understand, Marc.”

I looked at their faces. I didn’t like what I saw. Lenny’s warning came back to me again, firmer this time. “I want to call my lawyer,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

My mother had been standing by the kitchen door, wringing her hands. How much had she heard? Judging by her face, too much. Mom looked at me expectantly. I nodded, and she went to call Lenny. I folded my arms, but that didn’t feel right. I tapped my foot. Tickner took off the sunglasses. He met my eye and spoke for the first time.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked me.

I just looked at him.

“That gym bag you been groping.” Tickner’s voice, belying his tough looks, had a nerdy cadence to it, a quasi-whine quality. “What’s in it?”

This had all been a mistake. I should have listened to Lenny. I should have called him right away. Now I was not sure how to reply. In the background, I heard my mother urging Lenny to hurry. I was sifting through a response that might work as a semitruthful stall—none were convincing—when a sound ripped my attention away.

The cell phone, the one the kidnappers had sent to my father-in-law, began to ring.

chapter 4

Tickner and Reganwaited for me to answer.

I excused myself, rising before they had a chance to react. My hand fumbled with the phone as I hurried outside. The sun hit me full in the face. I blinked and looked down at the keypad. The phone’s answer button was located in a different spot from mine. Across the street, two girls donning brightly hued helmets were riding neon bikes. Ribbon strips of pink cascaded out of the handlebars of one.

When I was little, this neighborhood sheltered more than a dozen kids my age. We used to meet up after school. I don’t remember what games we played—we were never organized enough for, say, a real game of baseball or anything like that—but they all involved hiding and chasing and some form of feigned (or borderline-real) violence. Childhood in suburbia is purportedly a time of innocence, but how many of those days ended in tears for at least one kid? We would argue, shift alliances, make declarations of friendship and war, and like some short-term memory case, it was all forgotten the next day. A clean slate every afternoon. New coalitions forged. A new kid running home in tears.

My thumb finally touched down on the right button. I pressed it and brought the phone to my ear, all in one move. My heart thumped against my rib cage. I cleared my throat and, feeling like a total idiot, I simply said, “Hello?”

“Answer yes or no.” The voice had the robotic hum of one of those customer-care phone systems, the ones that tell you to press one for service, press two to check the status of an order. “Do you have the money?”

“Yes.”

“You know the Garden State Plaza?”

“In Paramus,” I said.

“In exactly two hours from now, I want you parked at the north lot. That’s near Nordstrom’s. Section Nine. Someone will approach your car.”

“But—”

“If you’re not alone, we disappear. If you’re being followed, we disappear. If I smell a cop, we disappear. There will be no second chances. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but when—”

Click.

I let my hand drop to my side. Numbness seeped in. I did not fight it. The little girls across the street were quarreling now. I couldn’t hear the specifics, but the wordmy popped up a lot, that simple syllable accentuated and drawn out. An SUV sped around the corner. I watched it as though from above. The brakes shrieked. The driver-side door was open before the car had come to a complete stop.

It was Lenny. He took one look at me and picked up his pace. “Marc?”

“You were right.” I nodded toward the house. Regan was standing by the door now. “They think I’m involved.”

Lenny’s face darkened. His eyes narrowed, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints. In sports, you call it putting on your “game face.” Lenny was becoming Cujo. He stared at Regan as if deciding which limb to chew off. “You talked to them?”

“A little.”

Lenny jerked his gaze toward me. “Didn’t you tell them you wanted counsel?”

“Not at first.”

“Damn it, Marc, I told you—”

“I got a ransom demand.”

That made Lenny pull up. I checked my watch. Paramus was a forty-minute ride. With traffic, it could take as much as an hour. I had time, but not much. I started filling him in. Lenny gave Regan another glare and led me farther away from the house. We stopped at the curb, those familiar cloud-gray stones that lie on property lines like sets of teeth, and then, like two children, we squatted deep and sat on them. Our knees were at our chins. I could see Lenny’s skin between the argyle sock and tapered cuff. Squatting like this was uncomfortable as hell. The sun was in our eyes. We both looked off rather than at each other, again just like in our youths. It made it easier to spill it all out.

I spoke quickly. Midway through my recap, Regan began to move toward us. Lenny turned to him and shouted, “Your balls.”

Regan stopped. “What?”

“Are you arresting my client?”

“No.”

Lenny pointed toward Regan’s crotch. “Then I’m going to have them bronzed and hanging from my rearview mirror, if you take another step.”

Regan straightened his spine. “We have some questions for your client.”

“Tough. Go abuse the rights of someone with a lesser lawyer.”

Lenny made a dismissive gesture and nodded at me to continue. Regan did not look happy, but he took two steps back. I glanced at my watch again. Only five minutes had passed since the ransom call. I finished up while Lenny kept the laser glare aimed at Regan.

“You want my opinion?” he said.

“Yes.”

Still glaring. “I think you should tell them.”

“You sure?”

“Hell, no.”

“Would you?” I said. “I mean, if it was one of your kids?”

Lenny gave it a few seconds. “I can’t put myself in your place, if that’s what you mean. But yeah, I think I would. I play the odds. The odds are better when you tell the cops. Doesn’t mean it works out every time, but they’re experts at this. We’re not.” Lenny put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands—a pose from his youth. “That’s the opinion of Lenny the Friend,” he went on. “Lenny the Friend would encourage you to tell them.”

“And Lenny the Lawyer?” I asked.

“He would be more insistent. He would strongly urge you to come forward.”

“Why?”

“If you go off with two million dollars and it vanishes—even if you get Tara back—their suspicions will be, to put it mildly, aroused.”

“I don’t care about that. I just want Tara back.”

“Understood. Or should I say, Lenny the Friend understands.”

Now it was Lenny’s turn to check his watch. My insides felt hollow, scooped out canoe-style. I could almost hear the tick-tick. It was maddening. I tried again to do the rational thing, to list the pros on the right, the cons on the left, and then add them up. But the tick-tick would not stop.

Lenny had talked about playing the odds. I don’t gamble. I’m not a risk taker. Across the street one of the little girls shouted, “I’m telling!” She stormed down the street. The other girl laughed at her and got back on her bike. I felt my eyes well up. I wished like hell Monica were here. I shouldn’t be making this decision alone. She should be in on this, too.

I looked back at the front door. Regan and Tickner were both outside now. Regan had his arms folded across his chest, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Tickner did not move, his face the same placid pool. Were these men I could trust with my daughter’s life? Would they put Tara first, or as Edgar had suggested, would they follow some unseen agenda?

The tick-tick grew louder, more insistent.

Someone had murdered my wife. Someone had taken my child. For the past few days, I had asked myself why—why us?—trying again to stay rational and not allowing myself extended forays in the deep end of the pity pool. But no answer came. I could see no motive and maybe that was most frightening of all. Maybe there was no reason. Maybe it was just pure bad luck.

Lenny stared straight ahead and waited. Tick, tick, tick.

“Let’s tell them,” I said.

Their reaction surprised me. They panicked.

Regan and Tickner tried to hide it, of course, but their body language was suddenly all wrong—the flutter in the eyes, the tightness at the corners of their mouths, the unduly modulated, FM-soft-rock timbre in their tones. The time frame was simply too close for them. Tickner quickly dialed up the FBI specialist on kidnapping negotiations to enlist his help. He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece while he spoke into it. Regan got hold of his police colleagues in Paramus.

When Tickner hung up, he said to me, “We’ll get people to cover the mall. Discreetly, of course. We’re going to try to get men in cars near every exit and on Route Seventeen in both directions. We’ll have people inside the mall by all the entrances. But I want you to listen to me closely, Dr. Seidman. Our expert tells us that we should try to stall him. Maybe we can get the kidnapper to postpone—”

“No,” I said.

“They won’t just run away,” Tickner said. “They want the money.”

“My daughter has been with them for almost three weeks,” I said. “I’m not putting this off.”

He nodded, not liking it, trying to keep up with the placid. “Then I want to put a man in the car with you.”

“No.”

“He can duck down in the back.”

“No,” I said again.

Tickner tried another avenue. “Or better yet—we’ve done this before—we tell the kidnapper that you can’t drive. Hell, you’re just out of the hospital. We have one of our men drive instead. We say it’s your cousin.”

I frowned and looked at Regan. “Didn’t you say you thought my sister might be involved?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“Don’t you think she’d know if this guy was a cousin or not?”

Tickner and Regan both hesitated and then nodded in unison. “Good point,” Regan said.

Lenny and I exchanged a glance. These were the professionals I was trusting with Tara’s life. The thought was not comforting. I started for the door.

Tickner put a hand on my shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“Where the hell do you think?”

“Sit down, Dr. Seidman.”

“No time,” I countered. “I have to start heading up there. There could be traffic.”

“We can clear the traffic.”

“Oh, and that won’t look suspicious,” I said.

“I highly doubt he’s going to follow you from here.”

I spun on him. “And you’d be willing to risk your child’s life on that?”

He paused just long enough.

“You don’t get it,” I went on, in his face now. “I don’t care about the money or if they get away. I just want my daughter back.”

“We understand that,” Tickner said, “but there is something you’re forgetting.”

“What?”

“Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

“Look, do me a favor, okay? Just let me stand. I’m a doctor. I know the delivering-bad-news drill as well as anyone. Don’t try to play me.”

Tickner held his palms up and said, “Fair enough.” He proceeded to take a long, lingering breath. Stall tactic. I was not in the mood.

“So what is it?” I said.

“Whoever did this,” he began, “they shot you. They killed your wife.”

“I understand that.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Think about it a second. We can’t just let you go in on your own. Whoever did this tried to end your life. They shot you twice and left you for dead.”

“Marc,” Regan said, moving closer, “we threw some wild theories at you before. The problem is, that’s all they are. Theories. We don’t know what these guys are really after. Maybe this is just a simple kidnapping, but if it is, it’s not like any we’ve seen before.” His interrogation face was gone now, replaced with an aw-shucks, eyebrow-raised attempt at openness. “What we do know with certainty is that they tried to kill you. You don’t try to kill the parents, if you’re just after ransom.”

“Maybe they planned on getting the money from my father-in-law,” I said.

“Then why did they wait so long?”

I had no answer.

“Maybe,” Tickner went on, “this isn’t about kidnapping at all. At least, not at first. Maybe that’s become a sideline. Maybe you and your wife were the targets all along. And maybe they want to finish the job.”

“You think this is a setup?”

“It’s a strong possibility, yes.”

“So what are you advising?”

Tickner took that one. “Don’t go alone. Buy us some time so we can prepare properly. Let them call you back.”

I looked at Lenny. He saw it and nodded. “That’s not possible,” Lenny said.

Tickner turned at him hard. “With all due respect, your client is in grave danger here.”

“So is my daughter,” I said. Simple words. This decision was a no-brainer when you kept it simple. I pulled away and started toward my car. “Keep your people at a distance.”

chapter 5

There was notraffic, so I made it to the mall with plenty of time to spare. I turned the engine off and sat back. I glanced around. I figured that the feds and cops were probably still on me, but I couldn’t see them. That was a good thing, I guess.

Now what?

No idea. I waited some more. I fiddled with the radio, but nothing caught my attention. I turned on the CD player/tape deck. When Donald Fagan of Steely Dan began singing “Black Cow,” I felt a slight jerk. I had not listened to this particular tape since, what, my college days. Why did Monica have it? And then, with a renewed pang, I realized that Monica had been the last to use this car, that this may have been the last song she ever heard.

I watched the shoppers prepare for mall entry. I concentrated on the young mothers; the way they flipped open the back door of the minivan; the way they unfolded the baby strollers midair with a magician’s flourish; the way they struggled to release their offspring from safety seats that reminded me of Buzz Aldrin’s onApollo 11 ; the way the mothers skirted forward, heads high, smartly pressing the remote control that slid the minivan door to a close.

The mothers, all of them, looked so blasé. Their children were with them. Their safety, what with the five-star side-collision rating and NASA-sleek car seats, was a given. And here I sat with a bag of ransom money, hoping to get my daughter back. The thin line. I wanted to roll down the window and shout out a warning.

We were getting close to drop time. The sun beat down on my windshield. I reached for my sunglasses but then thought better of it. I don’t know why. Would putting on my sunglasses somehow make the kidnapper uneasy? No, I don’t think so. Or maybe it would. Better to just leave them off. Take no chances.

My shoulders bunched up. I kept trying to look around without, for some odd reason, looking conspicuous about it. Whenever someone parked near me or walked anywhere in the vicinity of my car, my stomach tightened and I wondered:

Was Tara nearby?

We were at the two-hour mark now. I wanted this over. The next few minutes would decide everything. I knew that. Calm. I needed to stay calm. Tickner’s warning reverberated in my head. Would someone simply walk up to my car and blow my brains out?

It was, I realized, a very real possibility.

When the cell phone rang, I started forward. I brought it to my ear and barked a too-quick hello.

The robotic voice said, “Pull out by the west exit.”

I was confused. “Which way is west?”

“Follow the signs for Route Four. Take the overpass. We’re watching. If someone follows, we disappear. Keep the phone near your ear.”

I obeyed with gusto; my right hand pressed the phone against my ear to the point where I started losing circulation. My left hand gripped the wheel as if preparing to tear it off.

“Get on Route Four heading west.”

I took the right turn and jug-handled onto the highway. I looked in my rearview mirror to see if anyone was following me. Hard to tell.

The robotic voice said, “You’ll see a strip mall.”

“There’s a million strip malls,” I said.

“It’s on the right, next to a store selling baby cribs. In front of the Paramus Road exit.”

I saw it. “Okay.”

“Pull in there. You’ll see a driveway on the left. Take it to the back and kill the engine. Have the money ready for me.”

I understood immediately why the kidnapper had picked this spot. There was only one way in. The stores were all for rent, except for the baby-crib place. That was on the far right. In other words, it was self-contained and directly off a highway. There was no way anyone could come around back or even slow down without being noticed.

I hope the feds understood that.

When I reached the back of the building, I saw a man standing by a van. He wore a red-and-black flannel shirt with black jeans, dark sunglasses, and a Yankee baseball cap. I tried to find something distinct, but the word that came to mind wasaverage . Average height, average build. The only thing was his nose. Even from this distance I could see it was misshapen, like an ex-boxer’s. But was that real or some kind of disguise? I didn’t know.

I checked out the van. There was a sign for “B & T Electricians” of Ridgewood, New Jersey. No phone number or address. The license plate was from New Jersey. I memorized it.

The man raised a cell phone to his lips walkie-talkie style, and I heard the mechanical voice say, “I’m going to approach. Pass the money through the window. Do not get out of the car. Do not say a word to me. When we’re safely away with the money, I’ll call and tell you where to pick up your daughter.”

The man in red flannel and black jeans lowered the phone and approached. His shirt was untucked. Did he have a gun? I couldn’t tell. And even if he did, what could I do about it now? I hit the button to open the windows. They didn’t budge. The key needed to be turned. The man was getting closer. The Yankee cap was pulled down until the brim touched the sunglasses. I reached for the key and gave it a tiny twist. The lights on the dashboard sprung to life. I pressed the button again. The window slid down.

Again I tried to find something about the man that was distinct. His walk was slightly off balance, as though maybe he’d had a drink or two, but he didn’t look nervous. His face was unshaven and patchy. His hands were dirty. His black jeans were ripped in the right knee. His sneakers, canvas high-tops from Converse, had seen better days.

When the man was only two steps from the car, I pushed the bag up to the window and braced myself. I held my breath. Without breaking stride, the man took the money and swirled toward the van. He hurried his step now. The van’s back doors opened and he leapt in, the door immediately closing behind him. It was as if the van had swallowed him whole.

The driver gunned the engine. The van sped off and now, for the first time, I realized that there was a back entrance onto a side road. The van shot down it and was gone.

I was alone.

I stayed where I was and waited for the cell phone to ring. My heart pounded. My shirt was drenched in sweat. No other car traveled back here. The pavement was cracked. Cardboard boxes jutted out of the garbage Dumpster. Broken bottles littered the ground. My eyes stared hard at the ground, trying to make out the words on faded beer labels.

Fifteen minutes passed.

I kept picturing my reunion with my daughter, how I would find her and pick her up and cradle her and hush her with gentle sounds. The cell phone. The cell phone was supposed to ring. That was part of what I was picturing. The phone ringing, the robotic voice giving me instructions. Those were parts one and two. Why wasn’t the damn phone cooperating?

A Buick Le Sabre pulled into the lot, keeping a decent distance away from me. I did not recognize the driver, but Tickner was in the passenger seat. Our eyes met. I tried to read something in his expression, but he was still pure stoic.

I stared now at the cell phone, not daring to look away. The tick-tick was back, this time slow and thudding.

Ten more minutes passed before the phone grudgingly issued its tinny song. I had it to my ear before the sound had a chance to travel.

“Hello?” I said.

Nothing.

Tickner watched me closely. He gave me a slight nod, though I had no idea why. His driver still had both hands on the wheel at ten and two o’clock.

“Hello?” I tried again.

The robotic voice said, “I warned you about contacting the cops.”

Ice flooded my veins.

“No second chance.”

And then the phone went dead.

chapter 6

There was noescape.

I longed for the numb. I longed for the comatose state of the hospital. I longed for that IV bag and the free flow of anesthetics. My skin had been torn off. My nerve endings were exposed now. I could feel everything.

Fear and helplessness overwhelmed me. The fear locked me in a room, while the helplessness—the awful knowing that I had blown it and could do nothing to alleviate my child’s pain—wrapped me in a straitjacket and turned out the lights. I may very well have been losing my mind.

Days passed in a syrupy haze. Most of the time I sat by the phone—by several phones, actually. My home phone, my cell phone, and the kidnapper’s cell phone. I bought a charger for the kidnapper’s cell, so I could keep it working. I stayed on the couch. The phones sat on my right. I tried to look away, to watch television even, because I remembered that old saying about a watched kettle never boiling. I still stole glances at those damn phones, fearing that they might somehow flee, willing them to ring.

I tried to mine that supernatural father-daughter connection again, the one that had insisted earlier that Tara was still alive. The pulse was still there, I thought (or at least, made myself believe), beating faintly, the connection now tenuous at best.

“No second chance . . .”

To add to my guilt, I had dreamt last night of a woman other than Monica—my old love, Rachel. It was one of those time-and-reality warp dreams, the ones where the world is totally alien and even contradictory and yet you don’t question any of it. Rachel and I were together. We had never broken up yet we had been apart all these years. I was still thirty-four, but she hadn’t aged since the day she left me. Tara was still my daughter in the dream—she had, in fact, never been kidnapped—but somehow she was also Rachel’s, though Rachel wasn’t the mother. You’ve probably had dreams like this. Nothing really makes sense, but you don’t challenge what you see. When I woke up, the dream faded into smoke the way dreams always do. I was left with an aftertaste and a longing that pulled with unexpected force.

My mother hung around too much. She had just plopped another tray of food in front of me. I ignored it and for the millionth time, Mom repeated her mantra: “You have to keep up your strength for Tara.”

“Right, Mom, strength is the key here. Maybe if I do enough bench presses, that’ll bring her back.”

Mom shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait. It was a cruel thing to say. She was hurting too. Her granddaughter was missing and her son was in horrific shape. I watched her sigh and head back to the kitchen. I didn’t apologize.

Tickner and Regan visited frequently. They reminded me of Shakespeare’s sound and fury signifying nothing. They told me about all the technological wonders that were being utilized in the quest to find Tara—stuff involving DNA and latent prints and security cameras and airports and tollbooths and train stations and tracers and surveillance and labs. They trotted out the tried-and-true cop clichés like “no stone unturned” and “every possible avenue.” I nodded at them. They had me look at mug shots, but the bagman in flannel was not in any of the books.

“We ran a trace on B and T Electricians,” Regan told me that first night. “The company exists, but they use magnetic signs, the kind you can just peel off a truck. Someone stole one two months ago. They never thought it was worth reporting.”

“What about the license plate?” I asked.

“The number you gave us doesn’t exist.”

“How can that be?”

“They used two old license plates,” Regan explained. “See, what they do is, they cut the license plates in half and then they weld the left half of one with the right half of the other.”

I just stared at him.

“There is something of a bright side to that,” Regan added.

“Oh?”

“It means we’re dealing with professionals. They knew that if you contacted us, we’d be set up at the mall. They found a drop spot that we couldn’t get to without being seen. They have us tracking down useless leads with the fake sign and welded license plates. Like I said, they’re pros.”

“And that’s good because . . . ?”

“Pros usually aren’t bloodthirsty.”

“So what are they doing?”

“Our theory,” Regan said, “is that they’re softening you up, so they can ask for more money.”

Softening me up. It was working.

My father-in-law called after the ransom fiasco. I could hear the disappointment in Edgar’s voice. I don’t want to sound unkind here—Edgar was the one who provided the money and made it clear he would do so again—but the disappointment sounded more aimed at me, at the fact that I had not taken his advice about not contacting the police, than at the final outcome.

Of course, he was right about that. I had messed up big time.

I tried to participate in the investigation, but the police were far from encouraging. In the movies the authorities cooperate and share information with the victim. I naturally asked Tickner and Regan a lot of questions about the case. They didn’t answer. They never discussed specifics with me. They treated my interrogatories with near disdain. I wanted to know, for example, more about how my wife was found, about why she’d been naked. They stonewalled.

Lenny was at the house a lot. He had trouble meeting my eye because he, too, blamed himself for encouraging me to come forward. The faces of Regan and Tickner fluctuated between guilt because everything had gone so wrong and guilt of another kind, like maybe I, the grieving husband and father, had been behind this from the get-go. They wanted to know about my shaky marriage to Monica. They wanted to know about my missing gun. It was exactly as Lenny had predicted. The more time passed, the more the authorities aimed their sights on the only available suspect.

Yours truly.

After we hit the one-week mark, the police and FBI presence started fading. Tickner and Regan no longer came by very much. They checked their watches more often. They excused themselves for phone calls involving other cases. I understood that, of course. There had been no new leads. Things were quieting down. Part of me welcomed the respite.

And then, on the ninth day, everything changed.

At ten o’clock, I began to get undressed and ready for bed. I was alone. I love my family and friends, but they began to realize that I needed some time by myself. They had all left before dinner. I ordered delivery from Hunan Garden and, per Mom’s earlier instructions, ate for strength.

I looked at the bedside alarm clock. That’s how I knew that the time was exactly 10:18P .M. I glanced at the window, just a casual land sweep. In the dark, I almost missed it—nothing consciously registered anyway—but something snagged my gaze. I stopped and looked again.

There, standing on my walk like a stone, staring at my house, was a woman. I assume that she was staring. I did not know for certain. Her face was lost in the shadows. She had long hair—that much I could see in the silhouette—and she wore a long coat. Her hands were jammed into her pockets.

She just stood there.

I was not sure what to make of it. We were in the news, of course. Reporters stopped by at all hours. I looked up and down the street. No cars, no news vans, nothing. She had come on foot. Again that was not unusual. I live in a suburban neighborhood. People take walks all the time, usually with a dog or spouse or both, but it was hardly earth shattering for a woman to be walking alone.

Then why had she stopped?

Morbid curiosity, I figured.

She looked tall from here, but that was pretty much a guess. I wondered what to do. An uneasy feeling slithered up my back. I grabbed my sweatshirt and threw it over my pajama top. Ditto with a pair of sweatpants and the bottoms. I looked out the window again. The woman stiffened.

She had seen me.

The woman turned and began to hurry away. My chest felt tight. I tried to open the window. It was stuck. I hit the sides to loosen it and tried again. It grudgingly gave me an inch. I lowered my mouth to the opening.

“Wait!”

She picked up the pace.

“Please, hold up a second.”

She broke into a run. Damn. I turned away and sprinted after her toward the door. I had no idea where my slippers were and there was no time for shoes. I ran outside. The grass tickled my feet. I sprinted in the direction she had gone. I tried to follow, but I lost her.

When I got back inside my house, I called Regan and told him what had happened. It sounded stupid even as I said it. A woman had been standing in front of my house. Big deal. Regan, too, sounded thoroughly unimpressed. I convinced myself that it was nothing, just a nosy neighbor. I climbed back into bed, flipped the television, and eventually I closed my eyes.

The night, however, was not over.

It was four in the morning when my phone rang. I was in the state I now refer to as sleep. I never fall into true slumber anymore. I hang above it with my eyes shut. The nights struggle by like the days. The separation between the two is the flimsiest of curtains. At night, my body manages to rest, but my mind refuses to shut down.

With my eyes closed, I was replaying the morning of the attack for the umpteenth time, hoping to stir a new memory. I started where I am now: in the bedroom. I remembered my alarm clock going off. Lenny and I were going to play racquetball that morning. We’d started playing every Wednesday about a year before, and so far, we had progressed to the point where our games had improved from “pitiful” to “almost remedial.” Monica was awake and in the shower. I was scheduled for surgery at 11:00A .M. I got up and looked in on Tara. I headed back to the bedroom. Monica was out of shower now and putting on her jeans. I went down to the kitchen, still in my pajamas, opened the cabinet to the right of the Westinghouse refrigerator, chose the raspberry granola bar over the blueberry (I had actually told this detail to Regan recently, as if it might be relevant), and bent over the sink while I ate. . . .

Bam, that was it. Nothing until the hospital.

The phone rang a second time. My eyes opened.

My hand found the phone. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“It’s Detective Regan. I’m with Agent Tickner. We’ll be over in two minutes.”

I swallowed. “What is it?”

“Two minutes.”

He hung up.

I got out of bed. I glanced out the window, half expecting to see that woman again. No one was there. My jeans from yesterday were crumpled on the floor. I slid them on. I pulled a sweatshirt over my head and made my way down the stairs. I opened the front door and peered out. A police car turned the corner. Regan was driving. Tickner was in the passenger seat. I don’t think that I had ever seen them arrive in the same vehicle.

This, I knew, would not be good news.

The two men stepped out of the car. Nausea swept over me. I had prepared myself for this visit since the ransom had gone wrong. I’d even gone so far as to rehearse in my mind how it would all happen—how they would deliver the hammer blow and how I would nod and thank them and excuse myself. I practiced my reaction. I knew precisely how it would all go down.

But now, as I watched Regan and Tickner head toward me, those defenses fled. Panic set in. My body began to shiver. I could barely stand. My knees wobbled, and I leaned against the door frame. The two men moved in step. I was reminded of an old war movie, the scene where the officers come to the mother’s house with solemn faces. I shook my head, wishing them away.

When they reached the door, the two men pushed inside.

“We have something to show you,” Regan said.

I turned and followed. Regan flicked on a lamp, but it didn’t provide much light. Tickner moved to the couch. He opened his laptop computer. The monitor sprang to life, bathing him in an LCD-blue.

“We had a break,” Regan explained.

I moved closer.

“Your father-in-law gave us a list of the serial numbers on the ransom bills, remember?”

“Yes.”

“One of those bills was used at a bank yesterday afternoon. Agent Tickner is bringing up a video feed right now.”

“From the bank?” I asked.

“Yes. We downloaded the video onto his laptop. Twelve hours ago, someone brought a hundred-dollar bill to this bank in order to get smaller notes. We want you to take a look at the video.”

I sat next to Tickner. He pressed a button. The video started up immediately. I expected black-and-white or poor, grainy quality. This feed had neither. The angle was shot from above in almost too-brilliant color. A bald man was talking to a teller. There was no sound.

“I don’t recognize him,” I said.

“Wait.”

The bald man said something to the teller. They appeared to be sharing a good-natured chuckle. He picked up a slip of paper and waved a good-bye. The teller gave a small wave back. The next person in line approached the booth. I heard myself groan.

It was my sister, Stacy.

The numb I had longed for suddenly flooded me. I don’t know why. Perhaps because two polar emotions pulled at me simultaneously. One, dread. My own sister had done this. My own sister, whom I loved dearly, had betrayed me. But, two, hope—we now had hope. We had a lead. And if it was Stacy, I could not believe that she would harm Tara.

“Is that your sister?” Regan asked, pointing his finger at her image.

“Yes.” I looked at him. “Where was this taken?”

“The Catskills,” he said. “A town called—”

“Montague,” I finished for him.

Tickner and Regan looked at each other. “How do you know that?”

But I was already heading for the door. “I know where she is.”

chapter 7

My grandfather hadloved to hunt. I always found this strange because he was such a gentle, soft-spoken soul. He never talked about his passion. He didn’t hang deer heads over the fireplace mantel. He did not keep trophy pictures or souvenir antlers or whatever else hunters liked to do with carcasses. He did not hunt with friends or family members. Hunting was a solitary activity for my grandfather; he did not explain, defend, or share it with others.

In 1956, Grandpa purchased a small cabin in the hunting woods of Montague, New York. The cost, or so I am told, was under three thousand dollars. I doubt that it would fetch much more today. There was only one bedroom. The structure managed to be rustic without any of the charm associated with that term. It was almost impossible to find—the dirt road stopped two hundred yards before the cabin. You had to hike along a root-infested trail the rest of the way.

When he died four years ago, my grandmother inherited it. At least, that is what I assumed. No one really thought about it much. My grandparents had retired to Florida almost a decade before. My grandmother was in the murky throes of Alzheimer’s now. The old cabin, I guessed, was part of her estate. In terms of taxes and whatever expenses, it was probably deep in arrears.

When we were children, my sister and I spent one weekend each summer with our grandparents at the cabin. I did not like it. Nature to me was boredom occasionally broken up by an onslaught of mosquito bites. There was no TV. We went to bed too early and in too much darkness. During the day, the deep silence was too often shattered by the charming echo of shotgun blasts. We spent most of our time taking walks, an activity I find tedious to this very day. One year, my mother packed me only khaki-colored clothes. I spent two days terrified that a hunter would mistake me for a deer.

Stacy, on the other hand, found solace out there. Even as a young child, she seemed to revel in the escape from our suburban rat-maze of school and extracurricular activities, of sport teams and popularity. She would wander for hours. She would pick leaves off the trees and collect inchworms in a jar. She would shuffle her feet across carpets of fallen pine needles.

I explained about the cabin to Tickner and Regan as we sped up Route 87. Tickner radioed the police department in Montague. I still remembered how to find the cabin, but describing it was harder. I did my best. Regan kept his foot on the gas pedal. It was four-thirty in the morning. There was no traffic and no need for the siren. We reached Exit 16 on the New York Thruway and sped past the Woodbury Common Outlet Center.

The woods were a blur. We were not far now. I told him where to turn off. The car wound up and down back roads that had not changed one iota in the past three decades.

Fifteen minutes later, we were there.

Stacy.

My sister had never been very attractive. That may have been part of her problem. Yes, that sounds like nonsense. It is silly, really. But I lay it out for you anyway. No one asked Stacy to any prom. Boys never called. She had very few friends. Of course, there are many adolescents with such hardships. Adolescence is always a war; no one gets out unscathed. And yes, my father’s illness was a tremendous burden on us. But that doesn’t explain it.

In the end, after all the theories and psychoanalyzing, after all the combing through her childhood traumas, I think what went wrong with my sister was more basic. She had some kind of chemical imbalance in her brain. Too much of one compound flowing here, not enough of another flowing there. We did not recognize the warning signs soon enough. Stacy was depressed in an era when such behavior was mistaken for sullen. Or maybe, yet again, I use this sort of convoluted rationale to justify my own indifference to her. Stacy was just my weird younger sister. I had my own problems, thank you very much. I had the selfishness of a teenager, a truly redundant description if ever I’ve heard one.

Either way, be the origins of my sister’s unhappiness physiological, psychological, or the deluxe combo plan, Stacy’s destructive journey was over.

My little sister was dead.

We found her on the floor, curled up in a tight fetal position. That was how she had slept when she was a child, her knees up to her chest, her chin tucked. But even though there was not a mark on her, I could see that she was not sleeping. I bent down. Stacy’s eyes were open. She stared straight at me, unblinking, questioning. She still looked so very lost. That wasn’t supposed to be. Death was supposed to bring solitude. Death was supposed to bring the peace she had found so elusive in life. Why, I wondered, did Stacy still look so damn lost?

A hypodermic needle lay on the floor by her side, her companion in death as in life. Drugs, of course. Intentional or otherwise, I did not yet know. I had no time to dwell on it either. The police fanned out. I wrested my eyes away from her.

Tara.

The place was a mess. Raccoons had found their way in and made a little home for themselves. The couch where my grandfather had taken his naps, always with his arms folded, was torn up. The stuffing had bled onto the floor. Springs popped up looking for someone to stab. The entire place smelled like urine and dead animals.

I stopped and listened for the sound of a crying baby. There was none. Nothing in here. Only one other room. I dived into the bedroom behind a policeman. The room was dark. I hit the light switch. Nothing happened. Flashlights sliced through the black like saber swords. My eyes scanned the room. When I saw it, I nearly cried out.

There was a playpen.

It was one of those modern Pack ’N Plays with the mesh sides that fold up for easy transport. Monica and I have one. I don’t know anyone with a baby who doesn’t. The product tag dangled off the side. It had to be new.

Tears came to my eyes. The flashlight cut past the Pack ’N Play, giving it a strobe-light effect. It appeared to be empty. My heart sank. I ran over anyway, in case the light had caused an optical illusion, in case Tara was nestled so sweetly that she—I don’t know—barely made a bump.

But there was only a blanket inside.

A soft voice—a voice from a whispery, inescapable nightmare—floated across the room: “Oh Christ.”

I swiveled my head toward the sound. The voice came again, weaker this time. “In here,” a policeman said. “In the closet.”

Tickner and Regan were already there. They both looked inside. Even in the dim glow, I saw their faces lose color.

My feet stumbled forward. I crossed the room, nearly falling, grabbing the closet doorknob at the last moment to regain my balance. I looked through the doorway and saw it. And then, as I looked down at the frayed fabric, I could actually feel my insides implode and crumble into ash.

There, lying on the floor, torn and discarded, was a pink one-piece outfit with black penguins.

eighteen months later

chapter 8

Lydia saw thewidow sitting alone at Starbucks.

The widow was on a stool seat, gazing absently at the gentle trickle of pedestrians. Her coffee was near the window, the steam forming a circle on the glass. Lydia watched her for a moment. The devastation was still there—the battle-scarred, thousand-yard stare, the posture of the defeated, the hair with no sheen, the shake in the hands.

Lydia ordered a grande skim latte with an extra shot of espresso. Thebarista , a too-skinny black-clad youth with a goatee, gave her the shot “on the house.” Men, even ones this young, did stuff like that for Lydia. She lowered her sunglasses and thanked him. He nearly wet himself.

Lydia moved toward the condiment table, knowing he was checking out her ass. Again she was used to it. She added a packet of Equal to her drink. The Starbucks was fairly empty—there were plenty of seats—but Lydia slid up on the stool immediately next to the widow. Sensing her, the widow startled out of her reverie.

“Wendy?” Lydia said.

Wendy Burnet, the widow, turned toward the soft voice.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Lydia said.

Lydia smiled at her. She had, she knew, a warm smile. She wore a tailored gray suit on her petite, tight frame. The skirt was slit fairly high. Business sexy. Her eyes had that shiny-wet thing going, her nose small and slightly upturned. Her hair was auburn ringlets, but she could—and often did—change that.

Wendy Burnet stared just long enough for Lydia to wonder if she’d been recognized. Lydia had seen that stare plenty of times before, that unsure I-know-you-from-somewhere expression, even though she had not been on TV since she turned thirteen. Some people would even comment, “Hey, you know who you look like?” but Lydia—she had been billed as Larissa Dane back then—would shrug it away.

But alas, this hesitation was not like that. Wendy Burnet was still shell-shocked from the horrible death of her beloved. It simply took her a while to register and assimilate unfamiliar data. She was probably wondering how to react, if she should pretend she knew Lydia or not.

After another few seconds, Wendy Burnet went for the noncommittal. “Thank you.”

“Poor Jimmy,” Lydia followed up. “Such an awful way to go.”

Wendy fumbled for the paper coffee cup and downed a healthy sip. Lydia checked out the little boxes on the side of the cup and saw that the Widow Wendy had ordered a grande latte too, though she’d chosen half decaf and soy milk. Lydia slid a little closer to her.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Wendy gave her a weak got-me smile. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. I don’t think we ever met.”

Wendy waited for Lydia to introduce herself. When she didn’t, Wendy said, “You knew my husband then?”

“Oh yes.”

“Are you in the insurance business too?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Wendy frowned. Lydia sipped her beverage. The awkwardness grew, at least for Wendy. Lydia was fine with it. When it became too much, Wendy rose to leave.

“Well,” she said, “it was nice meeting you.”

“I . . .” Lydia began, hesitating until she was sure that she had Wendy’s full attention, “I was the last person to see Jimmy alive.”

Wendy froze. Lydia took another sip and closed her eyes. “Nice and strong,” she said, gesturing toward the cup. “I love the coffee here, don’t you?”

“Did you say . . . ?”

“Please,” Lydia said with a small sweep of her arm. “Have a seat so I can explain properly.”

Wendy glanced over at thebaristas . They were busy gesticulating and whining about what they thought was the great world conspiracy that kept them from the most amazing of lives. Wendy slid back onto the stool. For a few moments, Lydia just stared at her. Wendy tried to hold her gaze.

“You see,” Lydia began, offering up a fresh, warm smile and tilting her to the side, “I’m the one who killed your husband.”

Wendy’s face went pale. “That isn’t funny.”

“True, yes, I’d have to agree with you on that, Wendy. But then again humor was not really my aim. Would you like to hear a joke instead? I’m on one of those joke e-mail lists. Most are duds, but every once in a while, they send a howler.”

Wendy sat stunned. “Who the hell are you?”

“Calm down a second, Wendy.”

“I want to know—”

“Shhh.” Lydia put her finger to Wendy’s lip with too much tenderness. “Let me explain, okay?”

Wendy’s lips trembled. Lydia kept her finger there for a few more seconds.

“You’re confused. I understand that. Let me clarify a few things for you. First off, yes, I’m the one who put the bullet in Jimmy’s head. But Heshy”—Lydia pointed out the window in the direction of an enormous man with a misshapen head—“he did the earlier damage. Personally, by the time I shot Jimmy, well, I think I might have been doing him in a favor.”

Wendy just stared.

“You want to know why, am I right? Of course, you do. But deep down inside, Wendy, I think you know. We’re women of the world, aren’t we? We know our men.”

Wendy said nothing.

“Wendy, do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No.”

“Sure you do, but I’ll say it anyway. Jimmy, your dearly departed husband, owed a great deal of money to some very unpleasant people. As of today, the amount is just under two hundred thousand dollars.” Lydia smiled. “Wendy, you’re not going to pretend you know nothing about your husband’s gambling woes, are you?”

Wendy had trouble forming the words in her mouth. “I don’t understand. . . .”

“I hope your confusion has nothing to do with my gender.”

“What?”

“That would be really narrow and sexist on your part, don’t you think? This is the twenty-first century. Women can be whatever they want.”

“You”—Wendy stopped, tried again—“you murdered my husband?”

“Do you watch much television, Wendy?”

“What?”

“Television. You see, on television, whenever someone like your husband owes money to someone like me, well, what happens?”

Lydia stopped as if she really expected her to answer. Wendy finally said, “I don’t know.”

“Sure you do, but again I’ll answer for you. The someone-like-me—okay, usually themale someone-like-me—is sent to threaten him. Then maybe my cohort Heshy out there would beat him up or break his legs, something like that. But they never kill the guy. That’s one of those TV-bad-guy rules. ‘You can’t collect from a dead man.’ You’ve heard that, haven’t you, Wendy?”

She waited. Wendy finally said, “I guess.”

“But, see, that’s wrong. Let’s take Jimmy, for example. Your husband had a disease. Gambling. Am I right? It cost you everything, didn’t it? The insurance business. That had been your father’s. Jimmy took it over for him. It’s gone now. Wiped out. The bank was ready to foreclose on your house. You and the kids barely had enough money for groceries. And still Jimmy didn’t stop.” Lydia shook her head. “Men. Am I right?”

There were tears in Wendy’s eyes. Her voice, when she was able to speak, was so weak. “So you killed him?”

Lydia looked up, shaking her head gently. “I’m really not explaining this well, am I?” She lowered her gaze and tried again. “Have you ever heard the expression that you can’t squeeze blood from a stone?”

Again Lydia waited for an answer. Wendy finally nodded. Lydia seemed pleased.

“Well, that’s the case here. With Jimmy, I mean. I could have Heshy out there work him over—Heshy is good at that—but what good would that do? Jimmy didn’t have the money. He would never be able to get his hands on that kind of cash.” Lydia sat a little straighter and put out her hands. “Now, Wendy, I want you to think like a businessman—check that, a businessperson. We don’t have to be raving feminists, but I think we should at least keep ourselves on equal footing.”

Lydia gave Wendy another smile. Wendy cringed.

“Okay, so what am I—as a wise businessperson—what am I supposed to do? I can’t let the debt go unpaid, of course. In my line of work, that’s professional suicide. Someone owes my employer money, they have to pay. No way around that. The problem here is, Jimmy doesn’t have a cent to his name but”—Lydia stopped and widened her smile—“but he does have a wife and three kids. And he used to be in the insurance business. Do you see where I’m going with this, Wendy?”

Wendy was afraid to breathe.

“Oh, I think you do, but again I’ll say it for you. Insurance. More specifically,life insurance. Jimmy had a policy. He didn’t admit it right away, but eventually, well, Heshy can be persuasive.” Wendy’s eyes drifted toward the window. Lydia saw the shiver and hid a smile. “Jimmy told us he had two policies, in fact, with a total payout of nearly a million dollars.”

“So you”—Wendy was struggling to comprehend—“you killed Jimmy for the insurance money?”

Lydia snapped her fingers. “You go, girlfriend.”

Wendy opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“And, Wendy? Let me make this crystal clear. Jimmy’s debts don’t die with him. We both know that. The bank still wants you to pay the mortgage, am I right? The credit-card companies don’t stop mounting the interest.” Lydia shrugged her small shoulders, palms to the sky. “Why should my employer be any different?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Your first insurance check should come in about a week. By that time, your husband’s debt will be two hundred eighty thousand dollars. I’ll expect a check for that amount on that day.”

“But the bills he left alone—”

“Shhh.” Again Lydia silenced her with a finger to her lips. Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “That doesn’t really concern me, Wendy. I have given you the rare opportunity to get out from under. Declare bankruptcy, if you must. You live in a ritzy area. Move out. Have Jack—that’s your eleven-year-old, correct?”

Wendy jolted at the sound of her son’s name.

“Well, no summer camp for Jack this year. Have him get a job after school. Whatever. None of that concerns me. You, Wendy, will pay what you owe, and that will be the end of this. You will never see or hear from me again. If you don’t pay, however, well, take a good look at Heshy over there.” She paused, letting Wendy do just that. It had the desired effect.

“We’ll kill little Jack first. Then, two days later, we’ll kill Lila. If you report this conversation to the police, we’ll kill Jack and Lila and Darlene. All three, in age order. And then, after you bury your children—please listen, Wendy, because this is key—I’ll still make you pay.”

Wendy couldn’t speak.

Lydia followed up a deep, caffeinated sip with an “Ahh” of satisfaction. “Dee-lightful,” she said, rising from her seat. “I really enjoyed our little girl chat, Wendy. We should get together again soon. Say, your house at noon on Friday the sixteenth?”

Wendy kept her head down.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to pay the debt,” Wendy said.

Lydia smiled at her. “Again, my sincerest condolences.”

Lydia headed outside and breathed in the fresh air. She looked behind her. Wendy Burnet had not moved. Lydia waved good-bye and met up with Heshy. He was nearly six six. She was five one. He weighed 275 pounds. She was 105. He had a head like a misshapen pumpkin. Her features seemed to have been made in the Orient out of porcelain.

“Problems?” Heshy asked.

“Please,” she said with a dismissive wave. “On to more profitable ventures. Did you find our man?”

“Yes.”

“And the package is already out?”

“Sure, Lydia.”

“Very good.” She frowned, felt a gnawing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I have a funny feeling, that’s all.”

“You want to back out?”

Lydia smiled at him. “Not on your life, Pooh Bear.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

She thought about it. “Let’s just see how Dr. Seidman reacts.”

chapter 9

“Don’t drink anymore apple juice,” Cheryl told her two-year-old, Conner.

I stood on the sidelines with my arms folded. It was a bit nippy, the frosty, damp chill of late New Jersey autumn, so I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my Yankee cap. I also had on a pair of Ray-Bans. Sunglasses and hood. I looked very much like the police sketch of the Unabomber.

We were at a soccer game for eight-year-old boys. Lenny was the head coach. He needed an assistant and recruited me because, I assume, I am the only one who knows even less about soccer than he does. Still our team was winning. I think the score was about eighty-three to two, but I am not certain.

“Why can’t I have more juice?” Conner asked.

“Because,” Cheryl answered with the patience of a mother, “apple juice gives you diarrhea.”

“It does?”

“Yes.”

To my right, Lenny drowned the kids in a steady stream of encouragement. “You’re the best, Ricky.” “Way to go, Petey.” “Nowthat’s what I call hustle, Davey.” He always added ay to the end of their names. And yes, it is annoying. Once, in a pitch of overexcitement, he called me Marky. Once.

“Uncle Marc?”

I feel a tug at my leg. I look down at Conner, who is twenty-six months old. “What’s up, pal?”

“Apple juice gives me a diarrhea.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“Uncle Marc?”

“Yeah?”

Conner gave me his gravest look. “Diarrhea,” he said, “is not my friend.”

I glanced at Cheryl. She smothered a smile, but I saw the concern there too. I looked back at Conner. “Words to live by, kid.”

Conner nodded, pleased by my response. I love him. He breaks my heart and brings me joy in equal measure and at exactly the same time. Twenty-six months old. Two months older than Tara. I watch his development with awe and a longing that could heat a furnace.

He turned back to his mother. Littered about Cheryl was the product of her mommy-as-pack-mule harvest. There were Minute Maid juice boxes and Nutri-Grain bars. There were Pampers Baby-Dry diapers (as opposed to Baby-Wet?) and Huggies wipes containing aloe vera for the discriminating buttock. There were angled baby bottles from Evenflo. There were cinnamon Teddy Grahams and well-scrubbed baby carrots and sectioned oranges and cut-up grapes (sliced the long way so as to make them chokeproof) and cubes of what I hoped was cheese, all hermetically sealed in their own Ziploc bags.

Lenny, the head coach, was yelling out key, game-winning strategy to our players. When we are on offense, he tells them to “Score!” When we are on defense, he advises them to “Stop him!” And then sometimes, like right now, he offers keen insight into the subtleties of the game:

“Kick the ball!”

Lenny glanced at me after he’d shouted that for the fourth time in a row. I gave him a thumbs-up and way-to-go nod. He wanted to give me the finger, but there were too many underage witnesses. I refolded my arms and squinted at the field. The kids were geared up like the pros. They wore cleats. Their socks were pulled up over their shin guards. Most wore that black grease under their eyes, even though there was nary a hint of sunshine. Two even had those breathing strip-bandages across their noses. I watched Kevin, my godson, try, per his father’s instructions, to kick the ball. And then it hit me like a body blow.

I staggered back.

That was how it always happened. I will be watching the game or I’ll be having dinner with friends or I’ll be working on a patient or listening to a song on the radio. I’ll be doing something normal, average, feeling pretty decent, and then, wham, I get blindsided.

My eyes welled up. That never used to happen to me before the murder and kidnapping. I am a doctor. I know how to play poised in both my professional and personal life. But now I wear sunglasses all the time like some self-important B movie star. Cheryl looked up at me and again I saw the concern. I straightened and forced a smile. Cheryl was becoming beautiful. That happened sometimes. Motherhood agreed with certain women. It gave their physical appearance a wonder and richness that borders on the celestial.

I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I don’t spend every day crying. I still live my life. I am bereaved, sure, but not all the time. I am not paralyzed. I work, though I haven’t yet had the courage to travel overseas. I keep thinking that I need to stay close by, in case there is a new development. That kind of thinking is, I know, not rational and perhaps even delusional. But I am still not ready.

What gets me—what gives me that surprise wham—is the way grief seems to relish in catching you unawares. Grief, when spotted, can be, if not handled, somewhat manipulated, finessed, concealed. But grief likes to hide behind bushes. It enjoys leaping out of nowhere, startling you, mocking you, stripping away your pretense of normalcy. Grief lulls you to sleep, thus making that blindside hit all the more jarring.

“Uncle Marc?”

It was Conner again. He talked pretty well for a kid his age. I wondered what Tara’s voice would have sounded like, and behind my sunglasses, my eyes closed. Sensing something, Cheryl reached out to pull him away. I shook her off. “What is it, pal?”

“What about poop?”

“What about it?”

He looked up and closed one eye in concentration. “Is poop my friend?”

Hell of a question. “I don’t know, pal. What do you think?”

Conner considered his own query so hard it appeared as if he might explode. Finally he replied, “It’s more my friend than diarrhea.”

I nodded sagely. Our team scored another goal. Lenny shot his fists into the air and shouted, “Yes!” He nearly cartwheeled out to congratulate Craig (or should I say Craigy), the goal scorer. The players followed him. There was much high-fiving. I didn’t join in. My job, I figured, was to be the quiet partner to Lenny’s histrionics, the Tonto to his Lone Ranger, the Abbott to his Costello, the Rowan to his Martin, the Captain to his Tennille. Balance.

I watched the parents on the sidelines. The mothers became clusters. They talked about their kids, about their child’s achievements and extracurricular activities, and no one listened much because other people’s children are boring. The fathers offered more variety. Some videotaped. Some yelled encouragement. Some rode their kids in a way that borders on the unhealthy. Some gabbed on cell phones and constantly fiddled with handheld electronics of one kind or another, experiencing a bit of the bends after spending all week immersed in their work.

Why did I go to the police?

I have been told countless times since that terrible day that I am not to blame for what happened. On one level, I realize that my actions may have changed nothing. In all likelihood, they had never intended to let Tara come home. She might even have been dead before the first ransom call. Her death may have been accidental. Maybe they just panicked or were strung out. Who knows? I certainly don’t.

And, ah, there’s the rub.

I cannot, of course, be certain that I am not responsible. Basic science: For every action, there is a reaction.

I do not dream about Tara—or if I do, the gods are generous enough to not let me remember. That is probably giving them too much credit. Let me rephrase. I may not dream about Tara specifically, but I do dream about the white van with the mix-and-match license plate and the stolen magnetic sign. In the dreams I hear a noise, muffled, but I’m pretty sure it is the sound of a baby crying. Tara, I know now, was in the van, but in my dream, I don’t go toward the sound. My legs are buried deep in that nightmare muck. I can’t move. When I finally wake up, I cannot help but ponder the obvious. Was Tara that close to me? And more important: Had I been a little braver, could I have saved her then and there?

The referee, a lanky high-school boy with a good-natured grin, blew the whistle and waved his hands over his head. Game over. Lenny shouted, “Woo, yeah!” The eight-year-olds stared at one another, confused. One asked a teammate, “Who won?” and the teammate shrugged. They lined up, Stanley Cup hockey style, for the postgame handshakes.

Cheryl stood up and put a hand on my back. “Great win, Coach.”

“Yeah, I carry this team,” I said.

She smiled. The boys started rambling back toward us. I congratulated them with my stoic nod. Craig’s mother had brought a fifty-pack of Dunkin’ Donuts Munchkins in a box with a Halloween design. Dave’s mom had boxes of something called Yoo-hoo, a perverse excuse for chocolate milk that tastes like chalk. I popped a Munchkin in my mouth and skipped the washdown. Cheryl asked, “What flavor was that?”

I shrugged. “They come in different flavors?” I watched the parents interact with their children and felt tremendously out of place. Lenny came toward me.

“Great win, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re the balls.”

He gestured for us to step away. I complied. When we were out of earshot, Lenny said, “Monica’s estate is almost wrapped up. It shouldn’t be too much longer now.”

I said, “Uh-huh,” because I didn’t really care.

“I also have your will drawn up. You need to sign it.”

Neither Monica nor I had made up a will. For years, Lenny had warned me about that. You need to put in writing who gets your money, he’d remind me, who is going to raise your daughter, who is going to care for your parents, yadda, yadda, yadda. But we didn’t listen. We were going to live forever. Last wills and testaments were for, well, the dead.

Lenny changed subjects on the fly. “You want to come back to the house for a game of foosball?”

Foosball, for those of you who lack a basic education, is that tabletop bar game with the soccer-type men skewered on sticks. “I’m already champion of the world,” I reminded him.

“That was yesterday.”

“Can’t a man revel in his title for little while? I’m not yet ready to let go of the feeling.”

“Understood.” Lenny headed back to his family. I watched his daughter, Marianne, corner him. She was gesturing like mad. Lenny slumped his shoulders, took out his wallet, peeled out a bill. Marianne took it, kissed him on the cheek, ran off. Lenny watched her disappear, shaking his head. There was a smile on his face. I turned away.

The worst part—or should I say the best part—was that I have hope.

Here was what we found that night at Grandpa’s cabin: my sister’s corpse, hairs belonging to Tara in the Pack ’N Play (DNA confirmed), and a pink one-piece with black penguins that matched Tara’s.

Here was what we did not find and, in fact, still have not found: the ransom money, the identity, if any, of Stacy’s accomplices—and Tara.

That’s right. We never found my daughter.

The forest is big and sprawling, I know. The grave would be small and easily hidden. There could be rocks over it. An animal might have found it and dragged the contents deeper into the thicket. The contents could be miles from my grandfather’s cabin. They could be somewhere else entirely.

Or—though I keep this thought to myself—maybe there is no grave at all.

So you see, the hope is there. Like grief, hope hides and pounces and taunts and never leaves. I am not sure which of the two is the crueler mistress.

The police and FBI theorize that my sister acted in conjunction with some very bad people. While no one is quite sure if their original intention was kidnapping or robbery, most everyone agrees that someone panicked. Maybe they thought that Monica and I would not be home. Maybe they thought that they would just have to contend with a baby-sitter. Whatever, they saw us, and acting in some drugged or crazed state, someone fired a shot. Then someone else fired a shot, ergo the ballistic tests showing Monica and I were shot by different .38’s. They then kidnapped the baby. Eventually they double-crossed Stacy and killed her with an overdose of heroin.

I keep saying “they” because the authorities also believe that Stacy had at least two accomplices. One would be the professional, the cool head who knew how to work the drop and weld the license plates and disappear without a trace. The other accomplice would be the “panicker,” if you will, the one who shot us and probably caused the death of Tara.

Some, of course, don’t buy that theory. Some believe that there was only one accomplice—the cool professional—and that the one who panicked was Stacy. She, this theory goes, was the one who fired the first bullet, probably at me since I don’t remember any shots, and then the professional killed Monica to cover the mistake. This theory is backed up by one of the few leads we had following that night in the cabin: a drug dealer who, in some bizarre plea bargain on another charge, told authorities that Stacy had purchased a gun from him, a .38, a week before the murder-kidnapping. This theory is further backed up by the fact that the only unexplained hairs and fingerprints found at the murder scene were Stacy’s. While the cool pro would know to wear gloves and be careful, a drugged-out accomplice would probably not.

Still others do not embrace that theory either, which is why certain members of the police department and FBI cling to and support a more obvious third scenario:

I was the mastermind.

The theory goes something like this: first caveat, the husband is always suspect number one. Second, my Smith & Wesson .38 is still missing. They press me on this question all the time. I wish I had an answer. Third, I never wanted a child. Tara’s birth forced me into a loveless marriage. They believe that they have evidence that I was considering divorce (something that yes, I did indeed contemplate) and so I planned the whole thing, top to bottom. I invited my sister over to my house and perhaps enlisted her help so that she would take the fall. I have the ransom money hidden away. I killed and buried my own daughter.

Awful, yes, but I am past anger. I am past exhaustion. I am not sure where I am anymore.

The main problem with their hypothesis is, of course, that it is hard to finesse my being left for dead. Did I kill Stacy? Did she shoot me? Or—drum roll here—is there a third possibility out there, a blending of the two different theories into one? Some believe that yes, I was behind it, but I had another accomplice besides Stacy. That accomplice killed Stacy, perhaps against my wishes, perhaps as part of my grand scheme to deflect my guilt and avenge my own shooting. Or something like that.

And round and round we go.

In sum, when you cut through it all, they—and I—have nothing. No ransom money. No idea who did it. No idea why. And most important: no small corpse.

That is where we are today—a year and a half after the abduction. The file is still technically open, but Regan and Tickner have moved on to new cases. I haven’t heard a word from either in nearly six months. The media gnawed on us for a few weeks, but with nothing new to feed on, they too, slithered toward juicier troughs.

The Dunkin’ Donuts Munchkins were gone. Everyone started heading to a parking lot overloaded with minivans. After the game we coaches take our budding athletes to Schrafft’s Ice Cream Parlor, a tradition in our town. Every coach in every other league in every other age group follows the same tradition. The place was packed. Nothing like an ice cream cone in the autumn frost to burrow the chill into the bone.

I stood with my Cookies-n-Cream cone and surveyed the scene. Children and fathers. It was getting to be too much for me. I checked my watch. Time for me to leave anyway. I met Lenny’s eye and motioned that I was going. He mouthed the wordsYour will at me. In case I didn’t get the drift, he even made a signing motion with his hand. I waved that I understood. I got back into my car and flipped on the radio.

For a long while, I sat there and watched the flow of families. I kept my eyes on the fathers mostly. I gauged their reactions to this most domestic of activities, hoping to see a flicker of doubt, something in the eyes that might comfort me. But I didn’t.

I’m not sure how long I stayed like that. Not more than ten minutes, I suppose. An old favorite by James Taylor came on the radio. It brought me back. I smiled, started up the car, and made my way toward the hospital.

An hour later, I was scrubbing up to perform surgery on an eight-year-old boy with—to use terminology familiar to both layman and professional—a facial smash. Zia Leroux, my medical partner, was there.

I’m not sure why I first chose to be a plastic surgeon. It was neither the siren song of easy dollars nor the ideal of helping my fellowman. I had wanted to be a surgeon pretty much from the get-go, but I saw myself more in the vascular or cardiac fields. Life’s turns come in funny ways though. During my second year of residency, the cardiac surgeon who ran our rotation was—what’s the phrase?—a total prick. On the other hand, the doctor in charge of the cosmetic surgery, Liam Reese, was incredible. Dr. Reese had that enviable have-it-all feel to him, that combination of good looks, calm confidence, and internal warmth that naturally drew people. You wanted to please him. You wanted to be like him.

Dr. Reese became my mentor. He showed how reconstructive surgery was creative, a Humpty-Dumpty process that forced you to find new ways to put back together what had been destroyed. The bones in the face and skull are the most complex stretch of skeletal landscape in the human body. We who repair them are artists. We are jazz musicians. If you talk to orthopedic or thoracic surgeons, they can be pretty specific about their procedures. Our work—reconstruction—is never exactly the same. We improvise. Dr. Reese taught me that. He appealed to my inner techno-weenie with talk of microsurgery and bone grafts and synthetic skin. I remember visiting him in Scarsdale. His wife was long legged and beautiful. His daughter was school valedictorian. His son was captain of the basketball team and the nicest kid I’ve ever met. At the age of forty-nine Dr. Reese was killed in a car crash on Route 684 heading to Connecticut. Somebody might find something poignant in that, but that person wouldn’t be me.

When I was finishing up residency, I landed a one-year fellowship to train in oral surgery overseas. I didn’t apply to be a do-gooder; I applied because it sounded pretty cool. This trip would be, I hoped, my version of backpacking through Europe. It was not. Things went wrong right away. We got caught up in a civil war in Sierra Leone. I handled wounds so horrible, so unfathomable, that it was hard to believe the human mind could conjure up the necessary cruelty to inflict them. But even in the midst of this destruction, I felt a strange exhilaration. I don’t try to figure out why. Like I said before, this stuff gets me jazzed. Maybe part of it was the satisfaction of helping people truly in need. Or maybe I was drawn to this work the same way some are drawn to extreme sports, who need the risk of death to feel whole.

When I came back, Zia and I set up One World, and we were on our way. I love what I do. Perhaps our work is like an extreme sport, but it also has a very—pardon the pun—human face. I like that. I love my patients and yet I love the calculating distance, the necessary coldness, of what I do. I care about my patients so much, but then they are gone—intense love mixed with fleeting commitment.

Today’s patient presented us with a rather complicated challenge. My patron saint—the patron saint of many in reconstructive surgery—is the French researcher René LeFort. LeFort tossed cadavers off a tavern roof onto their skulls to see the natural pattern of fracture lines in the face. I bet this impressed the ladies. Today we name certain fractures for him—more specifically, LeFort type I, LeFort type II, LeFort type III. Zia and I checked the films again. The Water view gave us the best look, but the Caldwell and lateral backed it up.

Simply put, the fracture line on this eight-year-old was a LeFort type III, causing a complete separation of the facial bones and the cranium. I could pretty much rip off the boy’s face like a mask if I wanted to.

“Car accident?” I asked.

Zia nodded. “Father was drunk.”

“Don’t tell me. He’s fine, right?”

“He even remembered to put on his own seat belt.”

“But not his son’s.”

“Too much trouble. What with him being tired from raising a glass so many times.”

Zia and I started our life’s journey in two very different places. Like the Stories’ classic seventies song “Brother Louie,” Zia is black as the night while I am whiter than white (my skin tone, as described by Zia: “underwater fish belly”). I was born at Beth Israel Hospital in Newark and grew up on the suburban streets of Kasselton, New Jersey. Zia was born in a mud hut in a village outside of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Sometime during the reign of Papa Doc, her parents became political prisoners. No one knows too many details. Her father was executed. Her mother, when released, was damaged goods. She grabbed her daughter and escaped on what might liberally be dubbed a raft. Three passengers died on the journey. Zia and her mother survived. They made their way to the Bronx where they took up residence in the basement of a beauty parlor. The two spent their days quietly sweeping hair. The hair, it seemed to Zia, was inescapable. It was on her clothes, clinging to her skin, in her throat, in her lungs. She lived forever with that feeling that a stray strand was in her mouth and she couldn’t quite pull it out. To this day, when Zia gets nervous, her fingers play with her tongue, as though trying to pluck out a memento of her past.

When the surgery was over, Zia and I collapsed onto a bench. Zia untied her surgical mask and let it fall to her chest.

“Piece of cake,” she said.

“Amen,” I agreed. “How did your date go last night?”

“It sucked,” she said. “And I don’t mean that literally.”

“Sorry.”

“Men are such scum.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“I’m getting so desperate,” she said, “I’m thinking of sleeping with you again.”

“Gasp,” I said. “Woman, have you no standards?”

Her smile was blinding, the bright white against the dark skin. She was a shade under six feet tall with smooth muscles and cheekbones so high and sharp you feared they might pierce her skin. “When are you going to start dating?” she asked.

“I date.”

“I mean, long enough to have a sexual encounter.”

“Not all women are easy as you, Zia.”

“Sad,” she said, giving my arm a playful punch.

Zia and I slept together once—and we both knew that it would never happen again. It was how we met. We hooked up during my first year of medical school. Yep, a one-night stand. I have had my fair share of one-night stands, but only two have been memorable. The first led to disaster. The second—this one—led to a relationship I will cherish forever.

It was eight o’clock at night by the time we got out of our scrubs. We took Zia’s car, a tiny thing called a BMW Mini, to the Stop & Shop on Northwood Avenue and picked up some groceries. Zia chatted without letup as we wheeled carts down the aisles. I liked when Zia talked. It gave me energy. At the deli counter Zia pulled a call number. She looked at the specials board and frowned.

“What?” I said.

“Boar’s Head ham on sale.”

“What about it?”

“Boar’s Head,” she repeated. “What marketing genius came up with that name? ‘Say, I have an idea. Let’s name our premium cold cuts after the most disgusting animal imaginable. No, check that. Let’s name it after its head.’ ”

“You always order it,” I said.

She thought about it. “Yeah, I guess.”

We moved to the checkout line. Zia put her stuff up front. I placed the divider down and unloaded my cart. A portly cashier began to ring up her items.

“You hungry?” she asked me.

I shrugged. “Guess I could go for a couple of slices at Garbo’s.”

“Let’s do it.” Zia’s eyes drifted over my shoulder and then jerked to a stop. She squinted and something crossed her face. “Marc?”

“Yeah.”

She waved it off. “Nah, can’t be.”

“What?”

Still staring over my shoulder, Zia gestured with her chin. I turned slowly and when I saw her, I felt it in my chest.

“I’ve only seen her in pictures,” Zia said, “but isn’t that . . . ?”

I managed a nod.

It was Rachel.

The world closed in around me. It shouldn’t feel this way. I knew that. We had broken up years ago. Now, after all this time, I should be smiling. I should feel something wistful, a passing nostalgia, a poignant remembrance of a time when I was young and naïve. But no, that was not what was going on here. Rachel stood ten yards away and it all flooded back. What I felt was a still-too-powerful yearning, a longing that tore through me, that made both the love and heartbreak feel fresh and alive.

“You okay?” Zia said.

Another nod.

Are you one of those who believe that we all have one true soul mate—one and only one preordained love? There, across three Stop & Shop checkout lanes and under a sign readingEXPRESS LANE —15ITEMS OR LESS , stood mine.

Zia said, “I thought she got married.”

“She did,” I said.

“No ring.” Then Zia punched my arm. “Oooh, this is exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Exhilaration city.”

Zia snapped her fingers. “Hey, you know what this is like? That crappy old album you used to play. The song about meeting the old lover in the grocery store. What’s the name of it?”

The first time I’d seen Rachel, when I was a lad of nineteen years, the effect was relatively gentle. There was no big boom. I’m not even sure that I found her overly attractive. But as I’d soon learn, I like a woman whose looks grow on you. You start off thinking, Okay, she’s pretty decent looking, and then, a few days later, maybe it’s something she says or the way she tilts her head when she says it, but then, wham, it’s like getting hit by a bus.

It felt like that again now. Rachel had changed but not by much. The years had made that sneaky beauty harden maybe, more brittle and angled. She was thinner. Her dark blue-black hair was pulled back and tied into a ponytail. Most men like the hair down. I’ve always liked it tied back, the openness and exposure of it, I guess, especially with Rachel’s cheekbones and neck. She wore jeans and a gray blouse. Her hazel eyes were down, her head bent in that pose of concentration I knew so well. She had not seen me yet.

“ ‘Same Old Lang Syne,’ ” Zia said.

“What?”

“The song about the lovers in the grocery store. By Dan Somebody. That’s the title. ‘Same Old Lang Syne.’ ” Then she added: “I think that’s the title.”

Rachel reached into her wallet and plucked out a twenty. She began to hand it to the cashier. Her gaze lifted—and that was when she saw me.

I can’t say exactly what crossed her face. She did not look surprised. Our eyes met, but I did not see joy there. Fear, perhaps. Maybe resignation. I don’t know. I also don’t know how long we both stood there like that.

“Maybe I should move away from you,” Zia whispered.

“Huh?”

“If she thinks you’re with a chick this hot, she’ll conclude that she has no chance.”

I think I smiled.

“Marc?”

“Yeah.”

“The way you’re standing like that. Gaping like a total whack job. It’s a little scary.”

“Thanks.”

I felt her hand push on my back. “Go over and say hello.”

My feet started moving, though I don’t remember the brain issuing any commands. Rachel let the cashier bag her groceries. She stepped toward me and tried to smile. Her smile had always been spectacular, the kind that makes you think of poetry and spring showers, a dazzler that can change your day. This smile, however, was not like that. It was tighter. It was pained. And I wondered if she was holding back or if she could no longer smile like she used to, if something had dimmed the wattage permanently.

We stopped a yard away from each other, neither sure if the proper protocol called for a hug, a kiss, a handshake. So we did none of the above. I stood there and felt the hurt everywhere.

“Hi,” I said.

“Good to see you still have all the smooth lines, ” Rachel replied.

I feigned a rakish grin. “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?”

“Better,” she said.

“Come here often?”

“Good. Now say, ‘Haven’t we met before?’ ”

“Nah.” I arched an eyebrow. “No way I’d forget meeting a foxy lady like you.”

We both laughed. We were both trying too hard. We both knew it.

“You look good,” I said.

“So do you.”

Brief silence.

“Okay,” I said, “I’m out of uncomfortable clichés and forced banter.”

“Whew,” Rachel said.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m buying food.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupted. “My mother moved into a condo development in West Orange.”

A few of the strands had escaped her ponytail and fell across her face. It took all my willpower to stop from pushing them away.

Rachel glanced away and then back at me. “I heard about your wife and daughter,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I wanted to call or write but . . .”

“I heard you got married,” I said.

She wiggled the fingers on her left hand. “Not anymore.”

“And that you were an agent with the FBI.”

Rachel put her hand back down. “Also not anymore.”

More silence. Again I don’t know how long we stood there. The cashier had moved on to the next shopper. Zia came up behind us. She cleared her throat and jammed her hand toward Rachel. “Hi, I’m Zia Leroux,” she said.

“Rachel Mills.”

“Good to meet you, Rachel. I’m Marc’s practice partner.” Then, thinking about it, she added: “We’re just friends.”

“Zia,” I said.

“Oh, right, sorry. Look, Rachel, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to run.” She jerked her thumb toward the exit to emphasize the point. “You two talk. Marc, I’ll meet you back here later. Great meeting you, Rachel.”

“Same here.”

Zia rushed off. I shrugged. “She’s a great doctor.”

“I bet she is.” Rachel took hold of her cart. “I have someone waiting in the car, Marc. It was good seeing you.”

“You too.” But surely, with all I’d lost, I must have learned something, right? I couldn’t just let her go. I cleared my throat and said, “Maybe we should get together.”

“I’m still living in Washington. I head back tomorrow.”

Silence. My insides turned to jelly. My breathing was shallow.

“Good-bye, Marc,” Rachel said. But those hazel eyes were wet.

“Don’t go yet.”

I tried to keep the pleading out of my voice, but I don’t think I was successful. Rachel looked at me, and she saw everything. “What do you want me to say here, Marc?”

“That you want to get together too.”

“That’s all?”

I shook my head. “You know that’s not all.”

“I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

“The girl you loved is dead and gone.”

“No,” I said. “She’s right in front of me.”

“You don’t know me anymore.”

“So let’s get reacquainted. I’m not in a rush.”

“Just like that?”

I tried to smile. “Yeah.”

“I live in Washington. You live in New Jersey.”

“So I’ll move,” I said.

But even before the impetuous words came out, even before Rachel made that face, I could recognize my own false bravado. I couldn’t just leave my parents or dump my business with Zia or—or abandon my ghosts. Somewhere between my lips and her ears the sentiment crashed and burned.

Rachel turned to leave then. She did not say good-bye again. I watched her push the cart toward the door. I saw it automatically swing open with an electric grunt. I saw Rachel, the love of my life, disappear again without so much as a backward glance. I stayed still. I did not follow her. I felt my heart tumble and shatter, but I did nothing to stop her.

Maybe I hadn’t learned anything, after all.

chapter 10

I drank.

I am not a big drinker—pot had been my elixir of choice during my younger days—but I found an old bottle of gin in a cabinet over the sink. There was tonic in the fridge. I have an automatic icemaker in the freezer. You do the math.

I still lived in the old Levinsky house. It is much too big for me, but I don’t have the heart to let it go. It feels like a portal now, a lifeline (albeit a fragile one) to my daughter. Yes, I know how that sounds, but selling it now would be like closing a door on her. I can’t do that.

Zia wanted to stay with me, but I begged off. She did not push it. I thought about the corny Dan Fogelberg (not Dan Somebody) song where the old lovers talk until their tongues get tired. I thought about Bogie questioning the gods who would allow Ingrid Bergman into his, of all possible, gin joints. Bogie drank after she left. It seemed to help him. Maybe it would help me too.

The fact that Rachel could still pack this kind of wallop annoyed the hell out of me. It was stupid and childish really. Rachel and I had first met during summer break between my sophomore and junior years of college. She was from Middlebury, Vermont, and supposedly a distant cousin of Lenny’s wife, Cheryl, though no one could ascertain the exact relationship. That summer—the summer of all summers—Rachel stayed with Cheryl’s family because Rachel’s folks were going through a nasty divorce. We were introduced, and like I said before, it took some time for the bus to smack into me. Maybe that’s what made it all the more potent when it did.

We began to date. We doubled a lot with Lenny and Cheryl. The four of us spent every weekend at Lenny’s summer house on the Jersey shore. It was indeed a glorious summer, the kind of summer everyone should experience at least once in a lifetime.

If this were a movie, we’d be cueing up the montage music. I went to Tufts University while Rachel was starting out at Boston College. First scene of the montage, well, they’d probably have us on a boat on the Charles, me paddling, Rachel holding a parasol, her smile tentative then mocking. She’d splash me and then I’d splash her and then the boat would tip. It never happened, but you get the point. Next maybe there would be a picnic scene on campus, a shot of us studying in the library, our bodies entwined on a couch, me staring mesmerized as Rachel reads from her textbook, her glasses on, absentmindedly tucking a hair behind her ear. The montage would probably close on two bodies tussling under a white satin sheet, even though no college student uses satin sheets. Still, I’m thinking cinematic here.

I was in love.

During one Christmas break, we visited Rachel’s grandmother, a card-carrying yenta from the old school, in a nursing home. The old woman took both our hands in hers and declared usbeshert which is a Yiddish word that means predestined or fated.

So what happened?

Our ending was not an uncommon one. We were young, I guess. During my senior year, Rachel decided that she wanted to spend a semester in Florence. I was twenty-two. I got pissed off and while she was away, I slept with another woman—a one-night stand with a featureless coed from Babson. It meant absolutely nothing. I understand that makes it no better, but maybe it should. I don’t know.

Anyway, someone at the party told someone else and eventually it got back to Rachel. She called me from Italy and broke it off, just like that, which I saw as something of an overreaction. Like I said, we were young. At first, I was too proud (read: too stupid) to beg and then, when I started soaking in the repercussions, I called and wrote letters and sent flowers. Rachel never responded. It was over. We were done.

I stood and stumbled to my desk. I fished out the key I had taped under the credenza and unlocked the bottom drawer. I lifted off the files and found my secret stash underneath. No, not drugs. The past. Rachel things. I found the familiar photo and pulled it into view. Lenny and Cheryl still have this picture in their den, which had, understandably enough, angered Monica to no end. It was a photograph of the four of us—Lenny, Cheryl, Rachel, and I—at a formal during my senior year. Rachel is wearing a spaghetti-strap black dress and the thought of the way it clung to her shoulders still takes my breath away.

A long time ago.

I’ve moved on, of course. Per my life plan, I went to medical school. I always knew that I wanted to be a doctor. Most doctors I know will tell you the same. It is rarely a decision you come to late.

And I dated too. I even had other one-night stands (remember Zia?), but—and this is going to sound pitiful—even after all these years, I never go through a day without thinking, at least fleetingly, about Rachel. Yes, I know that I’ve romanticized the romance, if you will, completely out of proportion. Had I not made that stupid blunder, I would probably not be living in some blissful alternative universe, still entwined on the couch with my beloved. As Lenny once pointed out in a moment of naked honesty, if my relationship with Rachel had been that great, it surely could have survived this most hackneyed of speed bumps.

Am I saying that I never loved my wife? No. At least, I think the answer is no. Monica was beautiful—right-away beautiful, nothing slow about the way her looks hit you—and passionate and surprising. She was also wealthy and glamorous. I tried not to compare—that is a terrible way to live your life—but I could not help but love Monica in my smaller, less bright, post-Rachel world. Given time, the same might have happened had I stayed with Rachel, but that’s using logic and in matters of the heart, logic need not apply.

Over the years, Cheryl grudgingly kept me informed on what Rachel was up to. Rachel, I’d learned, had gone into law enforcement and become a federal agent in Washington. I can’t say I was totally surprised. Three years ago, Cheryl told me that Rachel had gotten married to an older guy, a senior fed. Even after all this time—Rachel and I had been broken up eleven years by then—I felt my insides cave in. I realized with a heavy thud just how badly I’d messed up. I’d always assumed somehow that Rachel and I were biding our time, living in some sort of suspended animation, until we inevitably came to our senses and got back together. Now she had married someone else.

Cheryl saw my face and has never again spoken to me about Rachel.

I stared at the picture and heard the familiar SUV pull up. No surprise there. I did not bother walking to the door. Lenny had a key. He never knocked anyway. He’d know where I was. I put away the photograph as Lenny entered the room carrying two enormous, brightly clad paper cups.

Lenny held up the Slurpees from 7-Eleven. “Cherry or cola?”

“Cherry.”

He handed it to me. I waited.

“Zia called Cheryl,” he said in way of explanation.

I had figured that. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

Lenny hopped onto the couch. “Me neither.” He reached into his pocket and took out a thick sheaf of papers. “The will and the final stuff on Monica’s estate. Read it whenever.” He picked up the remote control and began to flip. “Don’t you have any porno?”

“No, sorry.”

Lenny shrugged and settled on a college basketball game on ESPN. We watched a few minutes in silence. I broke it.

“Why didn’t you tell me Rachel was divorced?”

Lenny grimaced in pain and raised his palm as if stopping traffic.

“What?” I said.

“Brain freeze.” He rode it out. “I always drink these things too fast.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

I looked at him.

“It’s not that simple, Marc.”

“What’s not?”

“Rachel has been through some tough times.”

“So have I,” I said.

Lenny watched the game a little too closely.

“What happened to her, Lenny?”

“It’s not my place.” He shook his head. “You haven’t even seen her in, what, fifteen years?”

Fourteen actually. “Something like that.”

His eyes scanned the room and rested on a photograph of Monica and Tara. He looked away and sipped his Slurpee. “Have to stop living in the past, my friend.”

We both settled back and pretended to watch the game. Stop living in the past, he’d said. I looked at the photograph of Tara and wondered if Lenny was talking about more than Rachel.

Edgar Portman picked up the leather dog leash. He jingled the end. Bruno, his champion bull mastiff, clattered toward the sound at full speed. Bruno had won a Best in Breed at the Westminster Dog Show six years ago. Many believed that he had what it took to earn Best in Show. Edgar chose instead to retire Bruno. A show dog is never home. Edgar wanted Bruno with him.

People disappointed Edgar. Dogs never.

Bruno stuck out his tongue and wagged his tail. Edgar clipped the leash onto the collar. They would go for an hour. Edgar looked down at his desk. There, on the shiny veneer, sat a cardboard package, identical to the one he had received eighteen months earlier. Bruno whimpered. Edgar wondered if it was a whimper of impatience or if he could sense his master’s dread. Maybe both.

Either way, Edgar needed air.

The package from eighteen months ago had undergone every possible forensic test. The police had learned nothing. Edgar was relatively certain, based on that past experience, that the incompetents in law enforcement would find nothing again. Eighteen months ago, Marc had not listened to him. That mistake, Edgar hoped, would not be repeated.

He started for the door. Bruno led the way. The air felt good. He stepped outside and sucked in a deep breath. It did not change his outlook, but it helped. Edgar and Bruno started down the familiar route, but something made Edgar veer to the right. The family plot. He saw it every day, so often that he no longer saw it, so to speak. He never visited the stones. But today, suddenly, he felt drawn. Bruno, surprised by the deviation in his routine, grudgingly followed.

Edgar stepped over the small fence. His leg throbbed. Old age. These walks were getting more difficult. He had begun using a walking stick a lot of the time—he had purchased one purportedly used by Dashiell Hammet during a TB stint—but for some reason, Edgar never took it with him when he was with Bruno. It felt wrong somehow.

Bruno hesitated and then leapt the fence. They both stood in front of the two most recent headstones. Edgar tried not to ponder about life and death, about wealth and its relativity to happiness. That sort of lint picking was best left to others. He realized now that he had probably not been a very good father. He had learned, however, from his father, who learned from his. And in the end, perhaps his aloofness had saved him. Had he loved his children fully, had he been deeply involved in their lives, he doubted that he could have survived their deaths.

The dog began to whimper again. Edgar looked down at his companion, deep into his eyes. “Time to go, boy,” he said softly. The front door of the house opened. Edgar turned and spotted his brother Carson, rushing toward him. Edgar saw the look on his brother’s face.

“My God,” Carson called out.

“I assume you saw the package.”

“Yes, of course. Did you call Marc?”

“No.”

“Good,” Carson said. “It’s a hoax. It has to be.”

Edgar did not reply.

“You don’t agree?” Carson said.

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t possibly think that she’s still alive.”

Edgar gave the leash a gentle tug. “Best to wait for the tests to come back,” he said. “Then we’ll know for certain.”

I like to work night hours. I always have. I am lucky in my career choice. I love my job. It is never a chore or drudgery or something I do simply to put food on the table. I disappear into my work. Like a troubled athlete, I forget everything when I’m playing my game. I enter the zone. I am at my best.

This night, however—three nights after seeing Rachel—I was off duty. I sat alone in my den and flipped stations. I, like most males of our species, hit the remote too frequently. I can watch several hours of nothing. Last year, Lenny and Cheryl got me a DVD player, explaining to me that my VCR was heading the way of the eight-track. I checked the clock on it now. A few minutes after nine. I could pop in a DVD and still get to bed by eleven.

I had just removed the rental DVD from its box and was about to stick it into the machine—they do not have a remote that does that yet—when I heard a dog bark. I rose. A new family had moved in two houses down. They had four or five young kids, something like that. Hard to say when a family has that many. They seem to blur into one another. I had not introduced myself yet, but I had seen in their yard an Irish wolfhound, who was approximately the size of a Ford Explorer. The bark, I believed, was his.

I pushed the curtain aside. I looked out the window, and for some reason—a reason I cannot properly articulate—I was not surprised by what I saw.

The woman stood in the exact same spot where I had seen her eighteen months earlier. The long coat, the long hair, the hands in the pockets—all the same.

I was afraid to let her out of my sight, but then again, I did not want her to see me. I dropped to my knees and slid to the side of the window, super-sleuth-style. With my back and cheek pressed against the wall, I considered my options.

First off, I was now not watching her. That meant she could leave and I wouldn’t notice. Hmm, not good. I had to risk a look. That was the first thing.

I turned my head and sneaked a peek. Still there. The woman was still out front, but she had moved a few steps closer to my front door. I had no idea what that meant exactly. So now what? How about going to the door and confronting her? That seemed a pretty good move. If she ran, well, I guess that I would pursue.

I risked another glimpse, just a quick head turn, and when I did, I realized that the woman was staring directly at my window. I fell back. Damn. She’d seen me. No way around it. My hands grabbed the bottom of the window, readying to open it, but she had already started hurrying up the block.

Oh no, not this time.

I was wearing surgical scrubs—every doctor I know has a few pairs for lounge-wear use—and I was barefoot. I sprinted to the door and threw it open. The woman was almost to the top of the block. When she saw me at the door, she stopped the hurry-walk and broke into an all-out run.

I gave chase. To hell with my feet. Part of me felt ridiculous. I am not the fastest fellow on two legs. I am probably not even the fastest on one leg—and here I was running down a strange woman because she was standing in front of my house. I don’t know what I hoped to find here. The woman was probably taking a walk, and I had spooked her. She would probably call the police. I could see their reaction. Bad enough I killed my own family and got away with it. Now I was chasing strange women around my neighborhood.

I did not stop.

The woman turned right onto Phelps Road. She had a big lead. I pumped my arms and willed my legs to pick up the pace. The pebbles on the sidewalk dug into the soles of my feet. I tried to stay on grass. She was out of view now, and I was out of shape. I had gone maybe a hundred yards and I could already hear the wheeze in my breath. My nose started running.

I reached the end of my street and made the right.

But there was no one.

The road was long and straight and well enough lit. In other words, she should still be visible. For some dumb reason I looked the other way too, behind me. But the woman was not there either. I ran the route she’d taken. I looked down Morningside Drive, but there was no sign of her.

The woman was gone.

But how?

She could not have been that fast. Carl Lewis was not that fast. I stopped, put my hands on my knees, sucked in some very necessary oxygen. Think. Okay, could she live in one of these houses? Perhaps. And if she did, so what? That meant that she was taking a walk in her own neighborhood. She had seen something that had struck her as curious. She stopped to take a look.

Like she did eighteen months ago?

Okay, first off, we don’t know if it was the same woman.

So two women stopped in front of your house in the exact same spot and stood like statues?

It was possible. Or maybe it was the same woman. Maybe she liked looking at houses. Maybe she was into architecture or something.

Oh yes, the ever-desirable architecture of the seventies suburban split-level. And if her visit was totally innocent, why did she run away?

I don’t know, Marc, but maybe—and this is just a stab in the dark—maybe because some lunatic chased her?

I shook the voice away and started running again, looking for I-don’t-know-what. But when I passed the Zuckers’ house, I came to a halt.

Was that possible?

The woman had simply disappeared. I had checked both exit roads. She was not on either one of them. So that meant, A, she lived in one of the houses, B, she was hiding.

Or C, she had taken the Zucker path in the woods.

When I was a kid, we sometimes used to cut through the Zuckers’ backyard. There was a path to the middle-school fields. It was not easy to find, and Old Lady Zucker really didn’t like us going through her lawn. She would never say anything, but she would stand by the window, her beehive hair glazed like a Krispy Kreme, and glare us down. After a while, we stopped using the path and took the long way.

I looked left and right. No sign of her.

Could the woman know about the path?

I sprinted into the blackness of the Zuckers’ backyard. I half expected Old Lady Zucker to be at her kitchen window, glaring at me, but she had moved out to Scottsdale years ago. I don’t know who lived here anymore. I didn’t even know if the path was still there.

It was black-hole dark in the yard. No lights were on in the house. I tried to remember where exactly the path was. Actually, that took no time. You remember stuff like that. It’s automatic. I ran toward it and something whacked me in the head. I felt the thud and fell on my back.

My head swam. I looked up. In the faint moonlight, I could see a swing set. One of those fancy wooden ones. It hadn’t been there in my childhood, and in the dark, I hadn’t seen it. I felt woozy, but time was key here. I leapt to my feet with too much bravado, reeling back.

The path was still there.

I headed along it as fast as I could. Branches whipped my face. I did not care. I stumbled on a root. I did not care. The Zucker path was not long, maybe forty, fifty feet. It opened into a big clearing of soccer fields and baseball diamonds. I was still making good enough time. If she had taken this route, I would be able to spot her in the recreational expanse.

I could see the smoky haze from the fluorescent lights drifting down from the field’s parking lots. I burst out into the opening and quickly scanned my surroundings. I saw several sets of soccer posts and one chain-link backstop.

But no woman.

Damn.

I had lost her. Again. My heart fell. I don’t know. I mean, when you thought about it, what was the point? This whole thing was stupid, really. I looked down at my feet. They hurt like hell. I felt a trickle of what was probably blood on my right sole. I felt like an idiot. A defeated idiot, at that. I started to turn away. . . .

Hold the phone.

In the distance, under the lights of the parking lot, there was a car. One solitary car, all by its lonesome. I nodded to myself and followed my thoughts. Let’s say that the car belonged to the woman. Why not? If it doesn’t, well, nothing lost, nothing gained. But if it did, if she had parked here, it made sense. She parks, she goes through the woods, she stands in front of my house. Why she would do any of this, I had no idea. But for right now, I decided to go with it.

Okay, if that was the case—if that was her car—then I could conclude that she had not yet departed. No flies on me. So what had happened here? She’s spotted, she runs, she starts heading down the path. . . .

. . . and she realizes that I might follow.

I almost snapped my fingers. The mystery woman would know that I had grown up in this neighborhood and thus might remember the path. And if I did, if I somehow put together (as I had) that she would use the path, then I would spot her in the opening. So what would she do?

I thought about it and the answer came pretty quickly.

She would hide in the woods along the path.

The mystery woman was probably watching me at this very moment.

Yes, I know that this argument barely reached the level of flimsy conjecture. But it felt right. Very right. So what to do? I gave a heavy sigh and said out loud, “Damn.” I slumped my shoulders as though deflated, trying hard not to oversell this, and started trudging back through the path to the Zucker place. I lowered my head, my eyes swerving left and right. I walked delicately, my ears alert, straining to hear a rustle of some sort.

The night remained silent.

I reached the end of the path and kept walking as if I were heading home. When I was deep in the thicket of darkness, I dropped to the ground. I commando-crawled back under the swing set toward the path’s opening. I stopped and waited.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. Probably not more than two or three minutes. I was about to give up when I heard the noise. I was still on my stomach, my head raised. The silhouette rose and started down the path.

I scrambled to my feet, trying to stay quiet, but that was a major no-go. The woman spun toward the sound, spotting me.

“Wait,” I shouted. “I just want to talk to you.”

But she had already darted back into the woods. Off the path, the woods were thick and yep, it was plenty dark. I could lose her easily. I was not about to risk that. Not again. Maybe I couldn’tsee her, but I could stillhear her.

I jumped into the thicket and almost immediately hit a tree. I saw stars. Man, that had been a dumb move. I stopped now and listened.

Silence.

She had stopped. She was hiding again. So now what?

She had to be nearby. I considered my options and then thought, Ah, the hell with it. Remembering where I had last heard a noise, I leapt at the spot, spread-eagle, my hands and legs stretched to the max so that my body would cover as much territory as possible. I landed on a shrub.

But my left hand touched something else.

She tried to crawl away, but my fingers closed tight around her ankle. She kicked at me with her free leg. I held on like a dog digging his teeth in.

“Let go of me!” she shouted.

I did not recognize the voice. I did not let go of her ankle.

“What the—let go of me!”

No. I got some leverage and pulled her toward me. It was still too dark, but my eyes were beginning to adjust. I gave another tug. She rolled onto her back. We were close enough now. I was finally able to see her face.

It took a few moments to register. The memory was an old one, for one thing. The face, or what I could see of it, had changed. She looked different. What gave it away, what helped me recognize her, was the way her hair had fallen in front of her face during our tussle. That was almost more familiar than the features—the vulnerability of the pose, the way she now avoided eye contact. And of course, living in that house, that house I had always so closely associated with her, had kept her image in the forefront of my memory banks.

The woman pushed her hair to the side and looked up at me. I fell back to school days, the brick building barely two hundred yards from where we now lay. Now maybe it made some sort of sense. The mystery woman had been standing in front of the house where she used to live.

The mystery woman was Dina Levinsky.

chapter 11

We sat atthe kitchen table. I made tea, a Tazo blend of Chinese green I’d bought at Starbucks. It was supposed to soothe. We’d see. I handed Dina a cup.

“Thank you, Marc.”

I nodded and sat across from her. I had known Dina my whole life. I knew her in the way only a kid can know another kid, the way only elementary-school classmates know each other, even—bear with me here—even though I don’t think we ever really spoke to one another.

We all have a Dina Levinsky in our past. She was the class victim, the girl so much an outcast, so often teased and abused, you wonder how she stayed sane. I never picked on her, but I stood on the sidelines plenty of times. Even if I didn’t reside in her childhood home, Dina Levinsky would still live in me. She lives in you too. Quick: Who was the most picked-on kid in your elementary school? Right, exactly, you remember. You remember their first and last name and what they looked like. You remember watching them walk home alone or sitting in the cafeteria in silence. Whatever, you remember. Dina Levinsky stays with you.

“I hear you’re a doctor now,” Dina said to me.

“Yes. And you?”

“A graphic designer and artist. I have a show in the Village next month.”

“Paintings?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“You were always a good artist,” I said.

She cocked her head, surprised. “You noticed?”

There was a brief pause. Then I found myself saying, “I should have done something.”

Dina smiled. “No, I should have.”

She looked good. No, she had not grown into a beauty like those ugly-duckling-swans you see in the movies. First off, Dina had never been ugly. She had been plain. Maybe she still was. Her features were still too narrow, but they worked better on an adult face. Her hair, so drippy in her youth, had body now.

“Do you remember Cindy McGovern?” she asked me.

“Sure.”

“She tortured me more than anyone.”

“I remember.”

“Well, this is funny. I had an exhibit a few years back at a gallery in midtown—and Cindy shows up. She comes up to me and gives me a big hug and kiss. She wants to talk about old times, you know, like ‘Remember how dorky Mr. Lewis was?’ She’s all smiles and I swear, Marc, she didn’t remember what she’d been like. She wasn’t pretending either. She just totally blocked out how she’d treated me. I find that sometimes.”

“Find what?”

Dina raised the cup with two hands. “No one remembers being the bully.” She hunched over, her eyes darted about the room. I wondered about my own remembrance. Had I just been on the sidelines—or was that, too, some sort of revisionist history?

“This is so messed up,” Dina said.

“Being back in this house?”

“Yeah.” She put down the cup. “I guess you want an explanation.”

I waited.

Her eyes started darting again. “You want to hear something bizarre?”

“Sure.”

“This is where I used to sit. I mean, when I was a kid. We had a rectangular table too. I always sat in the same spot. When I came in here now, I don’t know, I just naturally gravitated to this chair. I guess—I guess that’s part of the reason why I was here tonight.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“This house,” she said. “It still has a pull on me. A hold.” She leaned forward. Her eyes met mine for the first time. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? About my father and what happened here.”

“Yes.”

“They’re true,” she said.

I forced myself not to wince. I had no idea what to say. I thought about the hell of school. I tried to add on to that the hell of this house. It was unfathomable.

“He’s dead now. My father, I mean. He died six years ago.”

I blinked and looked away.

“I’m okay, Marc. Really. I was in therapy—well, I mean, I still am. Do you know Dr. Radio?”

“No.”

“That’s his real name. Stanley Radio. He’s pretty famous for the Radio Technique. I’ve been with him for years. I’m much better. I’m over the self-destructive tendencies. I’m past feeling worthless. It’s funny though. I got over it. No, I mean it. Most victims of abuse have commitment and sex issues. I never did. I’m able to be intimate, no problem. I’m married now. My husband is a great guy. It’s not happily-ever-after, but it’s pretty damn good.”

“I’m glad,” I said, because I had no idea what else to say.

She smiled again. “Are you superstitious, Marc?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Except, I don’t know, when I read about your wife and daughter, I started to wonder. About this house. Bad karma and all that. Your wife was so lovely.”

“You knew Monica?”

“We’d met.”

“When?”

Dina did not reply right away. “Are you familiar with the termtrigger ?”

I remembered it from my medical school rotations. “You mean, in terms of psychiatry?”

“Yes. You see, when I read about what happened here, it was a trigger. Like with an alcoholic or anorexic. You’re never fully cured. Something happens—a trigger—and you fall back into bad patterns. I started biting my nails. I started doing physical harm to myself. It was like—it was like I had to face down this house. I had to confront the past in order to defeat it.”

“And that’s what you were doing tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And when I spotted you eighteen months ago?”

“Same thing.”

I sat back. “How often do you stop by?”

“Once every couple of months, I guess. I park at the school lot and come through the Zucker path. But there’s more to it than that.”

“More to what?”

“My visits. See, this house still holds my secrets. I mean that literally.”

“I’m not following.”

“I keep trying to work up the courage to knock on the door again, but I can’t do it. And now I’m inside, in this kitchen, and I’m okay.” She tried to smile, as if to prove the point. “But I still don’t know if I can do it.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“I’m babbling.” Dina started scratching the back of her hand, hard and fast, digging her nails in and nearly breaking skin. I wanted to reach out to her, but it felt too forced. “I wrote it all down. In a journal. What happened to me. It’s still here.”

“In the house?”

She nodded. “I hid it.”

“The police went through here after the murder. They searched this place pretty good.”

“They didn’t find it,” she said. “I’m sure of it. And even if they did, it’s just an old journal. There’d be no reason for them to disturb it. Part of me wants it to stay put. It’s over and done with it, you know what I mean? Let sleeping dogs lie. But another part wants to let it out into the light. Like it’s a vampire and the sunshine will kill it.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

“In the basement. You have to stand on the dryer to get to it. It’s behind one of the ducts in the crawl space.” She glanced at the clock. She looked at me and hugged herself. “It’s getting late.”

“Are you okay?”

The eyes were darting again. Her breathing was suddenly uneven. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay here.”

“Do you want to look for your journal?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to get it for you?”

She shook her head hard. “No.” She stood, gulping air now. “I better go now.”

“You can always come back, Dina. Anytime you want.”

But she wasn’t listening. She was in full panic mode and heading for the door.

“Dina?”

She suddenly spun toward me. “Did you love her?”

“What?”

“Monica. Did you love her? Or was there someone else?”

“What are you talking about?”

Her face drained of color. She stared at me now, backing away, petrified. “You know who shot you, don’t you, Marc?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. By the time I found my voice, Dina had turned away.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Wait.”

She flung the door open and ran out. I stood by the window and watched her scurry back up toward Phelps Road. This time, I chose not to follow.

Instead, I turned and with her words—“You know who shot you, don’t you, Marc?”—still reverberating in my ears, I sprinted to the basement door.

All right, let me explain something here. I was not going down into the dingy, unfinished subdwelling to invade Dina’s privacy. I did not pretend to know what was best for her, what might salve her horrendous pain. Many of my psychiatry colleagues would disagree, but sometimes I wonder if the past is better left buried. I don’t have the answer, of course, and as my psychiatry colleagues would remind me, I don’t ask them for their take on the best way to handle a cleft palate. So in the end, all I know for certain is that it is not my place to decide for Dina.

And I was not going in the basement out of curiosity about her past either. I had no interest in reading the details of Dina’s torment. In fact, I actively did not want to know them. To speak selfishly, I was creeped out plenty just knowing such horrors had occurred in the place I call home. It was already enough in my face, thank you very much. I needed to hear or read no more.

So what exactly was I after?

I hit the light switch. A bare bulb came on. I was putting the pieces together even as I started to descend. Dina had said several curious things. Putting aside the most dramatic for a moment, I was starting to pick up on the more subtle ones. It was a night of spontaneous behavior on my part. I decided to let the trend continue.

First off, I remembered how Dina, when she was still the mystery woman on the sidewalk, had taken a step toward the door. I know now, as Dina herself had told me, that she’d been “trying to work up the courage to knock on the door again.”

Again.

Knock on the dooragain .

The obvious implication was that Dina had, on at least one other occasion, worked up the courage to knock on my door.

Second, Dina had told me that she had “met” Monica. I could not imagine how. Yes, Monica, too, had grown up in this town, but from all I knew of her, she might as well have grown up in a different, more opulent era. The Portman estate was on the opposite end of our rather sprawling suburb. Monica had started boarding school at a young age. No one in town knew her. I remember seeing her once at the Colony movie theater over the summer of my sophomore year in high school. I had stared. She had studiously ignored me. Monica had that whole remote-beauty thing down pat by then. When I met her years later—she actually coming on to me—the flattery turned my head. Monica had seemed so fabulous at a distance.

So how, I wondered now, had my wealthy, remote, beautiful wife met poor, drab Dina Levinsky? The most likely answer, when you consider the “again” comment, was that Dina had knocked on the door and Monica had answered. They met then. They probably talked. Dina probably told Monica about the hidden journal.

“You know who shot you, don’t you, Marc?”

No, Dina. But I plan on finding out.

I had reached the cement floor. Boxes that I would never throw away and never open were piled everywhere. I noticed, perhaps for the first time, that there were paint splatters on the floor. A large variety of hues. They’d probably been here since Dina’s time, a reminder of her sole escape.

The washer and dryer were in the corner on the left. I moved slowly toward them in the shadowy light. I tiptoed, actually, as though I were afraid of waking Dina’s sleeping dogs. Stupid really. As I said before, I am not superstitious and even if I were, even if I believed in evil spirits and the like, there was no reason to fear angering them. My wife was dead and my daughter was missing—what else could they do to me? In fact, I should disturb them, make them act, hope they let me know what really happened to my family, to Tara.

There it was again. Tara. Everything circled back to her eventually. I don’t know how she fitted into all this. I don’t know how her kidnapping was connected to Dina Levinsky. It probably wasn’t. But I was not turning back.

You see, Monica never mentioned meeting Dina Levinsky.

I found that odd. True, I am building this ridiculous theory on pure foam. But if Dina had indeed knocked on the door, if Monica had indeed opened it, you would think that my wife would have mentioned it to me at some point. She knew that Dina Levinsky had gone to school with me. Why keep her visit—or the fact that they had met—a secret?

I hopped up on the dryer. I had to both crouch and look above me. Dust city. Spider webs were everywhere. I saw the duct and reached up. I felt around. It was difficult. There was a web of pipes, and my arm was having trouble fitting between them. It would have been much easier for a young girl with thin arms.

Eventually I worked my hand through the copper. I slid my fingertips to the right and pushed up. Nothing. My hand crawled a few more inches over and pushed again. Something gave way.

I pulled up my sleeve and twisted my arm in another inch or two. Two pipes pressed against my skin, but they gave enough. I was able to reach into the crawl space. I felt around, found something, pulled it into view.

The journal.

It was a classic school notebook with the familiar black marble cover. I opened and paged through it. The handwriting was minuscule. It reminded me of that guy in the mall who writes names on a grain of rice. Dina’s immaculate penmanship—belying, no doubt, the content—started at the very top of the sheet and ran all the way to the bottom. There were no left or right margins. Dina had used both sides of every sheet.

I did not read it. Again that was not what I had come down for. I reached back up and put the journal back in its place. I don’t know how this would set me with the gods—if just touching it would unleash a King Tut–like curse—but again I didn’t care very much either.

I felt around again. I knew. I don’t know how, but I just knew. Eventually my hand hit something else. My heart thumped. It felt smooth. Leather. I pulled it into view. Some dust followed. I blinked the particles out of my eyes.

It was Monica’s DayRunner.

I remembered when she bought it at some chic boutique in New York. Something to organize her life, she’d told me. It’d had the customary calendar and datebook. When had we bought it? I wasn’t sure. Maybe eight, nine months before she died. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen it. Nothing came to me.

I jammed the leather planner between my knees and put the ceiling panel back in place. I grabbed the datebook and climbed down from the dryer. I considered waiting until I got upstairs into better light, but, uh-uh, no way. The datebook had a zipper. Despite the dust it opened smoothly.

A CD fell out and landed on the floor.

It glittered in the low light like a jewel. I picked it up by the edges. There was no label on it. Memorex had manufactured it. “CD-R,” it said, “80 Minutes.”

What the hell is this?

One way to find out. I hurried upstairs and booted up my computer.

chapter 12

When I putthe disk into the CD drive, the following screen appeared:

Password: _ _ _ _ _ _

MVD

Newark, NJ

Six-digit password. I typed in her birthday. No go. I tried Tara’s birthday. No go. I put in our anniversary and then my birthday. I tried the code for our ATM. Nothing worked.

I sat back. So now what?

I debated calling Detective Regan. By now it was closing in on midnight, and even if I could reach him, what exactly would I say? “Hi, I found a CD hidden in my basement, rush over”? No. Hysterics would not work here. Better to show calm, to feign rationality. Patience was key. Think it through. I could call Regan in the morning. Nothing he could or would do tonight anyway. Sleep on it.

Fine, but I was not about to give up quite yet. I logged on to the Internet and brought up a search engine. I typed in MVD in Newark. A listing popped up.

“MVD—Most Valuable Detection.”

Detection?

There was a link to a Web site. I clicked it, and the MVD Web site came up. My eyes did a quick scan. MVD was a “group of professional private investigators” who “provided confidential services.” They offered online background checks for less than a hundred dollars. Their ads exclaimed, “Find out if that new boyfriend has a criminal record!” and “Where is your old sweetheart? Maybe she’s still pining for you!” Stuff like that. They also did more “intense, discreet investigations” for those who required such things. They were, per the top banner, a “full-service investigative entity.”

So, I asked myself, what had Monica needed investigated?

I picked up the phone and dialed MVD’s 800 number. A machine picked up—no surprise considering the hour—and told me how much they appreciated my call and that their office opened at nine in the morning. Okay. I’d call back then.

I hung up the phone and pressed the e: drive’s eject button. The CD slid into view. I lifted up by the edges and checked for, I don’t know, clues, I guess. Nothing new. Time to think here. It seemed pretty clear that Monica had hired MVD to investigate something and that this CD contained whatever it was she wanted investigated. Not exactly a brilliant deduction on my part, but it was a start.

Let’s go back then. Fact is, I had no idea what Monica wanted investigated or why or any of that. But if I was right, if this CD did indeed belong to Monica, if she had hired a private investigator for whatever reason, it would naturally follow that she would have had to pay MVD for said services.

I nodded. Okay, a better start.

But—and here is where confusion immediately set in—the police had thoroughly combed through our bank accounts and financial records. They had scrutinized every transaction, every Visa purchase, every written check, every ATM withdrawal. Had they seen one to MVD? If so, they decided not to tell me. Of course, I had not been a potted plant here. My daughter was gone. I, too, had examined those financial statements. There was nothing to any detective agency nor were there any cash withdrawals out of the ordinary.

So what did that mean?

Maybe this CD was old.

That was a possibility. I don’t think any of us checked transactions going back more than six months before the attack. Maybe her relationship with Most Valuable Detection predated that. I could probably check through the old statements.

But I wasn’t buying it.

This CD was not old. I was fairly certain of that. And it didn’t matter much anyway. Time frame, when I thought about it, was irrelevant. Recent or otherwise, the key questions remained: Why would Monica hire a private investigator? What was password protected on that damn CD? Why had she hidden it in that creepy space in the basement? What, if anything, did Dina Levinsky have to do with any of this? And most important, did it have anything to do with the attack—or was this all a big exercise in wishful thinking on my part?

I looked out the window. The street was clear and silent. Suburbia sleeps. No more answers would come tonight. In the morning, I would take my father for our weekly walk and then I would call MVD and maybe even Regan.

I climbed into bed and waited for sleep.

The phone next to Edgar Portman’s bed rang at four-thirty in the morning. Edgar jerked awake, pulled out in middream, and fumbled with the phone.

“What?” he barked.

“You said to call as soon as I knew.”

Edgar rubbed his face. “You have the results.”

“I do.”

“And?”

“It’s a match.”

Edgar closed his eyes. “How certain are you?”

“It’s preliminary. If I were taking it to court, I’d need a few more weeks to line up all the arrows. But that would just be following proper protocol.”

Edgar could not stop shaking. He thanked the man, put the phone back in its cradle, and began to prepare.

chapter 13

At six thenext morning, I left my house and walked down the block. Using a key I’ve had since college, I unlocked the door and slipped into my childhood home.

The years had not been a friend to this dwelling, but then again, it hadn’t been featured inHouse and Garden (except maybe as one of their “before” photos) to begin with. We’d replaced the shag carpet four years ago—the blue-white speck had been so faded and threadbare, it practically replaced itself—and went with close-cropped office-gray so that my father’s wheelchair could move with ease. Other than that, nothing had been changed. The overvarnished side tables still held Lladró porcelain knickknacks from a long-ago trip to Spain. Holiday Inn–like oils of violins and fruit—none of us are the least bit musical or, uh, fruity—still adorned the white-painted wood paneling.

There were photos on the fireplace mantel. I always stopped and looked at the ones of my sister, Stacy. I don’t know what I was looking for. Or maybe I do. I was searching for clues, for foreshadowing. I was searching for any hint that this young, fragile, damaged woman would one day buy a gun off the street, shoot me, harm my daughter.

“Marc?” It was Mom. She knew what I was doing. “Come help me, okay?”

I nodded and headed toward the back bedroom. Dad slept on the ground floor now—easier than trying to get up the stairs with a wheelchair. We dressed him, which was a bit like dressing wet sand. My father lolls from side to side. His weight has a tendency toward sudden shifts. My mother and I were used to that, but it doesn’t make the task less arduous.

When my mother kissed me good-bye, the faint and familiar whiff of breath mint and cigarette smoke came off her. I had urged her to quit. She kept promising, but I knew that it would never happen. I noticed how loose the skin on her neck was getting, her gold chains almost embedded in their folds. She leaned down and kissed my father on the cheek, holding her lips to him a few seconds too long.

“Be careful,” she told us. Then again, that was what she always told us.

We began our journey. I pushed Dad past the train station. We live in a commuter town. Mostly men but yes, women, too, were lined up in long coats, briefcase in one hand, coffee cup in the other. This might sound odd, but even before 9/11, these people were heroes to me. They board that damn train five times a week. They take it to Hoboken and switch to the PATH. That train takes them into New York City. Some will head up to Thirty-third Street and change to hit midtown. Others will take it to the financial center, now that it’s opened up again. They make the everyday sacrifice, stifling their own wants and dreams in order to provide for those they love.

I could be doing cosmetic plastic surgery and making a mint. My parents would be able to afford better care for my dad. They could move someplace nice, get that full-time nurse, find a place that could cater more to their needs. But I don’t do that. I don’t help them by taking the more traveled route because, frankly, working such a job would bore me. So I choose to do something more exciting, something I love to do. For that, people think I’m the heroic one, that I am the one making the sacrifice. Here’s the truth. The person who works with the poor? They are usually more selfish. We are not willing to sacrifice our needs. Working a job that provides for our families is not enough for us. Supporting those we love is secondary. We need personal satisfaction, even if our own family is made to do without. Those suits I now watch numbingly board the NJ Transit train? They often hate where they are going and what they are doing, but they do it anyway. They do it to take care of their families, to provide a better life for their spouses, their children, and maybe, just maybe, their aging and ill parents.

So, really, which one of us is to be admired?

Dad and I followed the same route every Thursday. We took the path around the park behind the library. The park was chockful—and you’ll notice a suburban theme here—of soccer fields. How much quality real estate was tied up in this supposedly second-tier foreign sport? My father seemed comforted by the playground, by the sights and sounds of children at play. We stopped and took deep breaths. I glanced to my left. Several healthy women jogged by clad in your finest, sheer-clingy Lycra. Dad seemed very still. I smiled. Maybe Dad’s liking this spot had nothing to do with soccer.

I no longer remember what my father used to be like. When I try to think back that far, my memories are snapshots, flashes—a man’s deep laugh, a little boy clinging to his bicep, dangling off the ground. That was pretty much it. I remember that I loved him deeply, and I guess that has always been enough.

After his second stroke sixteen years ago, Dad’s speech became extremely labored. He’d get stuck midsentence. He’d drop words. He’d go silent for hours and sometimes days. You’d forget that he was there. No one really knew for sure if he understood, if he had classic “expressive aphasia”—you understand but you can’t really communicate—or something even more sinister.

But on a hot June day during my senior year of high school, my father suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of my sleeve with an eagle-talon grip. I’d been heading out to a party at the time. Lenny was waiting for me by the door. My father’s surprisingly strong grasp stopped me cold. I looked down. His face was pure white, the tendons of his neck taut, and more than anything, what I saw was naked fear. That look on his face haunted my sleep for years afterward. I slid into the chair next to him, his hand still clutching my arm.

“Dad?”

“I understand,” he pleaded. His grip on my sleeve tightened. “Please.” Every word was a struggle. “I still understand.”

That was all he said. But it was enough. What I took it to mean was this: “Even though I can’t speak or respond, I comprehend. Please don’t shut me out.” For a while, the doctors agreed. He had expressive aphasia. Then he had another stroke, and the doctors became less sure of what he did and did not understand. I don’t know if I apply my own version of Pascal’s Wager here—if he understands me, then I should talk to him, if he doesn’t, what’s the harm?—but I figure that I owe him that. So I talk to him. I tell him everything. And right now, I was telling him about Dina Levinsky’s visit—“Do you remember her, Dad?”—and the hidden CD.

Dad’s face was locked, immobile, the left side of his mouth turned down in an angry slash-hook. I often wished that he and I never had that “I understand” conversation. I don’t know which is worse: to be beyond comprehension, or to understand how trapped you really are. Or maybe I do know.

I was making the second turn, the one by the new skateboard run, when I spotted my former father-in-law. Edgar Portman sat on a bench, splendid in his casual best, his legs crossed, his pants crease sharp enough to slice tomatoes. After the shootings, Edgar and I tried to keep up a relationship that had never existed when his daughter was alive. We had hired a detective agency together—Edgar, of course, knew the best—but they came up with nothing. After a while, Edgar and I both grew weary of the pretense. The only bond between us was one that conjured up the worst moment of my life.

Edgar’s being here could, of course, have been a coincidence. We live in the same town. It would only be natural to bump into one another from time to time. But that wasn’t the case. I knew that. Edgar was not one for casual park visits. He was here for me.

Our eyes met, and I wasn’t sure I liked what I saw. I wheeled the chair toward the bench. Edgar kept his eyes on me, never glancing down at my father. I might as well have been pushing a shopping cart.

“Your mother told me I’d find you here,” Edgar said.

I stopped a few feet away from him. “What’s up?”

“Sit with me.”

I set my father’s chair on my left. I lowered the brake. My father stared straight out. His head lolled toward his right shoulder, the way it does when he gets tired. I turned and faced Edgar. He uncrossed his legs.

“I’ve been wondering how to tell you this,” he began.

I gave him a little space. He looked off. “Edgar?”

“Hmm.”

“Just tell me.”

He nodded, appreciating my directness. Edgar was that kind of man. Without preamble, he said, “I got another ransom demand.”

I reeled back. I don’t know what I had expected to hear—maybe that Tara had been found dead—but what he was saying . . . I couldn’t quite comprehend it. I was about to ask a follow-up question when I saw that he now had a satchel in his lap. He opened it and pulled something into view. It was in a plastic bag—just like the last time we went through this. I squinted. He handed it to me. Something ballooned in my chest. I blinked and looked at the bag.

Hairs. There were hairs inside it.

“This is their proof,” Edgar said.

I could not speak. I just looked at the hairs. I laid the bag gently on my lap.

“They understood that we would be skeptical,” Edgar said.

“Who understood?”

“The kidnappers. They said they’d give us a few days. I immediately brought the hairs to a DNA laboratory.”

I looked up at him and then back at the hairs.

“The preliminary results came in two hours ago,” Edgar said. “Nothing they could use in court, but it’s still pretty conclusive. The hairs match the ones sent to us a year and a half ago.” He stopped and swallowed. “The hairs belong to Tara.”

I heard the words. I didn’t understand them. For some reason, I shook my head no. “Maybe they just saved them from before. . . .”

“No. They have aging tests too. Those hairs came from a child around two years old.”

I guess that I knew that already. I could look and see that these were not my daughter’s wispy baby hairs. She wouldn’t have them anymore. Her hair would have darkened and thickened. . . .

Edgar handed me a note. Still in a fog, I took it from him. The font was the same as from the note we’d gotten eighteen months before. The top line over the fold said:

WANT ONE LAST CHANCE?

I felt the thud deep in my chest. Edgar’s voice seemed suddenly far away. “I probably should have told you immediately, but it seemed an obvious hoax. Carson and I didn’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily. I have friends. They were able to rush through the DNA results. We still had hairs from the last mailing.” He put a hand on my shoulder. I did not move.

“She’s alive, Marc. I don’t know how or where, but Tara is alive.”

My eyes stayed on the hairs. Tara. They belonged to Tara. The sheen, that golden-wheat hue. I petted them through the plastic. I wanted to reach inside the bag, to touch my daughter, but I thought my heart would burst.

“They want another two million dollars. The note warns us again about calling the police—they claim to have an inside source. They sent another cell phone for you. I have the money in the car. We have another twenty-four hours maybe. That was the window they gave us for the DNA testing. You’ll have to be ready.”

I finally read the note. Then I looked over at my father in his wheelchair. He still stared straight ahead.

Edgar said, “I know you think I’m rich. I am, I guess. But not like you’d think. I’m leveraged and . . .”

I turned toward him. His eyes were wide. His hands shook.

“What I mean to say is that I don’t really have that many liquid assets left. I’m not made of money. This is it.”

“I’m surprised you’re doing this at all,” I said.

The words, I could see immediately, wounded him. I wanted to take them back, but for some reason I didn’t. I let my eyes drift back toward my father. Dad’s face remained frozen, but—I looked closer—there was a tear on his cheek. That didn’t mean anything. Dad has teared up before, usually with no apparent provocation. I did not take this as any kind of sign.

And then, I don’t know why, I followed his gaze. I looked across the soccer field, past the goalposts, past two women with Baby Joggers, all the way to the street nearly a hundred yards away. My stomach dropped. There, standing on the sidewalk, looking back at me with his hands in his pockets, was a man wearing a flannel shirt and black jeans and a Yankee cap.

I couldn’t say for sure that it was the same man from the ransom drop. Red-and-black flannel is hardly an uncommon pattern. And maybe it was my imagination—I was pretty far away—but I think he was smiling at me. I felt my whole body jerk.

Edgar said, “Marc?”

I barely heard him. I rose and kept my eyes up. At first, the man in the flannel stayed perfectly still. I ran toward him.

“Marc?”

But I knew that it was no mistake. You don’t forget. You close your eyes and you still see him. He never leaves you. You wish for moments like this. I knew that. And I knew what wishes could bring. But I ran straight toward him. Because there was no mistake. I knew who it was.

When I was still a good distance away, the man lifted his hand and waved to me. I kept moving, but I could already see that it was futile. I was only halfway across the park when a white van drove up. The man in flannel snapped a salute in my direction before disappearing into the back.

The van was out of sight before I reached the street.

chapter 14

Time started playinggames with me. Going in and out. Speeding up and slowing down. In focus and suddenly blurred. But that did not last long. I let the surgeon side of me take over. He, Marc the Doctor, knew how to compartmentalize. I have always found this easier to do at work than in my personal life. The skill—to partition, to separate, to detach—has never translated. At work, I am able to take my emotional excess and channel it, allow it to converge into a constructive focus. I have never been successful at doing this at home.

But this crisis had forced a change. Compartmentalizing wasn’t a question of desire as much as survival. To get emotional, to allow myself to wallow in doubt or consider the implications of a child missing for eighteen months . . . it would paralyze me. That was probably what the kidnappers wanted. They wanted me to come apart. But I work well under pressure. I am at my best. I know that. I had to do that now. The walls came up. I could look at the situation rationally.

First thing: No, I would not contact the police this time.

But that did not mean I had to wait around helplessly.

By the time Edgar handed me the duffel bag stuffed with money, I had an idea.

I called Cheryl and Lenny’s house. There was no answer. I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen in the morning. I didn’t have Cheryl’s cell phone, but it would be better to do this in person anyway.

I drove over to Willard Elementary School and arrived at eight twenty-five. I parked behind a line of SUVs and minivans and got out. This elementary school, like so many others, has the bricks, the cement back steps, the one level, the architectural design made shapeless by the many additions. Some additions try to blend in, but then there are the others, usually built between 1968 and 1975, that were faux-sleek with blue glass and odd tiling. They looked like post-apocalyptic greenhouses.

Kids scrambled around the playground as they always do. The difference was, the parents now stayed and watched. They chatted with one another and when the bell rang, they made sure that their charges were safely ensconced inside the brick or sleek blue glass before departing. I hated to see the fear in the eyes of the parents. But I understood it. The day you become a parent, fear becomes your constant companion. It never lets you go. My life was Exhibit A in the why.

Cheryl’s blue Chevy Suburban pulled into the drop-off line. I started toward her. She was unharnessing Justin from his car seat when she spotted me. Justin gave her a dutiful kiss, an act he takes for granted which, I guess, is how it should be, and then he ran off. Cheryl watched him as though afraid he could vanish on the short concrete trek. Kids can never understand that fear, but that’s okay. Hard enough to be a kid without having that weight on you.

“Hey,” Cheryl said to me.

I said hi back. Then: “I need something.”

“What?”

“Rachel’s phone number.”

Cheryl was already back at the driver-side door. “Get in.”

“My car is parked over there.”

“I’ll bring you back. Swim practice ran late. I’ve got to get Marianne to school.”

She had already started the car. I hopped up into the front passenger seat. I turned and smiled at Marianne. She wore headphones and quick-fingered her Game Boy Advance. She gave me an absentminded wave, barely glancing up. Her hair was still wet. Conner was in the child seat next to her. The car reeked of chlorine, but I found the smell oddly comforting. Lenny, I know, cleans out the car religiously, but you can’t possibly keep up. There were French fries in the crevice between the seats. Crumbs of unknown origin clung to the upholstery. On the floor by my feet lay a potpourri of school notices and children’s artwork that had been subjected to onslaughts of rain boots. I sat on a small action figure, the kind that McDonald’s gives away with their Happy Meals. A CD case readingNOW THAT ’S WHAT I CALL MUSIC14 sat between us, providing listeners with the latest from Britney and Christina and Generic Boy Band. The windows in the back were smeared with greasy fingerprints.

The kids were only allowed to play with the Game Boy in the car, never in the house. They were never, under any circumstance, allowed to watch a PG-13 movie. I asked Lenny about how he and Cheryl went about deciding such matters and he responded, “It’s not the rules themselves, but the fact that there are rules.” I think I know what he meant.

Cheryl kept her eyes on the road. “It’s not my nature to pry.”

“But you want to know my intentions.”

“I guess.”

“And if I don’t want to tell you?”

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s better if you don’t.”

“Trust me here, Cheryl. I need the number.”

She flipped on her signal light. “Rachel is still my closest friend.”

“Okay.”

“It took her a long time to get over you.” She hesitated.

“And vice versa.”

“Exactly. Look, I’m not saying this right. It’s just . . . there are some things you need to know.”

“Like?”

She kept her eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel. “You asked Lenny why we never told you she got divorced.”

“Yes.”

Cheryl glanced in the rearview mirror, not at the road, but at her daughter. Marianne seemed wrapped up in her game. “She didn’t get divorced. Her husband is dead.”

Cheryl glided to a stop in front of the middle school. Marianne took off the headphones and slid out. She did not bother with the dutiful kiss, but she did say good-bye. Cheryl put the car back in drive.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, because that was what people said under these circumstances. I almost added, because the mind works in very strange and even macabre ways: Hey, Rachel and I have something else in common.

And then, as if Cheryl could read these thoughts, she said, “He was shot.”

This eerie parallel sat between us for several seconds. I stayed quiet.

“I don’t know the details,” she quickly added. “He was with the FBI too. Rachel was one of the highest-ranking women in the bureau at the time. She resigned after he died. She stopped taking my calls. It hasn’t been good for her since.” Cheryl pulled up to my car and stopped. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand. A lot of years have passed since college. Rachel isn’t the same person you loved all those years ago.”

I kept my tone steady. “I just need her phone number.”

Without another word, Cheryl grabbed a pen from the visor, uncapped it with her teeth, and jotted the number on a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin.

“Thanks,” I said.

She barely nodded as I got out.

I did not hesitate. I had my cell phone. I slipped into my car and dialed the number. Rachel answered with a tentative hello. My words were simple enough.

“I need your help.”

chapter 15

Five hours later,Rachel’s train pulled into Newark Station.

I couldn’t help but think of all those old movies where trains separate lovers, steam billowing from beneath, the conductor calling a last warning, the whistle sounding, the chug-chug as the wheels begin to move, one lover hanging out and waving, the other running along the platform. I don’t know why I thought of this. The Newark train station is about as romantic as a pile of hippo dung with head lice. The train approached with nary a whisper and nothing you’d want to see or smell wafted in the air.

But when Rachel stepped off, I still felt the hum in my chest. She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a red turtleneck. Her overnight bag dangled from one shoulder, and she hoisted it up as she stepped down. For a moment, I just stared. I’d just turned thirty-six years old. Rachel was thirty-five. We had not been together since our very early twenties. We had lived our entire adult lives apart. Odd when you think of it that way. I told you before about our breakup. I try to unearth the whys, but maybe it is that simple. We were kids. Kids do dumb things. Kids don’t understand repercussions, don’t think long term. Kids don’t understand that the hum may never really leave your chest.

Yet today, when I realized that I needed help, I thought first of Rachel. And she had come.

She moved toward me with no hesitation. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Did they call?”

“Not yet.”

She nodded and started walking down the platform. Her tone was no nonsense. She, too, had slipped into her role as a professional. “Tell me more about the DNA test.”

“I don’t know anything else.”

“So it’s not definitive?”

“Not court-evidence definitive, no, but they seem pretty sure.”

Rachel shifted her bag from her right shoulder to her left. I tried to keep up with her pace. “We have to make some tough decisions, Marc. You ready for that?”

“Yes.”

“First off, are you certain that you don’t want to contact the cops or FBI?”

“The note said they had an inside source.”

“That’s probably bull,” she said.

We walked a few more steps.

“I contacted the authorities last time,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean it was the wrong move.”

“But it certainly wasn’t the right one.”

She made a yes-no gesture with her head. “You don’t know what happened last time. Maybe they spotted the tail. Maybe they watched your house. But most likely, they never intended to give her back. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

“But you still want them left out.”

“It’s why I called you.”

She nodded and finally stopped, waiting for me to signal which way. I pointed to the right. She started up again. “Another thing,” she said.

“What?”

“We can’t let them dictate the tempo this time. We have to insist on assurances that Tara is alive.”

“They’ll say the hairs prove it.”

“And we’ll say the tests were inconclusive.”

“You think they’ll buy that?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” She kept walking, the cut of her jaw held high. “But this is what I mean by tough decisions. That flannel-shirt guy in the park? That’s about head games. They want to intimidate and weaken you. They want you to follow blindly again. Tara is your child. If you want to just hand over the money again, that’s up to you. But I wouldn’t advise it. They vanished before. There’s no reason to think they won’t again.”

We entered the parking garage. I handed the attendant my ticket. “So what do you suggest?” I asked her.

“A few things. First, we have to demand an exchange. No ‘Here’s the money, call us later.’ We get your daughter when they get the money.”

“And if they don’t agree?”

She looked at me with those eyes. “Tough decisions. You understand?”

I nodded.

“I also want a total electronic surveillance hookup, so I can stay with you. I want to strap on a fiber-optic camera and see what this guy looks like, if possible. We don’t have manpower, but there are still things we can do.”

“Suppose they catch on?”

“Suppose they run away again?” she countered. “We’re taking chances here no matter what we do. I’m trying to learn from what happened the first time. There are no guarantees. I’m simply trying to improve our odds.”

The car arrived. We slid in and started up McCarter Highway. Rachel suddenly grew very quiet. The years again melted away. I knew this posture. I had seen it before.

“What else?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“Rachel.”

Something in my tone made her look away. “There are some things you should know.”

I waited.

“I called Cheryl,” she said. “I know she filled you in on most of it. You understand that I’m not a fed anymore.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a limit to what I can do.”

“I understand that.” She sat back. The posture was still there. “What else?”

“You need a reality check here, Marc.”

We pulled to a red light. I turned and looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. The eyes still had that hazel with gold flakes. I know the years had been tough, but it didn’t show in the eyes.

“The odds that Tara is still alive are minuscule,” she said.

“But the DNA test,” I countered.

“I’ll handle that later.”

“Handle it?”

“Later,” she said again.

“What the hell does that mean? It’s a match. Edgar said the final confirmation is a formality.”

“Later,” she repeated with steel in her voice. “Right now we might as well assume that she’s alive. We should go through with the ransom drop-off as if there is a healthy child on the other end. But somewhere along the line, I need you to understand that this could be an elaborate con.”

“How do you figure?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“Like hell it isn’t. Are you saying, what, they faked a DNA test?”

“I doubt it.” Then she added, “But it’s a possibility.”

“How? There was a match between the two sets of hairs.”

“The hairs matched each other.”

“Yes.”

“But,” she said, “how do you know the first set of hairs—the ones you got a year and a half ago—belonged to Tara?”

It took a few moments for the meaning to reach me.

“Did you ever run a test on the first set, see if the DNA matched yours?” she asked.

“Why would we?”

“So for all you know, the original kidnappers sent you the hairs of another kid.”

I tried to shake my head clear. “But they had a snippet of her clothes,” I said. “The pink with black penguins. How do you explain that?”

“You don’t think the Gap sold more than one of those? Look, I don’t know what the story is yet, so let’s not get bogged down in hypotheticals. Let’s just concentrate on what we can do here and now.”

I sat back. We fell into silence. I wondered if I had made the right move by calling her. There was so much excess baggage here. But at the end of the day, I trusted her. We needed to maintain the professional, to keep compartmentalizing.

“I just want my daughter back,” I said.

Rachel nodded, opened her mouth as if to say something, and then grew silent again. And that was when the ransom call came in.

chapter 16

Lydia liked tostare at old photographs.

She did not know why. They offered her little comfort. The nostalgia factor was, at best, limited. Heshy never looked back. For reasons that she could never properly articulate, Lydia did.

This particular photograph had been taken when Lydia was eight years old. It was a black-and-white still from the beloved classic TV sitcomFamily Laughs . The show ran for seven years—in Lydia’s case, from the age of six until just near her thirteenth birthday.Family Laughs starred ex–movie hunk Clive Wilkins as the widowed father of three adorable children: twin boys, Tod and Rod, who were eleven when the series began, and an adorable pixie of a little sister named, cutely enough, Trixie, played by the irrepressible Larissa Dane. Yes, the show was at least three steps beyond precious. Old repeats ofFamily Laughs still run on TV Land.

Every once in a while, theE! True Hollywood Story runs a piece on the old cast ofFamily Laughs . Clive Wilkins died from pancreatic cancer two years after the show ended. The narrator would note that Clive was “just like a father on the set,” which, Lydia knew, was a load of crap. The guy drank and smelled liked tobacco. When she hugged him for the cameras, it took all her considerable young acting skills not to gag from the stench.

Jarad and Stan Frank, the real-life identical twins who played Tod and Rod, had been trying to get a music career going since the show’s cancellation. OnFamily Laughs , they had a groovy garage band with a repertoire of songs written by others, instruments played by others, and voices so echoed and distorted by synthesizers that even Jarad and Stan, who could not hold a key if it was tattooed into their palms, started to believe that they were genuine musical artistes. The twins were both nearing forty now, both clearly clients of the Hair Club, both deluding themselves that, even though they claimed to be “tired of the fame,” they were one break away from the return to stardom.

But the true draw here, the gripping enigma of theFamily Laughs saga, involved the fate of the adorable “Pixie named Trixie,” Larissa Dane. Here is what is known about her: During the show’s final season, Larissa’s parents got divorced and fought bitterly over her earnings. Her dad ended up blowing his brains out. Her mother remarried a con artist who disappeared with the money. Like most child actors, Larissa Dane became an immediate has-been. Rumors of promiscuity and drug abuse swirled, though—this being before the nostalgia craze—no one really cared enough to be interested. She overdosed and nearly died when she was just fifteen. She was sent to a sanitarium of some sort and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. No one really knows what became of her. Many believe that she died from a second drug overdose.

But of course, she had not.

Heshy said, “You ready to make the call, Lydia?”

She did not answer right away. Lydia moved to the next photograph. Another shot fromFamily Laughs , this time Season Five, Episode 112. Little Trixie wore a cast on her arm. Tod wanted to draw a guitar on it. Father didn’t really approve. Tod protested, “But, Dad, I promise only to draw it, not play it!” The laugh track howled. Young Larissa didn’t understand the joke. Grown-up Lydia didn’t either. What she did remember, however, was how she had broken her arm that day. Typical kid stuff really. She was horsing around and fell down the stairs. The pain was tremendous, but they needed to get this show in the can. With that in mind, the studio doctor shot her up with Lord-knows-what and two hack screenwriters incorporated the injury into the script. She was barely conscious when they filmed.

But please, do not start up the violins.

Lydia had read Danny Partridge’s book. She had listened to the whining of Willis onDiff’rent Strokes . She had heard all about the plight of the child star, the abuse, the stolen money, the long hours. She had seen all the talk shows, heard all the complaints, seen all the crocodile tears from her colleagues—and their dishonesty sickened her.

Here was the truth about the child star dilemma. No, it’s not the abuse, though when Lydia was young and foolish enough to believe a shrink could help, he kept telling her how she must be “blocking,” that she had in all likelihood been molested by one of the show’s producers. And no, don’t blame parental neglect for what child stars become. Or, in reverse, parental pushing. It’s not the lack of friends, the long hours, the poor socialization skills, the stream of studio tutors. No, it is none of that.

It is, quite simply, the loss of the spotlight.

Period. The rest are excuses because no one wants to admit that they are that shallow. Lydia began working on the show when she was six. She had few memories that dated back before then. All she remembers, thus, is being a star. A star is special. A star is royalty. A star is the closest thing on earth to a god. And for Lydia, there had never been anything else. We teach our children that they are special, but Lydia lived it. Everyone thought she was adorable. Everyone thought she was the perfect daughter, loving and kind and yet properly sassy. People stared at her with a bizarre longing. People wanted to be near her, to know about her life, spend time with her, touch the hem of her cloak.

And then, one day, poof—all gone.

Fame is more addictive than crack. Adults who lose fame—one-hit wonders, for example—usually tailspin into depression, though they try to act like they’re above it. They don’t want to admit the truth. Their whole life is a lie, a desperate scramble for another dose of that most potent of drugs. Fame.

Those adults had a mere sip of the nectar before it was snatched away. But for a child star, that nectar is mother’s milk. It’s all they’ve ever known. They can’t comprehend that it’s fleeting, that it won’t last. You can’t explain that to a child. You can’t prepare them for the inevitable. Lydia had never known anything but adulation. And then, pretty much overnight, the spotlight went out. She was, for the first time in her life, alone in the dark.

That was what screws you up.

Lydia recognized that now. Heshy had helped her. He had gotten her off the junk once and for all. She had hurt herself, had been a slut, had snorted and shot up more narcotics than one could imagine. She did none of these things to escape. She did them to lash out, to hurt something or someone. Her mistake, she realized in rehab after a truly horrific and violent incident, was that she was hurtingherself . Fame raises you up. It makes others lesser. So why on earth was she hurting the one who should be on top? Instead, why not hurt the pitiful masses, those who had worshiped her, who had given her such heady power, who had turned on her? Why harm the superior species, the one who’d been worthy of all this praise?

“Lydia?”

“Hmm.”

“I think we should call now.”

She turned to Heshy. They had met in the loony bin, and right away, it was as if their mutual misery could reach out and embrace. Heshy had rescued her when two orderlies had pinned her down. At the time, he had merely pushed them off her. The orderlies threatened them, and they both promised not to say anything. But Heshy understood how to bide his time. He waited. Two weeks later, he ran over one of the goons with a stolen car. While the goon lay wounded, Heshy backed up over his head and then, positioning the tire near the base of the neck, hit the accelerator. A month later, the second goon—the lead orderly—was found in his home. Four of his fingers had been ripped off. Not cut or sliced, but twisted. The ME could tell by the rotation tears. The fingers had been rotated around and around until the tendons and bone finally snapped. Lydia still had one of the fingers somewhere in the basement.

Ten years ago, they ran off together and changed their names. They altered their appearances just enough. They both started over, avenging angels, damaged but superior, above the riffraff. She didn’t hurt anymore. Or at least, when she did, she found an outlet.

They had three residences. Heshy purportedly lived in the Bronx. She had a place in Queens. They both had working addresses and working phones. But that was all for show. Business offices, if you will. Neither of them wanted anyone to know that they were, in fact, a team, connected, lovers. Lydia, using an alias, had bought this bright yellow house four years ago. It had two bedrooms and one and a half baths. The kitchen, where Heshy now sat, was airy and happy. They were on a lake in the tippy north corner of Morris County, New Jersey. It was peaceful here. They loved the sunsets.

Lydia kept staring at the pictures of “Pixie Trixie.” She tried to remember what she’d felt like back then. The memories were pretty much gone. Heshy stood behind her now and waited with his usual patience. There were those who would claim that she and Heshy were cold-blooded killers. That, Lydia quickly realized, was pretty much a misnomer, another Hollywood creation. Like the wonderfulness of Pixie Trixie. No one enters this violent business merely because it is profitable. There are easier ways to make a living. You may act like a professional. You may keep your emotions in check. You may even delude yourself into thinking it’s just another day at the office, but when you look at it honestly, the reason you walk on this wrong side of the line is because you enjoy it. Lydia understood that. Hurting someone, killing someone, fading or turning out the light in a person’s eyes . . . no, she did not need that. She did not crave it as she had the spotlight. But yes, no question, there was that pleasant jolt, that unmistakable thrill, a lessening of her own pain.

“Lydia?”

“I’m on it, Pooh Bear.” She picked up the cell phone with the stolen number and the scramble. She turned and faced Heshy. He was hideous, but she didn’t see that. He nodded at her. She flipped on the voice changer and dialed the number.

When Lydia heard Marc Seidman’s voice, she said, “Shall we try this again?”

chapter 17

Before I answeredthe phone, Rachel put her hand over mine. “This is a negotiation,” she said. “Fear and intimidation are tools in that. You have to stay strong. If they intend to let her go, they will be flexible.”

I swallowed and flicked on the phone. I said hello.

“Shall we try this again?”

The voice had the same robotic hum. I felt a tick in my blood. I closed my eyes and said, “No.”

“Pardon me?”

“I want assurances that Tara is alive.”

“You received hair samples, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

I looked over at Rachel. She nodded. “The match was inconclusive.”

“Fine,” the voice said. “I might as well hang up now.”

“Wait,” I said.

“Yes?”

“You drove off last time.”

“So we did.”

“How do I know you won’t do that again?”

“Did you call the police this time?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Here is what I want you to do.”

“It’s not going to work like that,” I said.

“What?”

I could feel my body begin to quake. “We make a swap. You don’t get the money until I get my daughter.”

“You’re not in any position to bargain.”

“I get my daughter,” I said, my words coming out slowly, dead weights. “You get your money.”

“It’s not going to work like that.”

“Yes,” I said, trying to force bravado into my voice. “This ends here and now. I don’t want you running away again and then coming back for more. So we make an exchange and end this.”

“Dr. Seidman?”

“I’m here.”

“I want you to listen to me carefully.”

The silence was too long, straining my nerves.

“If I hang up now, I won’t call back for another eighteen months.”

I closed my eyes and hung on.

“Think about the repercussions for a moment. Aren’t you wondering where your daughter has been? Aren’t you wondering what will become of her? If I hang up, you won’t know anything for another eighteen months.”

It felt like a steel belt was being tightened around my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I looked at Rachel. She stared back steadily, urging me to stay strong.

“How old would she be then, Dr. Seidman? I mean, if we keep her alive.”

“Please.”

“Are you ready to listen?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m just asking for assurances.”

“We sent you the hair samples.”

“I bring the money. You bring my daughter. You get the money when I see her.”

“Are you trying to dictate terms, Dr. Seidman?”

The robotic voice had a funny lilt now.

“I don’t care who you are,” I said. “I don’t care why you did any of this. I just want my daughter back.”

“Then you’ll make the drop exactly as I tell you.”

“No,” I said. “Not without assurances.”

“Dr. Seidman?”

“Yes.”

“Good-bye.”

And then the phone went dead.

chapter 18

Sanity is athin string. Mine snapped.

No, I did not scream. Just the opposite. I grew impossibly calm. I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it as if it’d just materialized there and I had no idea what it was.

“Marc?”

I looked at Rachel. “They hung up.”

“They’ll call back,” she said.

I shook my head. “They said not for another eighteen months.”

Rachel studied my face. “Marc?”

“Yes?”

“I need you to listen to me closely.”

I waited.

“You did the right thing here.”

“Thanks. Now I feel better.”

“I’ve had experience with this. If Tara is still alive and if they have any intention of giving her back, they’ll give on this issue. The only reason not to make this exchange is because they don’t want to—or can’t.”

Can’t. The tiny part of my brain that remained rational understood that. I reminded myself of my training. Compartmentalize. “So now what?”

“We get ready just as we planned before. I have enough equipment with me. We’ll wire you up. If they call back, we’ll be ready.”

I nodded dumbly. “Okay.”

“Meanwhile, is there anything else we can do here? Did you recognize the voice at all? Do you remember anything new about the man in flannel, about the van, anything?”

“No,” I said.

“On the phone, you mentioned finding a CD in your basement.”

“Yes.” I quickly told her the story about the disk and the label reading MVD. She took out a pad and jotted down notes.

“Do you have the disk with you?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’re in Newark now. We might as well see what we can learn from this MVD.”

chapter 19

Lydia lifted theSig-Sauer P226 into the air.

“I don’t like how that went,” she said.

“You made the right move,” Heshy said. “We cut out now. This is over.”

She stared at the weapon. She wanted very much to pull the trigger.

“Lydia?”

“I heard you.”

“We were doing this because it was simple.”

“Simple?”

“Yes. We thought that it would be easy money.”

“Lots of money.”

“True,” he said.

“We can’t just walk away.”

Heshy saw the wetness in her eyes. This was not about the money. He knew that. “He’s tortured either way,” he said.

“I know.”

“Think about what you just did to him,” Heshy said. “If he never hears from us again, he will spend the rest of his life wondering, blaming himself.”

She smiled. “Are you trying to turn me on?”

Lydia moved onto Heshy’s lap, curled into him like a kitten. He wrapped his giant arms around her and for a moment, Lydia calmed. She felt safe and quiet. She closed her eyes. She loved the feeling. And she knew—as did he—that it would never last. That it would never be enough.

“Heshy?”

“Yes.”

“I want to get that money.”

“I know you do.”

“And then, I think, it would be best if he died.”

Heshy pulled her close. “Then that’s what will happen.”

chapter 20

I don’t knowwhat I expected from the offices of Most Valuable Detection. A pebbled-glass door à la Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe maybe. A soiled building of faded brick. A walk-up, for sure. A buxom secretary with a bad dye job.

But the office of Most Valuable Detection had none of that. The building was shiny and bright, part of the “urban renewal” program of Newark. I keep hearing about Newark’s renaissance, but I don’t see it. Yes, there are several beautiful office buildings—like this one—and a stunning Performing Arts Center conveniently located so that those who can afford to attend (read: those who don’t live in Newark) can get to it without, well, driving through the city. But these sleek edifices are flowers among the weeds, scant stars in an otherwise black sky. They do not change the basic color. They do not blend or bleed. They remain removed. Their sterile beauty is not contagious.

We stepped off the elevator. I still held the bag with two million dollars in it. It felt weird in my hand. There were three headphone-clad receptionists behind a wall of glass. Their desk was high. We stated our names into an intercom. Rachel showed an ID that listed her as a retired FBI agent. We were buzzed in.

Rachel pushed open the door. I trailed behind her. I felt empty, but I was functioning. The horror of what had happened—the hang-up—was so great that I had pushed beyond paralysis to a strange state of focus. Again I compare all this to the surgery room. I enter that room, I cross that gateway, and I shed the world. I had a patient once, a six-year-old boy, who was getting a fairly routine cleft palate repair. While on the table, his vitals dropped suddenly. His heart stopped. I didn’t panic. I fell into a state of focus, not unlike this one. The boy pulled through.

Still flashing the ID, Rachel explained that we wanted to see someone in charge. The receptionist smiled and nodded in that way people do when they aren’t listening. She never took off the headphones. Her fingers pressed some buttons. Another woman appeared. She led us down the corridor and into a private office.

For a moment, I couldn’t tell if we were in the presence of a man or a woman. The bronze nameplate on the desk read Conrad Dorfman. Conclusion: a man. He rose theatrically. He was too slim in a blue suit withGuys and Dolls –wide pinstripes, tapered at the waist so that the bottom of the jacket flared out almost enough to be mistaken for a skirt. His fingers were thin like a pianist’s, his hair slicked down like Julie Andrews’s inVictor/Victoria , and his face had a blotchy smoothness I usually associate with a cosmetic foundation.

“Please,” he said in a voice with too much affect. “My name is Conrad Dorfman. I’m the executive vice president of MVD.” We shook his hand. He held our hands a second too long, putting the free hand over the shake and peering intently into our eyes. Conrad invited us to sit. We did. He asked us if we’d enjoy a cup of tea. Rachel, taking the lead, said that we would.

There were a few more minutes of chitchat. Conrad asked Rachel questions about her time with the FBI. Rachel was vague. She implied that she, too, worked in the private detection biz and was thus his colleague and worthy of professional courtesy. I said nothing, letting her work. There was a knock on the door. The woman who had escorted us down the corridor opened the door and wheeled in a silver teacart. Conrad began to pour. Rachel got to the point.

“We were hoping you could help us,” Rachel said. “Dr. Seidman’s wife was a client of yours.”

Conrad Dorfman concentrated on the tea. He used one of those screen-door sifters that seemed all the rage nowadays. He shook out some leaves and slowly poured.

“You folks provided her with a CD that’s password protected. We need to get into it.”

Conrad handed a cup of tea to Rachel first, then me. He settled back and took a deep sip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you. The password is set by the client on their own.”

“The client is dead.”

Conrad Dorfman did not blink. “That really doesn’t change anything.”

“Her husband here is next of kin. That makes the CD his.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Conrad said. “I don’t practice estate law. But we have no control over any of that. As I said before, the client sets the password. We may have given her the CD—I really can’t confirm or deny that at this stage—but we would have no idea what numbers or letters she programmed in for the password.”

Rachel waited a beat. She stared at Conrad Dorfman. He stared back but dropped his eyes first. He picked up his tea and took another sip. “Can we find out why she came to you in the first place?”

“Without a court order? No, I don’t think so.”

“Your CD,” she said. “There’s a back entry.”

“Excuse me?”

“Every company has one,” Rachel said. “The info isn’t lost forever. Your company programs in its own password so that you folks can get on the CD.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I used to be an FBI agent, Mr. Dorfman.”

“So?”

“So I know these things. Please don’t insult my intelligence.”

“That was not my intent, Ms. Mills. But I simply can’t help.”

I looked at Rachel. She seemed to be weighing her options. “I still have friends, Mr. Dorfman. In the department. We can ask questions. We can poke around. The feds don’t much like private eyes. You know that. I don’t want trouble. I just want to know what’s on the CD.”

Dorfman put down his cup. He strummed his fingers. There was a knock, and the same woman opened the door. She beckoned Conrad Dorfman. He rose, again too theatrically, and practically leapt across the floor. “Excuse me a moment.”

When he left the office, I looked at Rachel. She wouldn’t turn toward me. “Rachel?”

“Let’s just see how it plays out, Marc.”

But there really wasn’t much more to play. Conrad came back into the office. He crossed the room and stood over Rachel, waiting for her to look up. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Our president, Malcolm Deward, is a former federal agent himself. Did you know that?”

Rachel said nothing.

“He made some calls while we chatted.” Conrad waited. “Ms. Mills?” Rachel finally looked up. “Your threats are impotent. You have no friends at the agency. Mr. Deward, alas, does. Get out of my office. Now.”

chapter 21

I said, “Whatthe hell was that all about?”

“I told you before. I’m not an agent anymore.”

“What happened, Rachel?”

She kept her eyes forward. “You haven’t been a part of my life in a long time.”

There was nothing to add. Rachel drove now. I held on to the cell phone, again willing it to ring. When we arrived back at my house, dusk had settled in. We went inside. I debated calling Tickner or Regan, but what good would that do now?

“We need to get that DNA checked,” Rachel said. “My theory might sound implausible, but does the idea of your daughter being held all this time sound any more so?”

So I called Edgar. I told him that I wanted to run some additional tests on the hair. He said that would be fine. I hung up without telling him that I had already endangered the drop by enlisting the help of a former FBI agent. The less said on that, the better. Rachel called someone she knew to pick up the samples from Edgar, as well as a blood sample from me. He ran a private lab, she said. We would know something within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, which would probably be, in terms of a ransom demand, too late.

I settled into a chair in the den. Rachel sat on the floor. She opened her bag and pulled out wires and electronic contraptions of all sorts. Being a surgeon makes me pretty good with my hands, but when it comes to high-tech gizmos, I’m totally lost. She carefully spread the contents of the bag across the carpet, giving this action her full attention. Again I was reminded of the way she’d do the same thing with textbooks when we were in college. She reached into the bag and pulled out a razor.

“The bag of money?” she said.

I handed it to her. “What are you going to do?”

She opened it. The money was in packs of hundred-dollar bills. She grabbed a wad and slowly slipped the money out, not breaking the band around it. She cut the bills like they were a deck of cards.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m going to cut a hole.”

“In the actual currency?”

“Yup.”

She did it with the straight razor. She dug out a circle about the perimeter of a silver dollar, maybe a quarter inch thick. She scanned the floor, found a black device that was about the same size, fit it into the bills. Then she put the wrapping back on it. The device was totally hidden in the middle of the money wad.

“A Q-Logger,” she said in way of explanation. “It’s a GPS device.”

“You say so.”

“GPS stands for Global Positioning System. Put simply, it will track the money. I’ll put one in the lining of the bag too, but most criminals know about that. They usually dump the cash into a bag of their own. But with all this money, they won’t have time right away to search through every pack.”

“How small do those things come?”

“The Q-Loggers?”

“Yes.”

“They can make them even thinner, but the problem is the power source. You need a battery. That’s where we lose out. I need something that can travel at least eight miles. This will do it.”

“And where does it go to?”

“You mean where do I keep track of the movements?”

“Yes.”

“Most of the time it goes to a laptop, but this is state of the art.” Rachel lifted a device into the air, one I see too often in the world of medicine. In fact, I think I’m the only doctor on the planet without one.

“A Palm Pilot?”

“Designed with a special tracking screen. I’ll have it on me if I have to move.” She went back to work.

“What’s all the other stuff?” I asked.

“Surveillance equipment. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to use, but I’d like to put a Q-Logger in your shoe. I want to get a camera on the car. I’d like to see if I can hook up some fiber-optics on you, but that could be riskier.” She started to organize her equipment, lost in the activity. Her eyes were down when she spoke again. “Something else I want to explain to you.”

I leaned forward.

“Do you remember when my parents got divorced?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.” It had been when we first met.

“Close as we were, we never talked about it.”

“I always got the impression you didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t,” she said too quickly.

And, I thought, neither had I. I was selfish. We were supposedly in love for two years—and yet I never so much as nudged her to open up about her parents’ divorce. It was more than an “impression” that made me hold my tongue. I knew something dark and unhappy lay there. I did not want to poke at it, disturb it, have it possibly turn its attention in my direction.

“It was my father’s fault.”

I almost said something really stupid like “It’s never anyone’s fault” or “There are two sides to every story,” but a flyby of good sense kept my tongue in check. Rachel still hadn’t looked up. “My father destroyed my mother. Crushed her soul. Do you know how?”

“No.”

“He cheated on her.”

She lifted her head and held my gaze. I did not look away. “It was a destructive cycle,” she said. “He’d cheat, he’d get caught, he’d swear he’d never do it again. But he always did. It wormed into my mother, ate away at her.” Rachel swallowed, turned back to her high-tech toys. “So when I was away in Italy and I heard you’d been with someone else . . .”

I thought of a million different things to say, but they were all meaningless. Frankly so was what she was telling me. It explained a lot, I guess, but it was the ultimate too-little-too-late. I stayed where I was, not moving from the chair.

“I overreacted,” she said.

“We were young.”

“I just wanted . . . I should have told you about this back then.”

She was reaching out. I started to say something, but I pulled up short. Too much. Just all too much. It had been six hours since the ransom call. The seconds tick-ticked, a deep, painful pounding in the well of my chest.

I jumped when the phone rang, but it was my regular line, not the kidnapper’s cell. I picked it up. It was Lenny.

“What’s wrong?” he said without preamble.

I looked at Rachel. She shook her head. I nodded back that I understood. “Nothing,” I said.

“Your mom told me you saw Edgar in the park.”

“Don’t worry.”

“That old bastard will screw you, you know that.”

There was no reasoning with Lenny when it came to Edgar Portman. He also might be right. “I know.”

There was brief silence.

“You called Rachel,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Nothing important.”

There was another pause. Then Lenny said, “You’re lying to me, right?”

“Like a Vegas toupee.”

“Yeah, okay. Hey, we still on for racquetball tomorrow morning?”

“I better cancel.”

“No problem. Marc?”

“Yeah.”

“If you need me . . .”

“Thanks, Lenny.”

I hung up. Rachel was busy with her electronic gizmos. The words she had said were gone now, dissipated smoke. She looked up and saw something in my face.

“Marc?”

I didn’t speak.

“If your daughter is alive, we’ll bring her home. I promise.”

And for the first time, I was not sure that I believed her.

chapter 22

Special Agent Ticknerstared down at the report.

The Seidman murder-kidnapping had been beyond back-burner. The FBI had realigned its priorities in recent years. Terrorism was number one on the most wanted list. Numbers two through ten were, well, terrorism. The Seidman case had only involved him when it became a kidnapping issue. Despite what you see on television, the local police are usually anxious to have the FBI involved. The feds have the resources and the know-how. Calling them too late can cost a life. Regan had been smart enough not to wait.

But once the kidnapping issue was—and he hated to use this term for it—“resolved,” Tickner’s job (unofficially at least) was to back off and leave it to the locals. He still thought about it a lot—you don’t forget the sight of a baby’s clothing in a cabin like that—but in his mind, the case had been inactive.

Until five minutes ago.

He read the brief report for the third time. He wasn’t trying to put it together. Not yet. This was too weird for that. What he was trying to do, what he hoped to accomplish, was to find some kind of angle, some sort of handle he could grip. Nothing came to him.

Rachel Mills. How the hell did she fit into this?

A young subordinate—Tickner couldn’t remember if his name was Kelly or Fitzgerald, something Irish like that—stood in front of the desk, hands not sure what to do. Tickner leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He tapped the pen against his lower lip.

“There has to be a connection between them,” he told Sean or Patrick.

“She claimed to be a private detective.”

“Is she licensed?”

“No, sir.”

Tickner shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. Check phone records, find some friends, whatever. Trace it down for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call that detective agency. The MVD. Tell them I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Irish kid left. Tickner stared off. He and Rachel had gone through training together at Quantico. They’d both had the same mentor. Tickner thought about what to do here. While he didn’t always trust the locals, he liked Regan. The guy was just off enough to be an asset. He picked up the phone and dialed Regan’s cell.

“Detective Regan.”

“Long time, no speak.”

“Ah, Federal Agent Tickner. You still wearing the sunglasses?”

“You still stroking that soul patch—uh, among other things?”

“Yes. And maybe.”

Tickner could hear sitar music in the background. “You busy?”

“Not at all. I was just meditating.”

“Like Phil Jackson?”

“Exactly. Except I don’t have all those pesky championship rings. You should join me sometime.”

“Yeah, I’ll put that on my list of must-dos.”

“It would relax you, Agent Tickner. I hear tremendous strain in your voice.” Then: “I assume that there was a reason for this call?”

“Remember our favorite case?”

There was a funny pause. “Yes.”

“How long has it been since we had something new?”

“I don’t think we ever had anything new.”

“Well, we may now.”

“I’m listening.”

“We just got a strange call from an ex–FBI agent. Guy named Deward. He’s a private dick in Newark now.”

“So?”

“It seems our friend Dr. Seidman paid his office a visit today. And he had someone very special with him.”

Lydia dyed her hair black—the better to blend in with the night.

The plan, as it were, was simple.

“We confirm that he has the money,” she told Heshy. “Then I kill him.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. And the beauty of it is, the murder will automatically get tied to the original shooting.” Lydia smiled at him. “Even if something goes wrong, nothing ties back to us.”

“Lydia?”

“Something the matter?”

Heshy shrugged his giant shoulders. “Don’t you think it would be better if I kill him?”

“I’m the better shot, Pooh Bear.”

“But”—he hesitated, shrugged again—“I don’t need a weapon.”

“You’re trying to protect me,” she said.

He said nothing.

“That’s sweet.” And it was. But one of the reasons she wanted to do it herself was to protect Heshy. He was the vulnerable one here. Lydia never worried about getting caught. Part of it was classic overconfidence. Dumb people get caught, not those who were careful. But more than that, she knew if she did get nabbed, they’d never convict her. Forget her still girl-next-door looks, though that would undoubtedly be an asset. What no prosecutor would ever overcome would be the weepy Oprahization of her case. Lydia would remind them of her “tragic” past. She would claim abuses in many forms. She would cry on the talk shows. She would talk about the plight of the child star, of the calamity of being forced into the world of Pixie Trixie. She would look adorably victimized and innocent. And the public—not to mention the jury—would lap it up.

“I think it’s best this way,” she told him. “If he sees you approach, well, he is apt to run. But if he catches sight of lil’ ol’ me . . .” Lydia let her voice die out with a small shrug.

Heshy nodded. She was right. This should be cake. She stroked his face and handed him the car keys.

“Does Pavel understand his part?” Lydia asked.

“He does. He’ll meet us there. And yes, he’ll be wearing the flannel shirt.”

“Then we might as well start on our way,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Seidman.”

Heshy used the remote to unlock the car doors.

“Oh,” she said, “I have to check something before we go.”

Lydia opened the back door. The child was fast asleep in the car seat. She checked the straps and made sure that they were secure. “I better sit in the back, Pooh Bear,” she said. “Just in case a little someone wakes up.”

Heshy angled his way into the driver’s seat. Lydia took out the phone and voice changer and dialed the number.

chapter 23

We ordered apizza, which I think was a mistake. Late-night pizzas are college. It was yet another not-so-subtle reminder of the past. I kept staring at the mobile phone, wishing it to ring. Rachel was quiet, but that was okay. We had always been good with silence. That, too, was weird. In many ways, we were falling back, picking up where we’d left off. But in many more ways, we were strangers with a tenuous, awkward connection.

What was odd was that my memories were suddenly hazy. I’d thought that once I saw her again, they’d head straight to the surface. But few specifics came to me. It was more a feeling, an emotion, like the way I remembered the ruddy cold of New England. I don’t know why I couldn’t remember. And I wasn’t sure what it meant.

Rachel’s brow creased as she toyed with the electronic equipment. She took a bite of pizza and said, “Not as good as Tony’s.”

“That place was awful.”

“A little greasy,” she agreed.

“A little? Didn’t the large come with a coupon for a free angioplasty?”

“Well, there was that sludge-through-the-veins feel to it.”

We looked at each other.

“Rachel?”

“Yeah.”

“Suppose they don’t call.”

“Then they don’t have her, Marc.”

I let that settle in. I thought about Lenny’s son, Conner, the things he could say and do, and I tried to apply it to the baby I’d last laid eyes on in her crib. It wouldn’t compute, but that didn’t mean anything. There was hope. I held on to that. If my daughter was dead, if that phone never rang again, the hope would, I know, kill me. But I didn’t care. Better to go down this way than try to go the distance.

So I had hope. And I, the cynic, let myself believe the best.

When the cell phone finally did ring, it was nearly ten. I did not even glance over to Rachel and wait for her nod. My finger was on the answer button before the first chirp could die off.

“Hello?”

“Okay,” the robotic voice said, “you’ll get to see her.”

I couldn’t breathe. Rachel moved over closer and put her ear near mine.

“Good,” I said.

“You have the money?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen closely. Deviate from what I tell you and we disappear. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We checked with our police sources. So far, so good. It appears that you haven’t contacted the authorities. But we need to make sure. You will drive alone toward the George Washington Bridge. Once there, we will be in range. Use the two-way radio feature on the phone. I will tell you where to go and what to do. You will be searched. If we find any weapons or wires, we will disappear. Do you understand?”

I could feel Rachel’s breath quicken.

“When do I see my daughter?”

“When we meet.”

“How do I know you won’t just take the money?”

“How do you know I’m not going to hang up on you now?”

“I’m on my way,” I said. Then I quickly added, “But I won’t hand over the money until I see Tara.”

“Then we are in agreement. You have an hour. Signal me then.”

chapter 24

Conrad Dorfman didnot appear happy to be dragged back into the MVD office this late. Tickner didn’t care. If Seidman had come here alone, that would be an important lead, no doubt about it. But the fact that Rachel Mills had been here, too, that she was somehow involved, well, let’s just say that Tickner’s curiosity was more than piqued.

“Did Ms. Mills show you an ID?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dorfman replied. “But it was stamped ‘Retired.’ ”

“And she was with Dr. Seidman?”

“Yes.”

“They arrived together.”

“I think so. I mean, yes, when they came in here, they were together.”

Tickner nodded. “What did they want?”

“A password. For a CD-ROM.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“They claimed that they had a CD-ROM we provided to a client. Our CDs are password protected. They wanted us to give them the password.”

“Did you?”

Dorfman looked properly shocked. “Of course not. We had a call put in to your agency. They explained to us . . . well, they never quite explained to us anything really. They just stressed that we should not cooperate with Agent Mills in any way.”

“Ex-agent,” Tickner said.

How? Tickner wondered. How the hell had Rachel Mills hooked up with Seidman? He had tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Unlike his fellow agents, he had known her, had seen her in action. She’d been a good agent, maybe even a great one. But now he wondered. He wondered about the timing. He wondered about her being here. He wondered about her flashing her badge and trying to apply pressure.

“Did they tell you how they came by this CD-ROM?”

“They claimed that it belonged to Dr. Seidman’s wife.”

“Does it?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Are you aware that his wife died more than a year and a half ago, Mr. Dorfman?”

“I know that now.”

“But you didn’t when they were here?”

“Right.”

“Why did Seidman wait eighteen months to ask for the password?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Did you ask?”

Dorfman shifted in his seat. “No.”

Tickner smiled, buddy-to-buddy. “No reason you should,” he said, faux-genteel. “Did you give them any information at all?”

“None.”

“You didn’t tell them why Mrs. Seidman hired your agency in the first place?”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay, very good.” Tickner leaned forward, his elbows on his knees now. He was about to ask another question when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

“Is this going to take much longer?” Dorfman asked. “I have plans.”

He didn’t even bother responding. Rising, he put the phone to his ear. “Tickner.”

“It’s Agent O’Malley,” the young kid said.

“Did you find anything?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I’m listening.”

“We checked the phone records going back three years. Seidman never called her—at least, not from his house or office—until today.”

“Am I about to hear abut ?”

“You are. But Rachel Mills called him—once.”

“When?”

“June two years ago.”

Tickner did the math. That would have been about three months before the murder and kidnapping. “Anything else?”

“Something big, I think. I had one of our agents check Rachel’s apartment in Falls Church. He’s still poking around, but guess what he found in her night-table drawer?”

“Does this look like a quiz show, O’Ryan?”

“O’Malley.”

Tickner rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What did the agent find?”

“A prom photo.”

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t know if it’s from the prom exactly. It’s some kind of old formal. Photo gotta be fifteen, twenty years old. She’s wearing her hair in some flip-style and she’s got one of those flower bands on her arm. What do you call those?”

“A corsage?”

“Right.”

“What the hell does this have to do with—”

“The guy in the picture.”

“What about him?”

“Our agent is sure. The guy she’s with—her date, I mean—is our own Dr. Seidman.”

Tickner felt the thrum rush through him. “Keep digging,” he said. “Call me when you get more.”

“On it.”

He hung up the phone. Rachel and Seidman went to a prom together? What the hell was going on? She was from Vermont, if he remembered correctly. Seidman lived in New Jersey. They didn’t go to high school together. How about college? They’d have to look into it.

“Something wrong?”

Tickner turned. It was Dorfman. “Let me see if I have this straight, Mr. Dorfman. This CD-ROM belonged to Monica Seidman?”

“That’s what we were told, yes.”

“Yes or no, Mr. Dorfman.”

He cleared his throat. “We believe the answer is yes.”

“So she was a client here?”

“Yes, that we’ve been able to confirm.”

“So to sum up, a murder victim was a client of yours.”

Silence.

“Her name was in every paper in the state,” Tickner went on, giving him the hard stare. “How come you never came forward?”

“We didn’t know.”

Tickner kept with the hard stare.

“The guy who handled that case is no longer employed by us,” he added quickly. “See, he was gone by the time Mrs. Seidman was killed. So no one here put the pieces together.”

Defensive. Tickner liked that. He believed him, but he didn’t show it. Make the guy anxious to please.

“What was on the CD?”

“Photographs, we think.”

“Think?”

“That’s usually the case. Not always. We use the CD to store photographs, but there could be some scanned documents too. I really couldn’t tell you.”

“Why the hell not?”

He put up both hands. “Don’t worry. We have a backup. But any file more than a year old is stored in the basement. The office was closed, but when I heard you were interested, I got someone to come in. He’s running off the material on the backup CD right now.”

“Where?”

“He’s on the lower level.” Dorfman checked his watch. “He should be done or just about by now. Do you want to go down and see?”

Tickner stood. “Let’s rumble.”

chapter 25

“There are stillthings we can do,” Rachel said. “This stuff is state of the art. Even if they pat you down, we can get away with it. I have a bulletproof vest that has a pinhole camera right in the center.”

“And you don’t think they’ll find that with a pat-down?”

“Yeah, okay, look, I know you’re worried about them finding out, but let’s be realistic here. There’s an excellent chance this is all a setup. Don’t give up the money until you see Tara. Don’t get yourself stuck somewhere alone. Don’t worry about the Q-Logger—if they’re being up front, we’ll have Tara before they can search the stacks of money. I know this isn’t an easy decision, Marc.”

“No, you’re right. I played it safe last time. I think we need to take some chances. But the vest is out.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to be in the trunk. They may check the backseat to see if someone is lying there. The trunk will be a safer bet. I’ll disconnect the wires back there so when the trunk opens, no lights will come on. I’ll try to keep up with you, but I have to stay at a safe distance. Make no mistake here. I’m not Wonder Woman. I might lose you, but remember: Don’t look for me. Not even casually. These guys are probably pretty good. They’ll spot that.”

“I understand.” She was dressed totally in black. I said, “You look like you’re going to do a reading in the Village.”

“Kumbaya, my Lord. You ready?”

We both heard the car pull up. I looked out the window and felt my panic needle jump. “Damn,” I said.

“What?”

“That’s Regan, the cop on the case. I haven’t seen him in more than a month.” I looked at her. Her face was stark white against the black outfit. “Coincidence?”

“No coincidence,” she said.

“How the hell did he find out about the ransom?”

She moved back from the window. “He’s probably not here for that.”

“Then what?”

“My guess would be that they got word of my involvement from MVD.”

I frowned. “So?”

“No time to explain. Look, I’m going to go out to the garage and hide. He’s going to ask about me. Tell him I went back to D.C. If he presses, tell him I’m an old friend and leave it at that. He’s going to want to interrogate you.”

“Why?”

But she was already moving away from me. “Just be firm and get him out of there. I’ll wait for you by the car.”

I didn’t like it, but now was not the time. “Okay.”

Rachel headed to the garage via the door in the den. I waited until she was out of sight. When Regan hit my front walkway, I opened the door, trying to cut him off at the pass.

Regan smiled. “Were you expecting me?” he asked.

“I heard your car.”

He nodded as if I’d said something that required serious analysis. “Do you have a few moments, Dr. Seidman?”

“Actually, it’s a bad time.”

“Oh.” Regan did not break stride. He slid past me and into my front foyer, his eyes taking in everything. “Heading out, are we?”

“What do you want, Detective?”

“Some new information has come to our attention.”

I waited for him to say more.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“Of course.”

Regan had a strange, almost serene look on his face. He looked up at the ceiling, as if he were considering what color to paint it. “Where have you been today?”

“Get out, please.”

His eyes were still on the ceiling. “Your hostility surprises me.” But he did not look surprised.

“You said you had some new information. If you do, say it. If not, get out. I’m not in the mood to be questioned.”

He made a well-well face. “We hear that you visited a private detective agency in Newark today.”

“So?”

“So what were you doing there?”

“Tell you what, Detective. I’m going to ask you to leave because I know answering your questions will bring me no closer to finding my daughter.”

He looked at me. “You sure about that?”

“Kindly get the hell out of my house. Now.”

“Suit yourself.” Regan started for the door. When we reached it, he asked, “Where’s Rachel Mills?”

“Don’t know.”

“She’s not here?”

“Nope.”

“No idea at all where she could be?”

“I think she’s on her way back to Washington.”

“Hmm. How do you two know each other?”

“Good night, Detective.”

“Okay, sure. But one last question.”

I stifled a sigh. “You’ve watched too many episodes ofColumbo , Detective.”

“Indeed I have.” He smiled. “But let me ask it anyway.”

I spread my hands for him to go ahead.

“Do you know how her husband died?”

“He was shot,” I said too quickly, and immediately regretted it. He leaned a little more into my space and kept on me.

“And do you know who shot him?”

I stood without moving.

“Do you, Marc?”

“Good night, Detective.”

“She killed him, Marc. A bullet to the head at close range.”

“That,” I said, “is a load of bull.”

“Is it? I mean, are you sure?”

“If she killed him, why isn’t she in jail?”

“Good question,” Regan said, backing down the walkway. When he reached the end of the walkway, he added, “Maybe you should ask her.”

chapter 26

Rachel was inthe garage. She looked up at me. She suddenly looked small, I thought. And I saw fear in her face. The car trunk was open. I moved toward the driver-side door.

“What did he want?” she asked.

“What you said.”

“He knew about the CD?”

“He knew we’d been at MVD. He didn’t say anything about the CD.”

I slid into the car. She let it drop. Now was not the time to raise any new issues. We both knew that. But again I questioned my judgment here. My wife had been murdered. So had my sister. Someone had tried very hard to kill me. Stripping it bare, I was trusting a woman I really didn’t know. I was trusting her not only with my life, but with my daughter’s. How stupid when you think about it. Lenny had been right. It was not so simple. In truth, I had no idea who she was or what she’d become. I had deluded myself into making her something she might not be, and now I wondered what it might cost me.

Her voice cut through my haze. “Marc?”

“What?”

“I still think you should wear the bulletproof vest.”

“No.”

My tone was firmer than I’d wanted. Or maybe not. Rachel climbed into the trunk and closed it. I put the duffel bag with the money on the seat next to me. I hit the garage-door opener under the sun-visor and started the car.

We were on our way.

When Tickner was nine years old, his mother bought him a book of optical illusions. You’d look at a drawing of, say, an old lady with a big nose. You’d look a little longer and then, poof, it appeared now to be a young woman with her head turned. Tickner had loved the book. When he got a little older, he moved on to those Magic Eyes, staring for however long it took for the horsey or whatever to appear in the swirling colors. Sometimes it would take a long time. You’d even start to wonder if there was anything there at all. And then, suddenly, the image surfaced.

That was what was happening here.

There were moments in a case, Tickner knew, that altered everything—just like those old optical illusions. You are viewing one reality and then, with a gentle tilt, reality changes. Nothing is as it appeared.

He had never really bought the conventional theories on the Seidman murder-kidnapping. They all felt too much like reading a book with missing pages.

Over the years, Tickner had not dealt with that many murders. They were, for the most part, left to the local cops. But he knew plenty of homicide investigators. The best ones were always off center, overly theatrical, ridiculously imaginative. Tickner had heard them talk about a point in the case where the victim “reaches out” from the grave. The victim “talks” to them somehow, pointing them toward the killer. Tickner would listen to his nonsense and nod politely. It always sounded like a load of hyperbole, just one of those meaningless things cops say because the general public laps it up.

The printer still whirred. Tickner had seen twelve photos already.

“How many more?” he asked.

Dorfman looked at the computer screen. “Six more.”

“Same as these?”

“Pretty much, yeah. I mean, same person.”

Tickner stared down at the photographs. Yes, the same person was featured in all of them. They were all in black and white, all taken without the subject knowing, probably from a distance with a zoom lens.

The reach-from-the-grave stuff—it no longer sounded so silly. Monica Seidman had been dead for eighteen months. Her murderer had gone free. And now, with all hope lost, she seemed to have risen from the dead to point a finger. Tickner looked again and tried to understand.

The subject of the pictures, the person Monica Seidman was pointing at, was Rachel Mills.

When you take the eastern spur of the New Jersey Turnpike north, the night skyline of Manhattan beckons. Like most people who see it nearly every day, I used to take it for granted. No more. For a while afterward, I thought I could still see the Towers. It was as though they were bright lights I’d stared at for a long time, so that even when I closed my eyes, their images were still there, imbedded. But like any sunspot, the images eventually began to fade. It is different now. When I drive this route, I still make myself look for them. Even tonight. But sometimes I forget precisely where those towers stood. And that angers me more than I can express.

Out of habit, I took the lower level of the George Washington Bridge. There was no traffic at this hour. I drove through the E-ZPass. I had managed to keep myself distracted. I flipped stations between two talk radio shows. One was a sports station where lots of guys named Vinny from Bayside called up and complained about inept coaches and how much better they’d be at the job. The other station featured two beyond-puerile Howard Stern rip-offs who thought it was funny for a college freshman to call his mother and tell her he had testicular cancer. Both were, if not entertaining, mildly distracting.

Rachel was in the trunk, which was totally weird if I thought about it. I reached for the cell phone and flipped on the two-way radio feature. My finger pressed down on the call button and almost instantly I heard the robotic voice say, “Take the Henry Hudson north.”

I put the phone to mouth, walkie-talkie style. “Okay.”

“Tell me the moment you get on the Hudson.”

“Right.”

I got into the left lane. I knew the way. This area was familiar to me. I had done a fellowship at New York Presbyterian, which resided about ten blocks south. Zia and I had roomed with a cardiac resident named Lester in an Art Deco building at the tail end of Fort Washington Avenue in upper, upper Manhattan. When I lived here, this section of the city was known as the far northern point of Washington Heights. Now I had noticed several realtors redubbing it “Hudson Heights” so as to differentiate it, in both substance and cost, from its lower-class roots.

“Okay, I’m on the Hudson,” I said.

“Take your next exit.”

“Fort Tryon Park?”

“Yes.”

Again I knew it. Fort Tryon floats cloudlike high above the Hudson River. It is a quiet and restful jagged cliff, New Jersey on its west, Riverdale-Bronx on its east. The park is a mishmash of terrains—walkways of harsh stone, fauna from a bygone era, terraces of stone, nooks and crannies of cement and brick, thick brush, rocky slopes, open grass. I had spent plenty of summer days on her green lawns, adorned in shorts and T-shirt, Zia and unread medical books my companions. My favorite time here: summer, right before dark. The orange glow bathing the park in something almost ethereal.

I put on my blinker and glided onto the exit ramp. There were no cars and few lights. The park was closed at night, but the roadway stayed open for through traffic. My car chugged up the steep road and entered what felt like a medieval fortress. The Cloisters, a former quasi-French monastery that was now part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, held middle ground. It houses a fabulous collection of medieval artifacts. Or so I’m told. I’ve been in this park a hundred times. I’ve never been inside the Cloisters.

It was, I thought, a smart place for a ransom drop—dark, quiet, filled with serpentine trails, stone cliffs, sudden drops, thick woods, paved and unpaved walks. You could get lost here. You could hide here for a very long time and never be found.

The robotic voice asked, “Are you there yet?”

“I’m in Fort Tryon, yes.”

“Park near the café. Get out and walk up to the circle.”

Riding in the trunk was noisy and jarring. Rachel had brought a padded blanket, but there was not much she could do about the noise. A flashlight stayed in her satchel. She had no interest in turning it on. Rachel had never minded the dark.

Sight could be distracting. The dark was a good place to think.

She tried to keep her body loose, riding bumps, and wondered about Marc’s behavior right before they left. The cop at the house had, no doubt, said something that shook him. About her? Probably. She wondered what exactly he had said and how she should react.

Didn’t matter now. They were on their way. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.

Rachel was falling back into a familiar role. There was a pang here. She missed being with the FBI. She had loved her job. Yes, perhaps it was all she had. It was more than her escape—it was the only thing she really enjoyed doing. Some people pushed through the nine-to-five so they could go home and live their lives. For Rachel, it was the opposite.

After all these years apart, here was something that she and Marc had in common: They’d both found careers they loved. She wondered about that. She wondered if there was a connection, if their careers had become some kind of true-love substitute. Or was that looking at it too deeply?

Marc still had his job. She did not. Did that make her more desperate?

No. His child was gone. Game, set, match.

In the darkness of the trunk, she smeared her face with black makeup, enough to take the shine away. The car started climbing upward. Her gear was packed and ready.

She thought about Hugh Reilly, the son of a bitch.

Her breakup with Marc—and everything after—was his fault. Hugh had been her dearest friend in college. That was what he wanted, he told her. Just to be her friend. No pressure. He understood that she had a boyfriend. Had Rachel been naïve or purposefully naïve? Men who want to “just be friends” do so because they hope to be next in line, as though friendship were an on-deck circle, a good place for practice swings before heading to the plate. Hugh had called her in Italy that night with nothing but the best of intentions. “I just think you should know,” he said, “as your friend.” Right. And then he told her what Marc had done at some stupid frat party.

Yes, enough blaming herself. Enough blaming Marc. Hugh Reilly. If that son of a bitch had just minded his own business, what would her life be like right now? She couldn’t say. Ah, but what had her life become? That was easier to answer. She drank too much. She had a bad temper. Her stomach bothered her more than it should. She spent too much time readingTV Guide . And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: She had gotten herself ensnared in a self-destructive relationship—and gotten herself out of it in the worst way possible.

The car veered and climbed upward, forcing Rachel to roll back. A moment or two later, the car stopped. Rachel lifted her head. The cruel musings fled.

It was game time.

From the old fort’s lookout tower, some two hundred fifty feet above the Hudson River, Heshy had one of the most stunning views of the Jersey Palisades, stretching from the Tappan Zee Bridge on the right to the George Washington Bridge on his left. He actually took the time to appreciate it before he got to the matter at hand.

As though on cue, Seidman took the exit off the Henry Hudson Parkway. No one followed. Heshy kept his eyes on the road. No car slowed. No car sped up. No one was trying to make it look as though they weren’t following.

He spun around, lost sight of the car for a brief moment, then spotted it again as it came back into view. He could see Seidman in the driver’s seat. No one else was visible. That didn’t mean much—someone could be ducking down in the back—but it was a start.

Seidman parked the car. He turned off the engine and opened the door. Heshy lifted the microphone to his mouth.

“Pavel, you ready?”

“Yes.”

“He’s alone,” he said, speaking now for Lydia’s benefit. “Proceed.”

“Park near the café. Get out and walk up to the circle.”

The circle, I knew, was Margaret Corbin Circle. When I reached the clearing, the first thing I spotted, even in the dark, was the bright colors of the children’s playground near Fort Washington Avenue at 190th Street. The colors still leapt out. I’d always liked this playground, but tonight the yellows and blues taunted me. I thought of myself as a city boy. When I lived near here, I’d imagined staying in this neighborhood—too sophisticated was I for the vanilla suburbs—and of course, that meant that I would bring my children to this very park. I took that as an omen, but I didn’t know of what.

The phone squawked. “There’s a subway station on the left.”

“Okay.”

“Take the stairs down toward the elevator.”

I might have suspected this. He would put me on the elevator and then on the A train. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for Rachel to follow me.

“Are you on the stairs?”

“Yes.”

“At the bottom, you’ll see a gate on the right.”

I knew where it was. It led to a smaller park and was locked except for weekends. It had been set aside as something of a small picnic area. There were Ping-Pong tables, though you had to bring your own net and paddles to play. There were benches and eating areas. Kids used it for birthday parties.

The wrought-iron gate, I remember, was always locked.

“I’m there,” I said.

“Make sure no one sees you. Push open the gate. Slip through and quickly close it.”

I peered inside. The park was black. Distant streetlights reached out and gave the area no more than a dull glow. The duffel bag felt heavy. I adjusted it up my shoulder. I looked behind me now. No one. I looked to my left. The subway elevators were still. I put my hand on the gate door. The padlock had been cut. I gave the area one more quick glance because that was what the robotic voice had told me to do.

No sign of Rachel.

The gate creaked when I pushed it open. The echo ripped through the still night. I slipped through the opening and let the dark swallow me whole.

Rachel felt the car rock as Marc got out.

She made herself wait a full minute, which felt like two hours. When she thought that it was probably safe, Rachel lifted the trunk an inch and peeked out.

She saw no one.

Rachel had a gun with her, a fed-issue Glock .22 40-caliber semiautomatic, and she carried her night-vision goggles, Rigel 3501 military-grade Gen. 2+. The Palm Pilot that could read the Q-Logger transmitter was in her pocket.

She doubted that anyone would see her, but she still only opened the trunk wide enough so she could roll out. She huddled down low. Her hand reached back and grabbed the semiautomatic and night-vision goggles. Then she quietly closed the trunk.

Field operations had always been her favorite—or at least, the training for them. There had been very few missions that required this sort of cloak-and-dagger reconnaissance. For the most part, stakeouts were high-tech. You had vans and spy planes and fiber-optics. You rarely found yourself crawling through the night in black clothes and greasepaint.

She made herself small against the back tire. In the distance, she saw Marc heading up the drive. She put the gun in its holster and strapped the night-vision goggles to her belt. Keeping low, Rachel moved up the grass to higher ground. There was still enough light. She didn’t need the goggles yet.

A sliver of moon sliced through the sky. There were no stars tonight. Up ahead, she could see that Marc had the cell phone near his ear. The duffel bag was on his shoulder. Rachel looked around, saw no one. Would the drop take place here? It wasn’t a bad place, if you had a planned escape route. She started to think about the possibilities.

Fort Tryon was hilly. The secret would be to try to get higher. She started climbing and was just about to settle in when Marc exited the park.

Damn. She’d have to move again.

Rachel commando-crawled down the hill. The grass was prickly and smelled like hay, the cause being, she assumed, the recent water shortage. She tried to keep her eyes on Marc, but she lost him when he left the park grounds. She took a risk and moved quicker. At the park gate, she ducked behind a stone pillar.

Marc was there. But not for very long.

With the phone back to his ear, Marc veered to the left and vanished down the steps leading to the A train.

Up ahead, Rachel saw a man and a woman walking a dog. They could be part of this—or they could be a man and a woman walking a dog. Marc was still out of sight. No time for debate now. She ducked low at a stone wall.

Leaning her back against it, Rachel made her way toward the stairs.

Tickner thought that Edgar Portman looked like something out of a Noël Coward production. He wore silk pajamas under a red robe that appeared to have been tied with great care. There were velvet slippers on his feet. His brother, Carson, on the other hand, looked properly ruffled. His pajamas were askew. His hair was all over the place. His eyes were bloodshot.

Neither Portman could take his eyes off the photographs from the CD.

“Edgar,” Carson said, “let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Not jump . . . ?” Edgar turned to Tickner. “I gave him money.”

“Yes, sir,” Tickner said. “A year and a half ago. We know about that.”

“No.” Edgar tried to make the word snap with impatience, but he didn’t have the strength. “I mean, recently. Today, in fact.”

Tickner sat up. “How much?”

“Two million dollars. There was another ransom demand.”

“Why didn’t you contact us?”

“Oh sure.” Edgar made a sound that was half chortle, half sneer. “You all did such a wonderful job last time.”

Tickner felt the tick in his blood. “Are you saying that you gave your son-in-law an additional two million dollars?”

“That is precisely what I’m saying.”

Carson Portman was still staring at the photographs. Edgar glanced at his brother, then back at Tickner. “Did Marc Seidman kill my daughter?”

Carson stood up. “You know better.”

“I’m not asking you, Carson.”

Both men looked at Tickner now. Tickner was not having any of it. “You said you met with your son-in-law today?”

If Edgar was upset about his question being ignored, he did not show it. “Early this morning,” he said. “At Memorial Park.”

“That woman in the pictures.” Tickner gestured toward them. “Was she with him?”

“No.”

“Has either of you ever seen her before?”

Both Carson and Edgar answered in the negative. Edgar picked up one of the photographs. “My daughter hired a private investigator to take these?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Who is she?”

Tickner again ignored his question. “The ransom note came to you, like last time?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I follow. How did you know that it wasn’t a hoax? How did you know that you were dealing with the real kidnappers?”

Carson took that one. “We did think it was a hoax,” he said. “At first, I mean.”

“So what changed your mind?”

“They sent hairs again.” Carson quickly explained about the tests and about Dr. Seidman’s request for additional tests.

“You gave him all the hairs, then?”

“We did, yes,” Carson said.

Edgar seemed lost in the photographs again. “This woman,” he spat. “Was Seidman involved with her?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Why else would my daughter want these pictures taken?”

A mobile phone rang. Tickner excused himself and put the receiver to his ear.

“Bingo,” O’Malley said.

“What?”

“We got a hit on Seidman’s E-ZPass. He crossed the George Washington Bridge five minutes ago.”

The robotic voice told me, “Walk down the path.”

There was still enough light to see the first few steps. I started down them. The darkness gathered around, closed in. I started to use my foot to feel my way, like a blind man swinging a cane. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all. I wondered again about Rachel. Was she near here? I tried to follow the path. It curved to the left. I stumbled on the cobblestone.

“Okay,” the voice said. “Stop.”

I did so. I could see nothing in front of me. Behind me, the street was a faded glow. On my right was a steep incline. The air had that city-park smell to it, a swirling potpourri of fresh and stale. I listened for some sort of clue, but there was nothing other than the distant humming swish of traffic.

“Put down the money.”

“No,” I said. “I want to see my daughter.”

“Put down the money.”

“We had a deal. You show me my daughter, I show you the money.”

There was no reply. I could hear the blood roaring in my ears. The fear was crippling. No, I did not like this. I was too exposed. I checked the path behind me. I could still break into a run and scream like a psycho. This neighborhood was tighter than most in Manhattan. Someone might call the police or try to help.

“Dr. Seidman?”

“Yes?”

And then a flashlight hit my face. I blinked and raised a hand to block my eyes. I squinted, trying to see past it. Someone lowered the flashlight beam. My eyes quickly adjusted, but there was no need. The beam was cut off by a silhouette. There was no mistake. I could see immediately what was being highlighted.

There was a man. I may have even seen flannel, I’m not sure. As I said, it was in silhouette. I couldn’t really make out features or colors or design. So that part could have been my imagination. But not the rest. I saw the shapes and outlines clear enough to know.

Standing next to the man, gripping his leg just above the knee, was a small child.

chapter 27

Lydia wished thatthere was more light. She would very much like to see the look on Dr. Seidman’s face right now. Her desire to see his expression had nothing to do with the cruelty that was about to come down. It was curiosity. It was deeper than the slow-to-see-the-car-accident aspect of human nature. Imagine. This man had had his child taken away. For a year and a half, he had been left to wonder about her fate, tossing through sleepless nights, conjuring up horrors best left in the dark abyss of our subconscious.

Now he had seen her.

It would be unnaturalnot to want to see the expression on his face.

Seconds ticked away. She wanted that. She wanted to stretch the tension, pull him beyond what a man could handle, soften him for the final blow.

Lydia took out her Sig-Sauer. She held it to her side. Peering out from behind the bush she judged the distance between her and Seidman at thirty, maybe forty feet. She put the voice changer and phone back to her mouth. She whispered into it. Whisper or scream, it made no difference. The voice changer made it all sound the same.

“Open the money bag.”

From her perch, she watched him move like a man in a trance. He did what she asked—now without question. This time, she was the one using the flashlight. She shone it at his face and then dropped the beam to the bag.

Money. She could see the stacks. She nodded to herself. They were good to go.

“Okay,” she said. “Leave the money on the ground. Walk slowly down the path. Tara will be waiting for you.”

She watched Dr. Seidman drop the bag. He was squinting at the spot where he believed his daughter would be waiting. His movements were stiff, but then again his vision had probably been affected by the lights in his eyes. That again would make it easier.

Lydia wanted a close shot. Two quick bullets to the head, in case he was wearing a flak jacket. She was a good shot. She could probably hit him in the head from here. But she wanted the sure thing. No mistakes. No chance to run.

Seidman moved toward her. He was twenty feet away. Then fifteen. When he was only ten feet away, Lydia raised the pistol and took aim.

If Marc took the subway, Rachel knew that it’d be near impossible to follow him without being spotted.

Rachel hurried toward the stairwell. When she got there, she looked down into the dark. Marc was gone. Damn. She scanned the surroundings. There was a sign for elevators leading down to the A train. On the right was a closed wrought-iron gate. Nothing else.

He had to be in an elevator heading down to the subway.

Now what?

She heard footsteps behind her. With her right hand, Rachel quickly wiped the greasepaint, hoping to make herself look at least semi-presentable. With her left hand, she slid the goggles behind her and out of sight.

Two men trotted down the stairs. One caught her eye and smiled. She wiped her face again and smiled back. The men jogged the rest of the way down the steps and turned toward the elevator bank.

Rachel quickly considered her options. Those two men could be her cover. She could follow them down, get into the same elevator, get off with them, maybe even engage them in conversation. Who’d suspect her then? Hopefully Marc’s subway car hadn’t left yet. If it had . . . well, no use in thinking negative.

Rachel started toward the men when something made her stop. The wrought-iron gate. The one she had seen on her right. It was closed. The sign on it read:OPEN ON WEEKENDS AND MAJOR HOLIDAYS ONLY .

But through the thicket, Rachel saw the beam of a flashlight.

She pulled up. She tried to peer through the fence, but all she could see was the light beam. The brush was too thick. On her left, she heard the ding of an elevator. The doors slid open. The men stepped inside. No time to pull out the Palm Pilot and check the GPS. Besides, the elevator and beam of flashlight were too close. It would be hard to pinpoint the difference.

The man who had smiled at her put his hand against the side, keeping the door open. She wondered what to do.

The flashlight beam went out.

“Are you coming?” the man asked.

She waited for the flashlight beam to come back on. It didn’t. She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Rachel quickly broke back up the stairs, trying to find a dark spot. It had to be dark for the goggles to work. The Rigels came with a built-in overlight sensor system to protect from bright lights, but Rachel still found that the fewer artificial lights, the better. Street level looked down over the park. Okay, the positioning was pretty good, but there was still too much light from the street.

She moved to the side of the stone hut that housed the elevators. On the left, there was a spot that—if she pressed herself against the wall—would give her total darkness. Perfect. The trees and bushes were still too heavy to get a clear view. But it would have to do.

Her goggles were supposedly lightweight but they still felt bulky. She should have bought a model you could just hold up to your face, binocular style. Most have that feature. This model didn’t. You could not just hold it to up your eyes. You had to strap it on as a mask. The advantage, however, was obvious: If you attached it like a mask, you could keep your hands free.

As she pulled them over her head, the flashlight beam appeared again. Rachel tried to follow it, see where it was coming from. It seemed to her that it was a different spot this time. Over on the right now. Closer.

And then, before she could pinpoint it, the beam was gone.

Her eyes locked on the spot where she thought the beam had come from. Dark. Very dark now. Still keeping her eyes looking there, she finished getting the night-vision goggles in place. Night-vision goggles are not magic. They don’t really see in the dark. Night-vision optics work by intensifying existing light, even very small amounts. But here, there was pretty much nothing. That used to be a problem, but now most brands came with an infrared illuminator standard. The illuminator cast a beam of infrared light that was not visible to the human eye.

But it was visible to the night-vision goggles.

Rachel flipped on the illuminator. The night lit up in full green. She was looking not through a lens, but at a phosphor screen, not unlike the one on your TV set. The eyepiece magnified the picture—you were looking at a picture, not the actual site—and the picture was green because the human eye can differentiate more shades of green than any other phosphor color. Rachel stared.

Got something.

The view was hazy, but it looked to Rachel like a small woman. The woman seemed to be hiding behind a bush. She held something up to her mouth. A phone maybe. Peripheral vision is nearly nonexistent with these goggles, though these claimed to give you a thirty-seven-degree angle. She had to swivel her head to the right, and there, putting down the duffel bag with the two million dollars in it, was Marc.

Marc started walking toward the woman. His steps were short, probably because he was on cobblestones in the dark.

Rachel swiveled her head from the woman, to Marc, back to the woman. Marc was approaching, getting closer. The woman was still crouched in hiding. There was no way Marc could see her. Rachel frowned and wondered what the hell was going on.

Then the woman swung her arm up.

It was hard to see clearly—there were trees and branches in the way—but the woman seemed to be pointing her finger at Marc. They were not far apart anymore. Rachel squinted at the screen attached to her face. And it was then that she realized that the woman was not pointing a finger. The image was too big for a hand.

It was a gun. The woman was pointing a gun at Marc’s head.

A shadow crossed over Rachel’s vision. She started back, opening her mouth to call out a warning, when a hand like a baseball glove covered her mouth and smothered all sound away.

Tickner and Regan hooked up on the New Jersey Turnpike. Tickner drove. Regan sat next to him and stroked his face.

Tickner shook his head. “Can’t believe you still have that soul patch.”

“You don’t like it?”

“You think you’re Enrique Iglesias?”

“Who?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s wrong with the soul patch?”

“It’s like wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘I Had a Middle-Age Crisis in 1998.’ ”

Regan thought about it. “Yeah, okay, fair point. By the way, those sunglasses you always wear. I was wondering if they were FBI issue.”

Tickner grinned. “Helps me land the chicks.”

“Yeah, those and your stun gun.” Regan shifted in the chair. “Lloyd?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not sure I get it.”

They weren’t talking about eyewear or facial hair anymore.

“We don’t have all the pieces,” Tickner said.

“But we’re getting close?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Let’s go through it then, cool?”

Tickner nodded. “First off, if the DNA lab Edgar Portman used is correct, the child is still alive.”

“Which is weird.”

“Very. But it explains a lot. Who would be most likely to keep a kidnapped child alive?”

“Her father,” Regan said.

“And whose gun mysteriously vanished from the murder scene?”

“Her father’s.”

Tickner made a gun with his forefinger and thumb, aimed it at Regan, dropped the hammer. “Righto.”

“So where has the kid been all this time?” Regan asked.

“Hidden.”

“Well, gee, that helps.”

“No, think about it. We’ve been looking at Seidman. We’ve looked closely. He knows that. So who would be the best person to hide his kid?”

Regan saw where he was going. “The girlfriend we didn’t know about.”

“More than that, a girlfriend who used to work for the feds. A girlfriend who would know how we work. How to do a ransom drop. How to hide a child. Someone who would know Seidman’s sister, Stacy, and be able to enlist her help.”

Regan thought about it. “Okay, let’s assume I believe all that. They commit this crime. They get two million dollars and the kid. But then what? They bide their time for eighteen months? They decide they need more cash? What?”

“They need to wait to avoid suspicion. Maybe they wanted the wife’s estate to clear. Maybe they need another two million dollars to run away, I don’t know.”

Regan frowned. “We’re still trying to finesse away the same point.”

“What’s that?”

“If Seidman was behind this, how come he was nearly killed? This was no wound-me-so-it-looks-good injury. He was flatlined. The paramedics were sure they had a goner when they first got there. Hell, we quietly called it a double homicide for almost ten days.”

Tickner nodded. “It’s a problem.”

“And more than that, where the hell is he going right now? I mean, crossing the George Washington Bridge. Do you think he decided now was the time to flee with the two million dollars?”

“Could be.”

“If you were fleeing, would you use your E-ZPass to pay the toll?”

“No, but he might not know how easy it is to trace.”

“Hey, everyone knows how easy it is to trace. You get the bill in the mail. It tells you what time you hit what tollbooth. And even if he was dumb enough to forget that, your federal agent Rachel Whatshername isn’t.”

“Rachel Mills.” Tickner nodded slowly. “Good point, though.”

“Thank you.”

“So what conclusions can we draw?”

“That we still don’t have a clue what the hell is going on,” Regan said.

Tickner smiled. “Nice to be in familiar territory.”

The cell phone rang. Tickner picked it up. It was O’Malley. “Where are you?” O’Malley asked.

“A mile from the George Washington Bridge,” Tickner said.

“Hit the accelerator.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“NYPD just spotted Seidman’s car,” O’Malley said. “It’s parked at Fort Tryon Park—a mile, maybe mile and a half, from the bridge.”

“Know it,” Tickner said. “We’ll be there in less than five.”

Heshy had thought that it was all going a little too smoothly.

He’d watched Dr. Seidman leave his car. He waited. No one else had come out. He’d started down from the old fort’s tower.

That was when he spotted the woman.

He paused, watching her head down toward the subway elevators. Two guys were with her. Nothing suspicious in that. But then, when the woman sprinted back up alone, well, that was when things had changed.

He kept a close eye from then on. When she moved into the darkness, Heshy started creeping toward her.

Heshy knew that his appearance was intimidating. He also knew that much of the circuitry inside of his brain was not wired normally. He didn’t much care, which, he assumed, was part of the wiring problem. There were those who would tell you that Heshy was pure evil. He had killed sixteen people in his life, fourteen of them slowly. He had left six men alive who still wished that he hadn’t.

Supposedly, people like Heshy did not understand what they were doing. Other people’s pain did not reach them. That was not true. His victims’ pain was not something distant to him. He knew what pain was like. And he understood love. He loved Lydia. He loved her in ways most people could never fathom. He would kill for her. He would die for her. Many people say that about their loved ones, of course—but how many are willing to put it to the test?

The woman in the dark had binoculars strapped onto her head. Night-vision goggles. Heshy had seen them on the news. Soldiers in battle wore them. Having them did not necessarily mean she was a cop. Most weaponry and military gizmos were available online to anyone with the proper dollars. Heshy watched her. Either way, cop or no cop, if the goggles worked, this woman would be a witness to Lydia committing murder.

So she had to be silenced.

He closed in slowly. He wanted to hear if she was talking to anyone, if she had some kind of radio control to other units. But the woman was silent. Good. Maybe she was indeed on her own.

He was about two yards away from her when her body stiffened. The woman gave a little gasp. And Heshy knew that it was time to close her down.

He hurried over, moving with a grace that defied his bulk. He snaked one hand around her face and clasped it over her mouth. His hand was big enough to cover her nose too. Cut off the air supply. With his free hand, he cupped the back of her skull. He pushed his hands together.

And then, with both hands firmly placed on the woman’s head, Heshy lifted her all the way off the ground.

chapter 28

A sound mademe stop. I turned to my right. I thought that maybe I heard something up there, near the street level. I tried to see, but my eyes were still suffering from the onslaught of the flashlight. The trees also helped cut off my view. I waited, seeing if I heard a follow-up. Nothing. The sound was gone now. It wasn’t important anyway. Tara should be waiting for me at the end of this path. Whatever else might go on, that was all that counted.

Focus, I thought again. Tara, end of the path. All else was extraneous.

I started up again, not even glancing behind me to check on the fate of the duffel bag with the two million dollars in it. It, too, was, like everything else but Tara, irrelevant. I tried to conjure up the shadowy image again, the silhouette made by the flashlight. I trudged on. My daughter. She could be right here, scant steps from where I now walked. I had been given a second chance to rescue her. Focus on that. Compartmentalize. Let nothing stop me.

I continued down the path.

While with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Rachel had been well trained in weapons and hand-to-hand combat. She had learned much during her four months at Quantico. She knew that true fighting was nothing like you saw on TV. You would never, for example, mess around with a high kick to the face. You would never try anything involving turning your back on an opponent, spinning, leaping—none of that.

Successful hand-to-hand combat could be broken down pretty simply. You aimed for the vulnerable spots on the body. The nose was good—it usually made your opponent’s eyes well up with tears. The eyes, of course. The throat was good too—anyone who has ever been struck there knew how it could shut down your will to fight. The groin, well, obvious. You always hear that. The groin, however, is a difficult target, probably because a man is prone to defend it. It’s usually better as a decoy move. Fake there and then go to one of the other more exposed, vulnerable spots.

There were other areas—the solar plexus, the instep, the knee. But there was also a problem with all these techniques. In the movies, a smaller opponent might beat a larger one. In reality, yes, that can happen, but when the woman is as small as Rachel and the man as large as her current attacker, the odds of her coming out on the winning end are very small. If the attacker knows what he is doing, very small becomes pretty close to nonexistent.

The other problem for a woman is that fights never go as they do in the movies. Think about any physical altercation you may have seen in a bar or at a sporting event or even on a playground. The battle almost always ends up in a grapple on the floor. On TV or in a boxing ring, sure, people stand and hit each other. In real life, one or the other ducks down and grabs the opponent and they go down to the ground and wrestle. It didn’t matter how much training you had. If the fight reached that stage, Rachel would never defeat an opponent this large.

Lastly, while Rachel had practiced and trained and been in simulated dangerous situations—Quantico went so far as to have a “mock town” for these purposes—she had never been involved in a real physical altercation before. She was not ready for the pure panic, the tingly, unpleasant numbness in the legs, the way adrenaline mixed with fear saps your strength.

Rachel could not breathe. She felt the hand on her mouth and, out of her element, reacted wrong. Instead of immediately kicking behind her—trying to take out his knee or stomping down on the instep—Rachel worked on instinct and used both her hands to pry her mouth free. It did not work.

Within seconds, the man had his other hand on the base of her head, holding her skull in a viselike grip. She could feel his fingers dig into her gums, push in her teeth. His hands seemed so powerful that Rachel was sure he could crush her skull like an eggshell. He didn’t. Instead he wrenched up. Her neck took the brunt of it. It felt as if her head was being torn off. The hand against her mouth and nostrils effectively cut off her air supply. He lifted more. Her feet fully left the ground. She took hold of his wrists and tried to pull up, tried to lessen the strain on her neck.

But she still could not breathe.

There was a roaring in her ears. Her lungs burned. Her feet kicked out. They landed on him, blows so tiny and impotent he didn’t bother to block them. His face was close to her now. She could feel the spit in his breath. Her night-vision goggles had been knocked askew but not all the way off. They blocked her sight.

The pressure in her head was pounding. Trying to remember her training, Rachel dug her nails into the pressure point on his hand beneath the thumb. No effect. She kicked harder. Nothing. She needed a breath. She felt like a fish on the line, flailing, dying. Panic took hold.

Her gun.

She could reach for it. If she could just control herself long enough, to have the courage to release her hand, she could go for her pocket, pull out the weapon, and fire it. It was her only chance. Her brain was going groggy. Consciousness was starting to ebb away.

With her skull seconds away from exploding, Rachel dropped her left hand away. Her neck stretched so taut, she was sure it would snap like a rubber band. Her hand found her holster. Her fingers touched the gun.

But the man saw what she was doing. With Rachel still dangling in the air like a rag doll, he kneed her hard in the kidney. Pain exploded in a flash of red. Her eyes rolled back. But Rachel did not give in. She kept going for the gun. The man had no choice. He put her down.

Air.

Her breathing passage was finally opened. She tried not to gulp it down, but her lungs had other ideas. She couldn’t stop.

Her relief, however, was short lived. With one hand, the man stopped her from pulling out her gun. With the other, he delivered a dartlike blow to her throat. Rachel gagged and went down. The man took hold of her weapon and tossed it away. He dropped hard on top of her. The little wind she had managed to gather was gone now. He straddled her chest and moved his hands toward her throat.

That was when the police car sped past.

The man suddenly sat up. She tried to take advantage, but he was simply too big. He grabbed a cell phone from his pocket and put it to his mouth. In a harsh whisper, he said, “Abort! Cops!”

Rachel tried to move, tried to do something. But there was nothing left. She looked up in time to see the man cock his fist. It started toward her. She tried to turn away. But there was no place to go.

The blow jarred her head back against the cobblestone. And then darkness flooded in.

When Marc walked past her, Lydia stepped out of the bush from behind him with the gun up. She was aiming at the back of the head and had her finger on the trigger. The “Abort! Cops!” call in her earpiece startled her so, she almost pulled the trigger. But her mind worked fast. Seidman was still heading down the path. Lydia saw everything. Saw it clearly. She dumped the gun. No gun on her, no proof of any wrongdoing. The weapon could never be tied to her as long as it was not in her possession. Like most weapons, it was untraceable. She wore gloves, of course, so there would be no fingerprints.

But—her mind was still working fast here—what was there to prevent her from taking the money?

She was just Miss Citizen taking a stroll through the park. She could spot the duffel bag, right? If she was caught with it, well, she was just being a good Samaritan. Given the chance, she would have brought the bag to the police. No crime there. No risk.

Not when you consider that two million dollars was inside it.

Her mind quickly ran through the pros and cons. Simple when you think about it. Take the money. If they caught her with it, so what? There was absolutely nothing to tie her to this crime. She had dumped the gun. She had dumped the cell phone. Sure, someone might find it. But it would not lead to either her or Heshy.

She heard a noise. Marc Seidman, who’d been about fifteen feet in front of her, broke into a sprint. Fine, no problem. Lydia started toward the money. Heshy appeared around the corner. She continued toward him. Without hesitation, Lydia scooped up the bag.

Then Lydia and Heshy headed down the path, fading into the night.

I continued to stumble forward. My eyes were beginning to adjust, but they were still several minutes from being particularly useful. The path slid downward. There were small cobblestones. I tried not to trip. The route grew steeper now, and I let the momentum carry me so that I could move faster without appearing to be running.

On my right, I could see the abrupt slope that overlooked the Bronx. Lights twinkled from way below.

I heard a child’s yelp.

I stopped. It was not loud, but the sound was unmistakably that of a small child. I heard rustling. The child yelped again. It was farther away now. The rustling sound was gone, but I could hear the steady slap of footsteps on the pavement. Someone was running. Running with a child. Away from me.

No.

I broke into a sprint. The faraway lights provided enough illumination so that I could stay on the path. Up ahead, I saw the chain-link fence. It had always been locked. When I reached it, I saw that someone had used a bolt cutter on it. I pushed through and was back on the path now. I looked to my left, which led back up to the park.

No one.

Damn, what the hell had gone wrong? I tried to think rationally. Focus. Okay, if I were the one running away, which way would I go? Simple. I would veer to the right. The paths were confusing, dark, windy. You could easily hide in the shrubs. That would be the way to go if one were a kidnapper. I stopped for only an instant, hoping to pick up the sounds of a child. I didn’t. But I did hear someone say, “Hey!” with what sounded like genuine surprise.

I cocked my head. The sound had indeed come from my right. Good. I sprinted again, searching the horizon for a flannel shirt. Nothing. I continued down the hill. I lost my footing and almost tumbled down the hill. From my time living in this area, I knew the homeless found sanctuary on the off-path inclines too steep for the casual trekker. They made shelter out of branches and caves. Every once in a while, you could hear a rustling too loud for a squirrel. Sometimes a homeless guy would emerge out of seemingly nowhere—long haired, matted beard, the stench coming off him in waves. There was a spot not far from here where the male street prostitutes plied their trade to the businessmen getting off the A train. I used to jog by that area during the quiet of the day. Condom wrappers often littered the walkway.

I kept running, trying to keep my ears open. I hit a fork in the path. Damn. Again I asked, What way was the more twisty? I didn’t know. I was about to veer right again when I heard a sound.

Rustling in the bush.

Without thinking, I dived in. There were two men. One in a business suit. Another, much younger and dressed in jeans, was on his knees. The business suit yelled an expletive. I did not back away. Because I had heard the man’s voice before. Seconds ago.

He had been the one who yelled “Hey.”

“Did you see a man and a little girl go by here?”

“Get the hell out—”

I crossed over and slapped him in the face. “Did you see them?”

He looked far more shocked than hurt. He pointed to the left. “They went up that way. He was carrying the kid.”

I jumped back on the path. Okay, right. They were heading back up toward the green. If they stayed that route, they would come out not far from where I’d parked. I started running again, pumping my arms. I ran past the male prostitutes sitting on the wall. One of them caught my eye—he had a blue kerchief on his head—nodded, and pointed to stay on the path. I nodded a thanks back. I kept running. In the distance, I could see the lights of the park. And there, crossing in front of the lamppost, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the man in the flannel shirt carrying Tara.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Someone stop him!”

But they were gone.

I swallowed and started up the path, still shouting for help. No one reacted or shouted back. When I reached the outpost where lovers often gazed at the eastern view, I again spotted the flannel shirt. He was jumping over the wall into the woods. I started to follow but when I turned the corner, I heard someone yell, “Freeze!”

I looked behind me. It was a cop. He had his gun drawn.

“Freeze!”

“He has my kid! This way!”

“Dr. Seidman?”

The familiar voice came to my right. It was Regan.

What the . . . ? “Look, just follow me.”

“Where’s the money, Dr. Seidman?”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “They just jumped over that wall.”

“Who did?”

I saw where this was going. Two cops had their guns pointed. Regan was staring at me with his arms crossed. Tickner appeared behind him.

“Let’s talk about this, okay?”

Not okay. They wouldn’t shoot. Or if they did, I didn’t much care. So I started running. They took chase. The cops were younger and no doubt in better shape. But I had something going for me. I was crazed. I jumped the fence and fell down the incline. The cops pursued, but they were moving more gingerly, with normal human care.

“Freeze!” the cop yelled again.

I was breathing too fast to try to yell out more explanation. I wanted them to stay with me—I just didn’t want them to catch up.

I curled up my body and rolled down the hill. Dried glass clung to me and got caught up in my hair. The dust kicked up. I stifled a cough. Just as I was picking up speed, my rib cage slammed into the trunk of tree. I could hear the hollow thud. I gasped, the wind almost knocked out of me, but I hung on. Sliding to the side, I reached the path. The cops’ flashlights pursued. They were within sight but far enough behind. Fine.

On the path, my eyes swerved right, then left. No sign of the flannel shirt or Tara. I tried again to figure out which way he might run. Nothing came to me. I stopped. The police were coming closer.

“Freeze!” the cop yelled yet again.

Fifty-fifty chance.

I was about to break to my left, to head back into the darkness, when I saw the young man with the blue kerchief, the one who had nodded at me earlier. He shook his head this time and pointed in the direction behind me. “Thank you,” I said.

He might have said something in return, but I was already on my way. I cut back up and headed through the same chain-link fence I had pushed through earlier. I heard footsteps, but they were too far away. I looked up and again spotted the flannel shirt. He was standing near the lights of the subway steps. He seemed to be trying to catch his breath.

I ran faster.

So did he.

There was probably fifty yards that separated us. But he had to carry a child. I should be able to close in on him. I started running. The same cop yelled “Halt!” this time, I guess for the sake of variety. I hoped like hell they didn’t decide to shoot.

“He’s back on the street!” I shouted. “He has my daughter.”

I don’t know if they were listening or not. I reached the steps and took them three at a time. I was out of the park again, back on Fort Washington Avenue at Margaret Corbin Circle. I looked ahead at the playground. No movement. I glanced down Fort Washington Avenue and spotted someone running near Mother Cabrini High School, near the chapel.

The mind flashes to odd things. Cabrini Chapel was one of the most surreal stops in all of Manhattan. Zia had dragged me to Mass there once to see without telling why the chapel was something of a tourist spot. I immediately understood the draw. Mother Cabrini died in 1901, but her embalmed body is kept in what looks like a lucite block. That’s the altar. The priests conduct mass over her body/table. No, I’m not making that up. The same guy who preserved Lenin in Russia worked on Mother Cabrini. The chapel is open to the public. It even has a gift shop.

My legs felt heavy, but I kept moving. I no longer heard the police. I quickly glanced behind me. The flashlights were far away.

“Over here!” I shouted. “Near Cabrini High!”

I started sprinting again. I reached the entrance to the chapel. It was locked. There was no sign of flannel shirt anywhere. I looked around, eyes wide, panicked. I had lost them. They were gone.

“This way!” I shouted, hoping that either (or both) the police and Rachel would hear me.

But my heart sank. My chance. My daughter was gone again. I felt the weight on my chest. And that was when I heard the car start up.

My head jerked to the right. I scanned the street and started running. A car started moving. It was about ten yards in front of me. A Honda Accord. I memorized the license plate, even as I knew that would be futile. The driver was still trying to maneuver out of a parking spot. I couldn’t see who it was. But I wasn’t about to take any chances.

The Honda had just cleared the bumper of the car in front of it and was about start up when I grabbed the driver’s side door handle. Lucky break finally—he hadn’t locked the door. No time, I assumed, because he’d been in a rush.

Several things happened in a very short period of time. As I started pulling the door open, I was able to see through the window. It was indeed the flannel-shirt man. He reacted quickly. He grabbed the door and tried to hold it closed. I pulled harder. The door opened a crack. He hit the accelerator.

I tried to run with the car, like you see in the movies. The problem is, cars move faster than people. But I would not let go. You hear those stories about people gaining extraordinary strength in certain circumstances, about average men being able to lift cars off the ground to rescue trapped loved ones. I scoff at those stories. You probably do too.

I am not saying that I lifted a car. But I held on. I wedged my fingers in and wrapped them around the divide between the front door and back. I used both hands and willed my fingers into vises. I would not let go. No matter what.

If I hold on, my daughter lives. If I let go, my daughter dies.

Forget focus. Forget compartmentalizing. This thought, this equation, was as simple as breathing.

The man in the flannel shirt pushed down on the gas. The car was picking up speed now. I kicked my legs off the ground, but there was no place to perch them. They slid down the back door and landed with a clunk. I felt the skin of my ankles being scraped off on the pavement. I tried to regain my footing. No go. The pain was tremendous but inconsequential. I held on.

The status quo, I knew, was working against me. I couldn’t hang on much longer, no matter how much I willed it. I had to make a move. I tried to pull myself into the car, but I wasn’t strong enough. I hung on and let my arms go straight. I tried hopping up again. My body was horizontal now, parallel to the ground. I extended my body. My right leg reached up and curled around something. The antenna on the top of the car. Would that hold me? I didn’t think so. My face was pressed against the backseat window. I saw the little car seat.

It was empty.

Panic seized me again. I felt my hands slipping. We had only driven maybe a twenty, thirty yards. With my face against the glass, my nose bouncing against the window, my body and face scraped and battered, I looked at the child in the front seat and a crushing truth pried my hands off the car window.

Again the mind works in odd ways. My first thought was classically doctor: The child should be sitting in the back. The Honda Accord has a passenger-side airbag. No child under the age of twelve should ever sit in the front. Also, small children should be in a proper car seat. That was, in fact, the law. Riding out of a car seat and in the front . . . that was doubly unsafe.

Ridiculous thought. Or maybe natural. Either way, that was not the thought that ripped the fight out of me.

The flannel-shirted man yanked the steering wheel to the right. I heard the tires squeak. The car jerked, and my fingers slipped away. My grip was gone now. I went airborne. My body landed hard, skidding across the pavement like a stone. I could hear the police sirens behind me. They would, I thought, follow the Honda Accord. But it wouldn’t matter. I had only gotten a brief glimpse. But it had been enough to know the truth.

The child in the car was not my daughter.

chapter 29

Again I wasin a hospital, this time New York Presbyterian—my old stomping grounds. They hadn’t yet run X rays, but I was pretty sure they’d find a cracked rib. Nothing you could really do about it other than shoot yourself up with painkillers. It would hurt. That was okay. I was pretty scraped up. There was a gash on my right leg that looked like the work of a shark attack. Skin had been ripped off both elbows. None of that mattered.

Lenny arrived in record time. I wanted him here because I was not really sure how to handle this. At first, I almost convinced myself that I had made a mistake. A child changes, right? I had not seen Tara since she was six months old. A lot of growth occurs in that period. She’d have matured from wee infancy to an older toddler. I’d been hanging on to a moving car, for crying out loud. I had only gotten the briefest of glimpses.

But I knew.

The child in the front seat of the car looked to be a boy. He was probably closer to three years old than two. His skin, his coloring, was simply too pale.

It was not Tara.

I knew that Tickner and Regan had questions. I wanted to cooperate. I also wanted to know how the hell they had found out about the ransom drop. I hadn’t seen Rachel yet either. I wondered if she were in the building. I also wondered about the fate of the ransom money, the Honda Accord, the man in the flannel shirt. Had they caught him? Had he kidnapped my daughter originally—or had that first ransom drop been a con job too? If so, how had my sister, Stacy, fitted into it?

In short, I was confused. Enter Lenny aka Cujo.

He burst through the door dressed in baggy khakis and a pink Lacoste shirt. His eyes had that scared, wild look that again brought back memories of our childhood. He pushed past a nurse and approached my bed.

“What the hell happened?”

I was about to give Lenny an overview when he stopped me with a raised finger. He turned to the nurse and asked her to leave. When we were alone he nodded for me to go ahead again. Starting with seeing Edgar in the park, I ran through calling Rachel, her arrival, her preparation with all the electronic gizmos, the ransom calls, the drop, my dive on the car. I backtracked and told him about the CD. Lenny interrupted—he always interrupted—but not as often as usual. I saw something cross his face, and maybe—I don’t want to read too much into it here—but maybe he was hurt that I hadn’t confided in him. The look didn’t last long. Lenny gathered himself a piece at a time.

“Any chance that Edgar has been playing you?” he asked.

“To what end? He’s the one who’s lost four million dollars.”

“Not if he’s the one who set it up.”

I made a face. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Lenny didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a response either. “So where is Rachel now?”

“She’s not here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t know, then.”

We both went quiet a second.

“Maybe she went back to my house,” I said.

“Yeah,” Lenny said. “Maybe.”

There was nary a trace particle of conviction in his voice.

Tickner pushed open the door. His sunglasses sat atop his shaved head, a look I found disconcerting; if he bent his neck and drew a mouth on the lower part of his pate, it would look like a second face. Regan followed in a sort of hip-hop step, or maybe the soul patch was affecting the way I viewed him. Tickner took the lead.

“We know about the ransom demand,” he said. “We know your father-in-law gave you another two million dollars. We know that you visited a private detective agency today called MVD and asked about the password to a CD-ROM owned by your late wife. We know that Rachel Mills was with you and that she did not, as you told Detective Regan earlier, return to the Washington, D.C., area. So we can skip all that.”

Tickner moved closer. Lenny watched him, ready to pounce. Regan folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “So let’s start with the ransom money,” Tickner said. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did someone take it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“He told me to put it down.”

“Who is ‘he’?”

“The kidnapper. Whoever was on the cell phone.”

“Where did you put it down?”

“In the park. On the path.”

“And then what?”

“He said to start walking forward.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“That’s when I heard a child cry and someone start running. Everything went crazy after that.”

“And the money?”

“I told you. I don’t know what happened to the money.”

“How about Rachel Mills?” Tickner asked. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at Lenny, but he was studying Tickner’s face now. I waited.

“You lied to us about her returning to Washington, D.C., isn’t that correct?” Tickner asked.

Lenny put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s not start by mischaracterizing my client’s statements.”

Tickner made a face as if Lenny were a turd that had plopped down from the ceiling. Lenny stared back, unfazed. “You told Detective Regan that Ms. Mills was on her way back to Washington, did you not?”

“I said I didn’t know where she was,” I corrected him. “I said shemight have gone back.”

“And where was she at the time?”

Lenny said, “Don’t answer.”

I let him know that it was okay. “She was in the garage.”

“Why didn’t you tell Detective Regan that?”

“Because we were getting ready for the ransom drop. We didn’t want anything slowing us down.”

Tickner folded his arms. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Then ask another question,” Lenny snapped.

“Why would Rachel Mills be involved in the ransom drop?”

“She’s an old friend,” I said. “And I knew she’d been a special agent with the FBI.”

“Ah,” Tickner said. “So you thought maybe her experience could help you here?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t call Detective Regan or myself?”

“That’s correct.”

“Because?”

Lenny took that one. “You know damn well why.”

“They told me no cops,” I said. “Like last time. I didn’t want to risk it again. So I called Rachel.”

“I see.” Tickner looked back at Regan. Regan looked off as if trying to follow a stray thought. “You chose her because she used to be a federal agent?”

“Yes.”

“And because you two were”—Tickner made vague hand gestures—“close.”

“A long time ago,” I said.

“Not anymore?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Hmm, not anymore,” Tickner repeated. “And yet you chose to call her in a matter involving your child’s life. Interesting.”

“Glad you think so,” Lenny said, “By the way, is there a point to any of this?”

Tickner ignored him. “Before today, when was the last time you saw Rachel Mills?”

“What difference does that make?” Lenny said.

“Please just answer my question.”

“Not until we know—”

But my hand was on Lenny’s arm now. I knew what he was doing. He had automatically snapped into his adversarial pose. I appreciated it, but I wanted to get past this as quickly as possible.

“About a month ago,” I said.

“Under what circumstances?”

“I bumped into her at the Stop & Shop on Northwood Avenue.”

“Bumped into her?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, as in a coincidence? As in not knowing the other was going to be there, out of the blue?”

“Yes.”

Tickner turned around and looked at Regan again. Regan kept perfectly still. He wasn’t even toying with the soul patch.

“And before that?”

“What before that?”

“Before you ‘bumped’ ”—Tickner’s sarcasm spit the word across the room—“into Ms. Mills at the Stop & Shop, when was the last time you’d seen her?”

“Not since college,” I said.

Again Tickner spun toward Regan, his face lit up with incredulity. When he turned back, the glasses dropped down to his eyes. He pushed them back up onto his forehead. “Are you telling us, Dr. Seidman, that the only time you’ve seen Rachel Mills between your college days and today was just that one time at the supermarket?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

For a moment, Tickner seemed at a loss. Lenny looked as if he might have something to add, but he kept himself in check.

“Have you two spoken on the phone?” Tickner asked.

“Before today?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Not ever? You never talked to her on the phone before today? Not even when you were dating?”

Lenny said, “Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that?”

Tickner snapped his head toward Lenny. “You have a problem?”

“Yeah, your questions are moronic.”

They started again with the death stares. I broke the silence. “I hadn’t spoken to Rachel on the phone since college.”

Tickner turned to me. His expression was openly skeptical now. I glanced behind him at Regan. Regan was nodding to himself. While they both looked off balance, I tried to press it. “Did you find the man and child in the Honda Accord?” I asked.

Tickner considered the question a moment. He looked back at Regan, who shrugged a why-not. “We found the car abandoned on Broadway near 145th Street. It’d been stolen a few hours earlier.” Tickner took out his notebook but didn’t look at it. “When we spotted you at the park, you began yelling about your daughter. Do you believe that she was the child in the car?”

“I thought so at the time.”

“But not anymore?”

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t Tara.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“I saw him. The child, I mean.”

“It was a he?”

“I think so.”

“When did you see him?”

“When I jumped on the car.”

Tickner spread his hands. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell us exactly what happened?”

I told them the same story I’d told Lenny. Regan never moved from the wall. He still hadn’t said a word. I found that odd. As I spoke, Tickner seemed to be growing more and more agitated. The skin on his cleanly shaven head tightened, making the sunglasses, which still sat perched on the top of his skull, start sliding forward. He kept readjusting them. I saw the pulse near his temples flutter. His jaw was locked.

When I was done, Tickner said, “You’re lying.”

Lenny slid between Tickner and my bed. For a moment, I thought that they might come to blows, which, let’s face it, would not be good for Lenny. But Lenny never gave an inch. It reminded me of the time in third grade when Tony Merullo picked a fight with me. Lenny had stepped between us then, faced Tony bravely, and gotten clobbered.

Lenny stayed nose-to-nose with the larger man. “What the hell is wrong with you, Agent Tickner?”

“Your client is a liar.”

“Gentlemen, this interview is over. Get out.”

Tickner bent his neck so that his forehead pressed against Lenny’s. “We have proof he’s lying.”

“Let’s see it,” Lenny said. Then, “No, wait, forget it. I don’t want to see it. Are you arresting my client?”

“No.”

“Then get your sorry butt out of this hospital room.”

I said, “Lenny.”

With one more glare at Tickner to show he wasn’t intimidated, Lenny looked back at me.

“Let’s finish this now,” I said.

“He’s trying to hang you for this.”

I shrugged because I didn’t really care. I think Lenny saw that. He slid away. I nodded for Tickner to do his worst.

“You’ve seen Rachel before today.”

“I told you—”

“If you hadn’t seen or spoken to Rachel Mills, how did you know she’d been a federal agent?”

Lenny started to laugh.

Tickner quickly spun toward him. “What are you laughing at?”

“Because, numb-nuts, my wife is friends with Rachel Mills.”

That confused him. “What?”

“My wife and I talk to Rachel all the time. We introduced them.” Lenny laughed again. “That’s your proof?”

“No, that’s not my proof,” Tickner snapped, defensive now. “Your story about getting this ransom call, about reaching out to an old girlfriend like that. You expect that to fly?”

“Why,” I said, “what do you think happened?”

Tickner said nothing.

“You think I did it, right? That this was yet another elaborate scheme to, what, get another two million from my ex–father-in-law?”

Lenny tried to slow me down. “Marc . . .”

“No, let me just say something here.” I tried to get Regan into it, but he still looked off, so I locked eyes with Tickner. “Do you really think I staged all this? Why go through all the machinations of having this meeting in the park? How did I know you’d track me down there—hell, I still don’t know how you did that. Why would I bother leaping on a car like that? Why wouldn’t I have just taken the money and hidden it and come up with a story for Edgar? If I was just running a scam, did I hire this guy with the flannel shirt? Why? Why involve another person or a stolen car? I mean, come on. It makes no sense.”

I looked at Regan, who still wasn’t biting. “Detective Regan?”

But all he said was “You’re not being straight with us, Marc.”

“How?” I asked. “How am I not being straight with you?”

“You claim that before today you and Ms. Mills haven’t spoken on the phone since college.”

“Yes.”

“We have phone records, Marc. Three months before your wife was murdered, there was a call from Rachel’s house to yours. Do you want to explain that?”

I turned to Lenny for help, but he was staring down at me. This made no sense. “Look,” I said, “I have Rachel’s cell phone number. Let’s call her and find out where she is.”

“Do that,” Tickner said.

Lenny picked up the hospital phone next to my bed. I gave him the number. I watched him dial it, all the while trying to put it together. The phone rang six times before I heard Rachel’s voice tell me she could not answer her phone and that I should leave a message. I did so.

Regan finally peeled himself off the wall. He pulled a chair to the side of my bed and sat. “Marc, what do you know about Rachel Mills?”

“Enough.”

“You dated in college?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Two years.”

Regan spread his arms, all open and wide eyed. “See, Agent Tickner and I still aren’t sure why you called her. I mean, okay, you dated a long time ago. But if you haven’t been in touch at all”—he shrugged—“why her?”

I thought about how to put this and chose the direct route. “There’s still a connection.”

Regan nodded as if that explained a lot. “You were aware that she got married?”

“Cheryl—that’s Lenny’s wife—she told me.”

“And you knew her husband was shot?”

“I learned about it today.” Then, realizing that it had to be after midnight, “I mean, yesterday.”

“Rachel told you?”

“Cheryl told me.” Regan’s words from his late-night visit to my abode came back to me. “And then you said Rachel shot him.”

Regan looked back at Tickner. Tickner said, “Did Ms. Mills mention that to you?”

“What, that she shot her husband?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You don’t believe it, do you?”

Lenny said, “What’s the difference what he believes?”

“She confessed,” Tickner said.

I looked at Lenny. Lenny looked away. I tried to sit up a little more. “Then why isn’t she in jail?”

Something dark crossed Tickner’s face. His hands clenched into fists. “She claimed the shooting was accidental.”

“And you don’t believe that?”

“Her husband was shot in the head at point-blank range.”

“So again I ask: Why isn’t she in jail?”

“I’m not privy to all the details,” Tickner said.

“What does that mean?”

“The local cops handled the case, not us,” Tickner explained. “They decided not to pursue it.”

I am neither a cop nor a great student of psychology, but even I could see that Tickner was holding something back. I looked at Lenny. His face was emotionless, which, of course, is not at all like Lenny. Tickner took a step away from the bed. Regan filled the void.

“You said you still felt a connection with Rachel?” Regan began.

“Asked and answered,” Lenny said.

“Did you still love her?”

Lenny couldn’t let that one go without comment. “Are you Ann Landers now, Detective Regan? What the hell does any of this have to do with my client’s daughter?”

“Bear with me.”

“No, Detective, I will not bear with you. Your questions are nonsense.” Again I put my hand on Lenny’s shoulder. He turned to me. “They want you to say yes, Marc.”

“I know that.”

“They’re hoping to use Rachel as a motive for killing your wife.”

“I know that too,” I said. I looked at Regan. I remembered the feeling when I first saw Rachel at the Stop & Shop.

“You still think about her?” Regan asked.

“Yes.”

“Does she still think about you?”

Lenny was not about to surrender. “How the hell would he know that?”

“Bob?” I said. It was the first time I had used Regan’s first name.

“Yes.”

“What are you trying to get at here?”

Regan’s voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “Let me ask you one more time: Before the incident at the Stop & Shop, had you seen Rachel Mills since you broke up in college?”

“Jesus Christ,” Lenny said.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“No communication at all?”

“They didn’t even pass notes during study hall,” Lenny said. “I mean, get on with it.”

Regan leaned away. “You went to a private detective agency in Newark to ask about a CD-ROM.”

“Yes.”

“Why today?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Your wife has been dead for a year and a half. Why the sudden interest in the CD?”

“I’d just found it.”

“When?”

“The day before yesterday. It was hidden in the basement.”

“So you had no idea that Monica had hired a private detective?”

It took me a moment to answer. I thought about what I had learned since my beautiful wife’s death. She had been seeing a psychiatrist. She had hired a private detective. She had hidden his findings in our basement. I hadn’t known about any of it. I thought about my life, my love of work, my wanting to keep traveling. Sure, I loved my daughter. I cooed on command and marveled at the wonder of her. I would die—and kill—to protect her, but in my honest moments, I knew that I had not accepted all the changes and sacrifices she’d brought to my life.

What kind of husband had I been? What kind of father?

“Marc?”

“No,” I said softly. “I had no idea she had hired a private investigator.”

“Do you have any idea why she did?”

I shook my head. Regan faded back. Tickner pulled out a manila folder.

“What’s that?” Lenny said.

“The contents of the CD.” Tickner looked at me one more time. “You never saw Rachel, right? Just that time in the supermarket.”

I did not bother answering.

Without fanfare, Tickner withdrew a photograph and handed it to me. Lenny snapped on his half-moon reading glasses and stood over my shoulder. He did that thing where you tilt your head up to look down. The photograph was black and white. It was a shot of Valley Hospital in Ridgewood. There was a date stamped on the bottom. The photograph had been taken two months before the shooting.

Lenny frowned. “The lighting is pretty good, but I’m not sure about the overall composition.”

Tickner ignored the sarcasm. “That’s where you work, is it not, Dr. Seidman?”

“We have an office there, yes.”

“We?”

“My partner and I. Zia Leroux.”

Tickner nodded. “There’s a date stamped on the bottom.”

“I can see that.”

“Were you in the office on that day?”

“I really don’t know. I’d have to check my calendar.”

Regan pointed to near the hospital entrance. “Do you see that figure over there?”

I looked harder, but I couldn’t make much out. “No, not really.”

“Just notice the length of the coat, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then Tickner handed me a second glossy. The photographer had used the zoom lens on this one. Same angle. You could see the person in the coat clearly now. She wore sunglasses, but there was no mistake. It was Rachel.

I looked up at Lenny. I saw the surprise on his face too. Tickner pulled out another photo. Then another. They were all taken in front of Valley Hospital. In the eighth one, Rachel entered the building. In the ninth one, taken one hour later, I exited alone. In the tenth, taken six minutes after that, Rachel went out the same doors.

At first, my mind could simply not soak in the implications. I was one big, swirling “Huh?” of bewilderment. There was no time to process. Lenny seemed stunned too, but he recovered first.

“Get out,” Lenny said.

“You don’t want to explain these photographs first?”

I wanted to argue, but I was too dazed.

“Get out,” Lenny said again, more forcefully this time. “Get out now.”

chapter 30

I sat upin the bed. “Lenny?”

He made sure the door was closed. “Yes,” he said. “They think you did it. Check that, they think you and Rachel did it together. You two were having an affair. She killed her husband—I don’t know if they think you were involved with that or not—and then you both killed Monica, did who-knows-what with Tara, and came up with this scheme to rip off her father.”

“That makes no sense,” I said.

Lenny kept quiet.

“I was shot, remember?”

“I know.”

“So what, they think I shot myself?”

“I don’t know. But you can’t talk to them anymore. They have evidence now. You can deny a relationship with Rachel to the skies, but Monica was suspicious enough to hire a private detective. Then, Jesus, think about it. The private detective delivers. He takes those photographs and gives them to Monica. Next thing you know, your wife is dead, your kid is gone, and her father is out two million bucks. Skip ahead a year and a half. Her father is out another two million and you and Rachel are lying about being with one another.”

“We’re not lying.”

Lenny would not look at me.

“What about all I was saying,” I tried, “about how no one would go through all this? I could have just taken the ransom money, right? I didn’t have to hire that guy with the car and the kid. And what about my sister? Do they think I murdered her too?”

“Those pictures,” Lenny said softly.

“I never knew about them.”

He could barely look at me, but that didn’t stop him from reverting to our youth. “Well, duh.”

“No, I mean I don’t know anything about them.”

“You really haven’t seen her except for that time at the supermarket?”

“Of course not. You know all this. I wouldn’t hide it from you.”

He weighed that statement for too long. “You might hide it from Lenny the Friend.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But even if I would, there’s no way I could keep it from Lenny the Lawyer.”

His voice was soft. “You didn’t tell either one of us about this ransom drop.”

So there it was. “We wanted to keep it contained, Lenny.”

“I see.” But he didn’t. I couldn’t blame him. “Another thing. How did you find that CD in the basement?”

“Dina Levinsky came by the house.”

“Dina the fruitcake?”

“She’s had it rough,” I said. “You have no idea.”

Lenny waved off my sympathy. “I don’t understand. What was she doing at your house?” I filled him on the story. Lenny started making a face. When I finished, I was the one who said, “What?”

“She told you she was better now? That she was married?”

“Yes.”

“That’s bull.”

I stopped. “How do you know that?”

“I do some legal work for her aunt. Dina Levinsky has been in and out of asylums since she was eighteen. She even served time for aggravated assault a few years back. She’s never been married. And I doubt she’s ever had an art exhibit.”

I did not know what to make of that. I remembered Dina’s haunting face, the way the color ebbed away when she said,“You know who shot you, don’t you, Marc?”

What the hell had she meant by that anyway?

“We need to think this through,” Lenny said, rubbing his chin. “I’m going to check with some of my sources, see what I can learn. Call me if anything comes up, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And promise me you won’t say another word to them. There is an excellent chance they’ll arrest you.” He raised a hand before I could protest. “They have enough for an arrest and maybe even an indictment. True, thet ’s aren’t all crossed and thei ’s aren’t all dotted. But think about that Skakel case. They had less there and they convicted him. So if they come back in here, promise me you won’t say a word.”

I promised because, yet again, the authorities were on the wrong track. Cooperating with them would not help find my daughter. That was the bottom line. Lenny left me alone. I asked him to shut off the lights. He did. But the room did not grow dark. Hospital rooms never get totally dark.

I tried to understand what was happening. Tickner had taken those strange photographs with him. I wished he hadn’t. I wanted to take another look because no matter how I laid it out, those pictures of Rachel at the hospital made no sense. Were they for real? Trick photography was a strong possibility, especially in this digital day and age. Could that be the explanation? Were they phonies, a simple cut-and-paste job? My thoughts veered toward Dina Levinsky again. What had her bizarre visit really been about? Why had she asked if I loved Monica? Why did she think I knew who shot me? I was considering all of this when the door opened.

“Is this the room belonging to the Stud in Scrubs?”

It was Zia. “Hey.”

She entered, gestured at my supine position with a sweep of her hand. “This supposed to be your excuse for missing work?”

“I was on call last night, wasn’t I?”

“Yep.”

“Sorry.”

“They woke my ass up instead, interrupting, I might add, a rather erotic dream.” Zia pointed with her thumb toward the door. “That big black man down the hall.”

“The one with the sunglasses on top of a shaved head?”

“That’s him. He a cop?”

“An FBI agent.”

“Any chance you can introduce us? Might make up for interrupting my dream.”

“I’ll try to do that,” I said, “before he arrests me.”

“After is okay too.”

I smiled. Zia sat on the edge of the bed. I told her what had happened. She didn’t offer a theory. She didn’t throw up a question. She just listened, and I loved her for it.

I was just getting to the part about being a serious suspect when my cell phone started ringing. Both of us, because of our training, were surprised. Cell phones in the hospital were a no-no. I reached it for quickly and brought it to my ear.

“Marc?”

It was Rachel. “Where are you?”

“Following the money.”

“What?”

“They did exactly what I thought,” she said. “They dumped the bag, but they haven’t spotted the Q-Logger in the pack of bills. I’m heading up the Harlem River Drive right now. They’re maybe a mile ahead of me.”

“We need to talk,” I said.

“Did you find Tara?”

“It was a hoax. I saw the kid they had with them. It wasn’t my daughter.”

There was a pause.

“Rachel?”

“I’m not doing so good, Marc.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took a beating. At the park. I’m okay, but I need your help.”

“Wait a second. My car is still at the scene. How are you following them?”

“Did you notice a Parks Department van on the circle?”

“Yes.”

“I stole it. It’s an old van, easy to hot-wire. I figured it wouldn’t be missed until the morning.”

“They think we did it, Rachel. That we were having an affair or something. They found photos on that CD. You in front of where I work.”

Cell-phone-static silence.

“Rachel?”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m at New York Presbyterian Hospital.”

“Are you okay?”

“Banged up. But I’m fine, yeah.”

“The cops there?”

“The feds too. A guy named Tickner. You know him?”

Her voice was soft. “Yes.” Then, “How do you want to play it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to keep following them? Or do you want to turn it over to Tickner and Regan?”

I wanted her back here. I wanted to ask her about those photos and the phone call to my house. “I’m not sure it matters,” I said. “You were right from the beginning. It was a con job. They must have used someone else’s hair.”

More static.

“What?” I said.

“You know anything about DNA?” she asked me.

“Not much,” I said.

“I don’t have time to explain it, but a DNA test goes layer by layer. You start seeing things match up. It takes at least twenty-four hours before we can really say with any degree of certainty that there’s a match.”

“So?”

“So I just spoke to my lab guy. We’ve only had about eight hours. But so far, that second set of hairs that Edgar got?”

“What about them?”

“They match yours.” I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. Rachel made a sound that might have been a sigh. “In other words, he hasn’t ruled out that you’re the father. Just the opposite, in fact.”

I nearly dropped the phone. Zia saw it and moved closer. Again I focused and compartmentalized. Process. Rebuild. I considered my options. Tickner and Regan would never believe me. They would not allow me to go. They’d probably arrest us. At the same time, if I told them, I might be able to prove our innocence. On the other hand, proving my innocence was irrelevant.

Was there a chance my daughter was still alive?

That was the only question here. If she was, then I had to resort to our original plan. Confiding in the authorities, especially with their fresh suspicions, would not work. Suppose there was, as the ransom note said, a mole? Right now, whoever had picked up that bag of money had no idea that Rachel was onto them. But what would happen if the cops and feds got involved? Would the kidnappers run, panic, do something rash?

There was something else here that I should be considering: Did I still trust Rachel? Those photographs had shaken my faith. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. But in the end, I had no choice but to treat those doubts as a distraction. I needed to focus on one goal. Tara. What would give me the best chance of finding out what really happened to her?

“How badly hurt are you?” I asked.

“We can do this, Marc.”

“I’m on my way, then.”

I hung up and looked at Zia.

“You have to help me get out of here.”

Tickner and Regan sat in the doctors’ lounge down the hall. A lounge seemed a strange name for this threadbare dwelling with too much light and a rabbit-ear TV set. There was a minifridge in the corner. Tickner had opened it. There were two brown-bag lunches in it, both with names written on them. It reminded him of elementary school.

Tickner collapsed on a couch with absolutely no springs. “I think we should arrest him now.”

Regan said nothing.

“You were awfully quiet in there, Bob. Something on your mind?”

Regan started scratching the soul patch. “What Seidman said.”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you think he had a point?”

“You mean that stuff about him being innocent?”

“Yes.”

“No, not really. You buy it?”

“I don’t know,” Regan said. “I mean, why would he go through all this with the money? He couldn’t have known we’d learn about that CD and decide to track him with E-ZPass and find him at Fort Tryon Park. And even if he had, why go through all that? Why jump on a moving car? Christ, he’s lucky he wasn’t killed. Again. Which brings us back to the original shooting and our original problem. If he and Rachel Mills did this together, why was he nearly killed?” Regan shook his head. “There are too many holes.”

“Which we are filling in one by one,” Tickner said.

Regan made a yes-no with a head tilt.

“Look at how many we plugged today by learning about Rachel Mills’s involvement,” Tickner said. “We just need to get her in here and sweat them both.”

Regan looked off again.

Tickner shook his head. “What now?”

“The broken window.”

“The one at the crime scene?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it?”

Regan sat up. “Play along with me, okay? Let’s go back to the original murder-kidnapping.”

“At the Seidman house?”

“Right.”

“Okay, go.”

“The window was broken from the outside,” Regan said. “That could be how the perp gained entry to the house.”

“Or,” Tickner added, “Dr. Seidman broke the window to throw us off.”

“Or he had an accomplice do it.”

“Right.”

“But either way, Dr. Seidman would have been in on the broken window, right? If he was involved, I mean.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Just stay with me, Lloyd. We think Seidman was involved. Ergo, Seidman knew that the window had been broken to make it look like, I don’t know, a random break-in. Agreed?”

“I guess.”

Regan smiled. “Then how come he never mentioned the broken window?”

“What?”

“Read his statement. He remembers eating a granola bar and then—bam—nothing. No sound. No one sneaking up on him. Nothing.” Regan spread his hands. “Why doesn’t he remember hearing the window break?”

“Because he broke it himself to make it look like an intruder.”

“But see, if that’s the case, he would have kept the broken window in his story. Think about it. He breaks the window to convince us the perp broke in and shot him. So what would you say if you were him?”

Now Tickner saw where he was heading. “I’d say, ‘I heard the window break, I turned and bam, the bullets hit me.’ ”

“Exactly. But Seidman did none of that. Why?”

Tickner shrugged. “Maybe he forgot. He was seriously injured.”

“Or maybe—just stay with me—maybe he’s telling the truth.”

The door opened. An exhausted-looking kid in scrubs looked in. He saw the two cops, rolled his eyes, left them alone. Tickner turned back toward Regan. “But wait a second, you’ve caught yourself in a Catch-22.”

“How so?”

“If Seidman didn’t do it—if it really was a perp who broke the window—why didn’t Seidman hear it?”

“Maybe he doesn’t remember. We’ve seen this a million times. A guy getting shot and hurt that seriously loses some time.” Regan smiled, warming up to this theory. “Especially if he saw something that totally shocked him—something he wouldn’t want to remember.”

“Like his wife being stripped down and killed?”

“Like that,” Regan said. “Or maybe something worse.”

“What’s worse?”

A beeping sound came from the corridor. They could hear the nearby nurse’s station. Someone was bitching about a shift time or schedule change.

“We said we’re missing something,” Regan said slowly. “We’ve been saying that from the beginning. But maybe it’s just the opposite. We’ve beenadding something.”

Tickner frowned.

“We keep adding Dr. Seidman. Look, we both know the score. In cases like this, the husband is always involved. Not nine times out of ten—ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Every scenario we’ve devised includes Seidman.”

Tickner said, “And you think that’s wrong?”

“Listen to me a second. We’ve had Seidman in our sights from the get-go. His marriage was not idyllic. He got married because his wife was pregnant. We seized on all that. But if their marriage had been friggin’Ozzie and Harriet , we’d still say, ‘Nah, no one is that happy,’ and leap on that. So whatever we’ve stumbled across, we’ve tried to fit it into that reality: Seidman had to be involved. So for just a second, let’s take him out of the equation. Let’s pretend he’s innocent.”

Tickner shrugged. “Okay, so?”

“Seidman talked about a connection with Rachel Mills. One that’s lasted all these years.”

“Right.”

“He sounded a little obsessed with her.”

“A little?”

Regan smiled. “Suppose the feeling was mutual. Check that. Suppose it was more than mutual.”

“Okay.”

“Now remember. We’re assuming Seidman didn’t do it. That means he’s telling us the truth. About everything. About when he last saw Rachel Mills. About those photographs. You saw his face, Lloyd. Seidman isn’t that great an actor. Those pictures shocked him. He didn’t know about them.”

Tickner frowned. “Hard to say.”

“Well, there was something else I noticed about those pictures.”

“What?”

“How come that private eye didn’t get any pictures of the two of them together? We have her outside the hospital. We have him coming out. We have her going out. But none of them together.”

“They were careful.”

“How careful? She was hanging outside his place of work. If you’re being careful, you don’t do that.”

“So what’s your theory?”

Regan smiled. “Think about it. Rachel had to know Seidman was inside the building. But did he have to know she was outside?”

“Wait a second,” Tickner said. A smile started coming to his face. “You think she was stalking him?”

“Maybe.”

Tickner nodded. “And—whoa—we’re not talking about just any woman here. We’re talking about a well-trained federal agent.”

“So one, she would know how to run a professional kidnapping operation,” Regan added, raising a finger. He raised another. “Two, she would know how to kill someone and get away with it. Three, she would know how to cover her tracks. Four, she would know Marc’s sister, Stacy. Five”—the thumb now—“she’d be able to use her old contacts to find and set the sister up.”

“Holy Christ.” Tickner looked up. “And what you said before. About seeing something so horrible Seidman doesn’t remember.”

“How about seeing the love of your life shooting you? Or your wife. Or . . .”

They both stopped.

“Tara,” Tickner said. “How does the little girl fit into all this?”

“A way of extorting money?”

Neither one of them liked that. But whatever other answers they came up with, they liked those even less.

“We can add something else,” Tickner said.

“What?”

“Seidman’s missing thirty-eight.”

“What about it?”

“His gun was in a lockbox in his closet,” Tickner said. “Only someone close to him would know where it was hidden.”

“Or,” Regan added, seeing something else now, “maybe Rachel Mills brought her own thirty-eight. Remember that two were used.”

“But that raises another question: Why would she need two guns?”

Both men frowned, ran a few new theories through their heads, and came up with a solid conclusion. “We’re still missing something,” Regan said.

“Yep.”

“We need to go back and get some answers.”

“Like?”

“Like why did Rachel skate on the murder of her first husband?”

“I can ask around,” Tickner said.

“Do that. And let’s get a man on Seidman. She has four million dollars now. She might want to eliminate the only guy who can still tie her to this.”

chapter 31

Zia found myclothes in the closet. Bloodstains darkened my jeans, so we decided to go with surgical scrubs. She ran down the hall and found me a pair. Wincing from the cracked ribs, I slipped them on and tied the string waist. It would be a slow go. Zia checked to see if the coast was clear. She had a backup plan in case the feds were still watching. Her friend, Dr. David Beck, had been involved in a major federal case a few years ago. He knew Tickner from that. Beck was on call. If it came to it, he was waiting at the end of the hall and would try to slow them down with some sort of reminiscence.

In the end, we didn’t need Beck. We simply walked out. No one questioned us. We made our way through the Harkness Pavilion and out into the courtyard north of Fort Washington Avenue. Zia’s car was parked in the lot on 165th and Fort Washington. I moved gingerly. I felt sore as hell, but basically all right. Marathon running and heavy lifting would be out, but the pain was controllable and I had full range of motion. Zia had slipped me a bottle of Vioxx, the fifty-milligram big-boys. They’d be good because they worked without making you drowsy.

“If anyone asks,” she said, “I’ll tell them I took public transportation and that my car is home. You should be okay for a while.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Actually, can I also trade cell phones?”

“Sure, why?”

“They might try, I don’t know, to track me down using mine.”

“They can do that?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

She shrugged and dug out her cell. It was a tiny thing, the size of a compact mirror. “You really think Tara is alive?”

“I don’t know.”

We hurried up the parking garage’s cement steps. The stairwell stank, as always, of urine.

“This is insane,” she said. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I got my pager. You need me, you page me.”

“I will.”

We stopped at the car. Zia handed me the keys.

“What?” I said to her.

“You got a pretty big ego, Marc.”

“This your idea of a pep talk?”

“Just don’t let it get you hurt or anything,” Zia said. “I need you.”

I hugged her and slipped into the driver’s seat. I started north on the Henry Hudson, dialing Rachel’s number. The night was clear and still. The lights from the bridge made the dark water look like a star-filled sky. I heard two rings and then Rachel picked up. She didn’t say anything and then I realized why. She probably had Caller ID and didn’t recognize the number.

“It’s me,” I said. “I’m using Zia’s phone.”

Rachel asked, “Where are you?”

“About to get on the Hudson.”

“Keep going north to the Tappan Zee. Cross it and start heading west.”

“Where are you now?”

“By that huge Palisades Mall.”

“In Nyack,” I said.

“Right. Keep in phone touch. We’ll find a place to hook up.”

“I’m on my way.”

Tickner was on his mobile phone, filling in O’Malley. Regan hurried back into the lounge. “Seidman’s not in his room.”

Tickner looked annoyed. “What do you mean, he’s not in his room?”

“How many different ways are there to interpret that, Lloyd?”

“Did he go down to X ray or something?”

“Not according to the nurse,” Regan said.

“Damn. The hospital has security cameras, right?”

“Not on every room.”

“But they have to cover the exits.”

“They must have a dozen exits here. By the time we get the tapes and review them—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Tickner thought about it. He put the phone back to his ear. “O’Malley?”

“I’m here.”

“You heard?”

“Yup.”

“How long will it take you to get phone logs from both Seidman’s hospital room and cell phone?” Tickner asked.

“Immediate calls?”

“It would have to have been in the past fifteen minutes, yeah.”

“Give me five.”

Tickner pressed the “end” button. “Where’s Seidman’s lawyer?”

“I don’t know. I think he said he was leaving.”

“Maybe we should give him a ring.”

“He didn’t hit me as the helpful type,” Regan said.

“That was before, when we thought his client was a wife-and-baby killer. We’re now theorizing that an innocent man’s life is in danger.” Tickner handed Regan the business card Lenny had given him.

“Worth a shot,” Regan said, and began dialing.

I caught up with Rachel just over the north New Jersey–south New York border town of Ramsey. Using our phones we managed to hook up in the parking lot of the Fair Motel on Route 17 in Ramsey, New Jersey. The motel was a no-tell, complete with a sign proudly readingCOLOR TV ! (as if most motels were still using black and white) where all the letters (and the exclamation point) are a different color, in case you don’t know what the wordcolor means. I always liked the name. The Fair Motel. We’re not great, we’re not terrible. We’re, well, Fair. Honesty in advertising.

I pulled into the lot. I was scared. I had a million questions for Rachel, but in the end, it all boiled down to different variations of the same thing. I wanted to know about her husband’s death, sure, but more than that, I wanted to know about those damn private-eye pictures.

The lot was dark, most of the light coming off the highway. The stolen Parks Department van sat by a Pepsi machine on the far right side. I pulled next to it. I never saw Rachel leave the van, but the next thing I knew she had slid into the passenger seat next to me.

“Start moving,” she said.

I turned to confront her, but her face made me pull up short. “Jesus, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Her right eye was swollen over like a boxer’s who had gone the distance. There were yellow-purple bruises around her neck. Her face had a giant red mark across both cheeks. I could see scarlet indentations from where her attacker had dug in his fingers. The fingernails had even broken the skin. I wondered if there was deeper trauma to her face, if whatever blow she took to the eye had been powerful enough to break a bone. I doubted it. A break like that would normally knock someone out of commission. Then again, best-case scenario and these were only surface wounds: It was amazing she was still upright.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

She had her Palm Pilot out. The screen was dazzlingly bright in the dark of the car. She looked down at it and said, “Take Seventeen south. Hurry, I don’t want to get too far behind.”

I put the car in reverse, backed up, started down the highway. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bottle of Vioxx. “These should help deaden the pain.”

She pulled off the top. “How many should I take?”

“One.”

Her index finger scooped it out. Her eyes never left the Palm Pilot’s screen. She swallowed it down and said thanks.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

“You first.”

I filled her in as best I could. We stayed on Route 17. We passed the Allendale and Ridgewood exits. The streets were empty. The shops—and, man, there were lots of them, the entire highway pretty much one continuous strip mall—were all closed up. Rachel listened without interrupting. I glanced at her as I drove. She looked in pain.

When I finished, she asked, “Are you sure it wasn’t Tara in the car?”

“Yes.”

“I called my DNA guy again. The layers are still matching up. I don’t get that.”

Neither did I. “What happened to you?”

“Somebody jumped me. I was watching you through the night-vision goggles. I saw you put down the money bag and start walking. There was a woman in the bushes. Did you see her?”

“No.”

“She had a gun. I think she planned on killing you.”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

I wasn’t sure how to react to that. “Did you get a good look at her?”

“No. I was about to call out a warning when this monster grabbed me from behind. Strong as hell. He lifted me off my feet by my head. I thought he was going to rip my skull off.”

“Jesus.”

“Anyway, a cop car drove by. The big guy panicked. He punched me here”—she pointed to the swollen eye—“and it was lights-out. I don’t know how long I was lying on the pavement. When I woke up, the cops were all over the place. I was huddled in a corner in the dark. I guess they didn’t see me or figured I was a homeless guy sleeping one off. Anyway, I checked the Palm Pilot. I saw the money was on the move.”

“Which direction?”

“South, walking near 168th Street. Then suddenly they went still. See, this thing”—she gestured to the screen—“works two ways. I zoom in, I can get as close as a quarter mile. I go out a little farther, like right now, I get more an idea than an exact address. Right now, based on the speed, I figure they’re driving about six miles ahead of us still on Route Seventeen.”

“But when you first spotted them, they were on 168th Street?”

“Right. Then they start heading downtown fast.”

I thought about it. “The subway,” I said. “They took the A train from the 168th Street stop.”

“That’s what I figured. Anyway, I stole the van. I started downtown. I was near the seventies when all of a sudden they started going east. This time it was more stop and go.”

“They were stopping for lights. They had a car now.”

Rachel nodded. “They sped up on the FDR and Harlem River Drive. I tried to cut across town, but that took too long. I fell behind by five, six miles. Anyway, you know the rest.”

We slowed for night construction near the Route 4 interchange. Three lanes became one. I looked at her, at the bruises and the swelling, at the giant handprint on her skin. She looked back at me and didn’t say a word. My fingers reached out and caressed her face as gently as I knew how. She closed her eyes, the tenderness seemingly too much, and even in the midst of all this we both knew that it felt right. A stirring, an old one, a dormant one, started deep inside of me. I kept my eyes on that lovely, perfect face. I pushed back her hair. A tear escaped her eye and ran down her cheek. She put her hand on my wrist. I felt the warmth start there and spread.

Part of me—and, yes, I know how this will sound—wanted to forget this quest. The kidnapping had been a hoax. My daughter was gone. My wife was dead. Someone was trying to kill me. It was time to start again, a new chance, a way, this time, to get it right. I wanted to turn the car around and start heading in the other direction. I wanted to drive—keep driving—and never ask about her dead husband and those pictures on the CD. I could forget all that, I knew I could. My life was filled with surgical procedures that altered the surface, that helped people begin anew, that improved what was visible and thus what was not. That could be what would happen here. A simple face-lift. I would make my first incision the day before that damn frat party, pull the fourteen-year-old folds across time, close the suture at now. Stick the two moments together. Nip and tuck. Make those fourteen years disappear, as though they’d never happened.

Rachel opened her eyes now and I could see that she was thinking pretty much the same thing, hoping I’d call it off and turn around. But of course, that could not be. We blinked. The construction cleared. Her hand left my forearm. I risked another glance at Rachel. No, we were not twenty-one years old anymore, but that didn’t matter. I saw that now. I still loved her. Irrational, wrong, stupid, naïve, whatever. I still loved her. Over the years, I might have convinced myself otherwise, but I had never stopped. She was still so damn beautiful, so damn perfect, and when I thought of how close she’d just come to death, those giant hands smothering away her breath, those niggling doubts began to soften. They wouldn’t go away. Not until I knew the truth. But no matter what the answers were, they would not consume me.

“Rachel?”

But she suddenly sat up, her eyes back on the Palm Pilot.

“What is it?” I asked.

“They’ve stopped,” Rachel said. “We’ll be on them in two miles.”

chapter 32

Steven Bacard replacedthe phone’s receiver.

You slip-slide into evil, he thought. You cross the line for just one moment. You cross back. You feel safe. You change things, you believe, for the better. The line is still there. It’s still intact. Okay, maybe there’s a smudge there now, but you can still see it clearly. And next time you cross, maybe that line smudges a little more. But you have your bearings. No matter what happens to that line, you remember where it is.

Don’t you?

There was a mirror above the fully stocked bar in Steven Bacard’s office. His interior decorator had insisted that all people of prestige had to have a place to toast their successes. So he had one. He didn’t even drink. Steven Bacard stared at his reflection and thought, not for the first time in his life: Average. He had always been average. His grades in school, his SAT and LSAT scores, his law-school ranking, his bar score (he passed it on the third attempt). If life were a game where children choose sides for kickball, he’d be picked in the middle of the pack, after the good athletes and before the really bad ones—in that cusp for those who leave no mark.

Bacard became a lawyer because he believed that being a JD would give him a level of prestige. It didn’t. No one hired him. He opened up his own pitiful office near the Paterson courthouse, sharing space with a bail bondsman. He ambulance-chased, but even as a member of this small-time pack, he couldn’t distinguish himself. He managed to marry a woman slightly above his station, though she reminded him of that as often as she could.

Where Bacard had indeed been below average—waybelow average—was in sperm count. Try as he might—and Dawn, his wife, didn’t really like him to try—he could not impregnate his wife. After four years, they tried to adopt. Again, Steven Bacard fit into the abyss of the great unspectacular, which made finding a white baby—something Dawn truly craved—nearly impossible. He and Dawn traveled to Romania, but the only children available were too old or born drug addled.

But it was there, overseas in that god-deserted place, that Steven Bacard finally came up with an idea that, after thirty-eight years, made him rise above the crowd.

“Problem, Steven?”

The voice startled him. He turned away from his reflection. Lydia stood in the shadows.

“Staring in the mirror like that,” Lydia said, adding a tsk-tsk at the end. “Wasn’t that Narcissus’s downfall?”

Bacard could not help it. He began to tremble. It wasn’t just Lydia, though, in truth, she often had that effect on him. The phone call had set him on edge. Lydia popping up like that—that was the clincher. He had no idea how she’d gotten in or how long she’d been standing there. He wanted to ask what had happened tonight. He wanted details. But there was no time.

“We do indeed have a problem,” Bacard said.

“Tell me.”

Her eyes chilled him. They were big and luminous and beautiful and yet you sensed nothing behind them, only a cold chasm, windows to a house long abandoned.

What Bacard had discovered while in Romania—what had finally helped him rise above the pack—was a way to beat the system. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, Bacard was on a roll. He stopped chasing ambulances. People started looking up to him. He was invited to fund-raisers. He became a sought-after speaker. His wife, Dawn, started to smile at him again and ask him about his day. He even appeared on News 12 New Jersey when the cable station needed a certain kind of legal expert. He stopped, however, when a colleague overseas reminded him of the danger of too much publicity. Besides, he no longer needed to attract clients. They found him, these parents searching for a miracle. The desperate have always done that, like plants stretching through the dark for any sliver of sunlight. And he, Steven Bacard, was that sunlight.

He pointed to the phone. “I just got a call.”

“And?”

“The ransom money is bugged,” he said.

“We switched bags.”

“Not just the bags. There’s some kind of device in the money. Between the bills or something.”

Lydia’s face clouded over. “Your source didn’t know about this before?”

“My source didn’t know about any of it until just now.”

“So what you’re telling me,” she said slowly, “is that while we stand here the police know exactly where we are?”

“Not the police,” he said. “The bug wasn’t planted by the cops or the feds.”

That seemed to surprise her. Then Lydia nodded. “Dr. Seidman.”

“Not exactly. He has a woman named Rachel Mills helping him. She used to be a fed.”

Lydia smiled as if this explained something. “And this Rachel Mills—this ex-fed—she’s the one who bugged the money?”

“Yes.”

“Is she following us right now?”

“No one knows where she is,” Bacard said. “No one knows where Seidman is either.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“The police think this Rachel woman is involved.”

Lydia lifted her chin. “Involved in the original kidnapping?”

“And the murder of Monica Seidman.”

Lydia liked that. She smiled and Bacard felt a fresh shiver slink down his back. “Was she, Steven?”

He teetered. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Ignorance is bliss, that it?”

Bacard chose to say nothing.

Lydia said, “Do you have the gun?”

He stiffened. “What?”

“Seidman’s gun. Do you have it?”

Bacard did not like this. He felt as if he were sinking. He considered lying, but then he saw those eyes. “Yes.”

“Get it,” she said. “How about Pavel? Have you heard from him?”

“He’s not happy with any of this. He wants to know what’s going on.”

“We’ll call him in the car.”

“We?”

“Yes. Now let’s hurry, Steven.”

“I’m coming with you?”

“Indeed.”

“What are you going to do?”

Lydia put her fingers to her lips. “Shh,” she said. “I have a plan.”

Rachel said, “They’re on the move again.”

“How long did they stop?” I asked

“Maybe five minutes. They could have met up with someone and transferred the money. Or maybe they were just getting gas. Turn right here.”

We pulled up on Centuro Road off Route 3. Giants Stadium loomed in the distance. About a mile up, Rachel pointed out the window. “They were somewhere over there.”

The sign readMETROVISTA and the parking lot appeared to be a never-ending expanse, disappearing in the distant marsh. MetroVista was a classic New Jersey office complex, built during the great expanse of the eighties. Hundreds of offices, all cold and impersonal, sleek and robotic, with too many tinted windows not letting in enough sunlight. The vapor lights buzzed and you could imagine, if not actually hear, the drone of worker bees.

“They weren’t stopping for gas,” Rachel muttered.

“So what do we do?”

“Only thing we can,” she said. “Let’s keep following the money.”

Heshy and Lydia headed west toward the Garden State Parkway. Steven Bacard followed in the car behind them. Lydia ripped open the wads of bills. It took her ten minutes to find the tracking device. She dug it out from the money crevice.

She held it up, so Heshy could see it. “Clever,” she said.

“Or we’re slipping.”

“We’ve never been perfect, Pooh Bear.”

Heshy did not reply. Lydia opened the car window. She stuck her hand out and signaled for Bacard to follow them. He waved back that he understood. When they slowed for the toll, Lydia quickly pecked Heshy’s cheek and got out of the car. She took the money with her. Heshy was now left alone with just the tracking device. If this Rachel woman still had any juice or if the police got wind of what was happening, they would pull Heshy over. He would toss the tracking device into the street. They would find the device, sure, but they wouldn’t be able to prove it had come from his car. And even if they could, so what? They would search Heshy and his car and find nothing. No kid, no ransom note, no ransom money. He was clean.

Lydia hurried over to Steven Bacard’s car and slipped into the passenger’s side. “You got Pavel on the line?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She took the phone. Pavel started screaming in whatever the hell language was native to him. She waited and then told him the meeting place. When Bacard heard the address, his head snapped toward her. She smiled. Pavel, of course, didn’t understand the significance of the location, but then again, why should he? He ranted a little more, but eventually Pavel calmed enough to say he’d be there. She hung up the phone.

“You can’t be serious,” Bacard said to her.

“Shh.”

Her plan was simple enough. Lydia and Bacard would race ahead to the meeting spot while Heshy, who had the tracker on him, would stall. When Lydia was set up and fully prepared, she would call Heshy on the cell phone. Then and only then would Heshy go to the meeting spot. He would have the tracking device with him. The woman, this Rachel Mills, would hopefully follow.

She and Bacard arrived in twenty minutes. Lydia spotted a car parked up the block. Pavel’s, she figured. A stolen Toyota Celica. Lydia didn’t like that. Strange cars parked on streets like these were noticed. She glanced over at Steven Bacard. His face was moon pale. It almost seemed detached, floating. The scent of fear came off him in waves. His fingers gripped the wheel, tense. Bacard didn’t have the stomach for this. That would be a liability.

“You can just drop me off,” she said.

“I want to know,” he began, “what you plan on doing here.”

She just looked at him.

“My God.”

“Spare me the indignant act.”

“No one was supposed to be hurt.”

“You mean like Monica Seidman?”

“We had nothing to do with that.”

Lydia shook her head. “And the sister, what was her name, Stacy Seidman?”

Bacard opened his mouth as though he might counter. Then he lowered his head. She knew what he had planned on saying. Stacy Seidman had been a drug addict. She was expendable, a waste, a danger, heading for death, whatever justification floated his boat. Men like Bacard needed justification. In his mind, he wasn’t selling babies. He really believed that he was helping. And if he made money—lots of money—from it and broke the law, well, he was taking tremendous risk to better lives. Shouldn’t he be well compensated?

But Lydia had no interest in digging into his psyche nor comforting it. She had counted the money in the car. He had hired her. Her take was a million dollars. Bacard got the other million. She shouldered the duffel bag with her—and Heshy’s—money. She stepped out of the car. Steven Bacard stared straight ahead. He did not refuse the money. He did not call her back and say that he wanted to wash his hands of this. There was a million dollars sitting in the seat next to him. Bacard wanted it. His family had a big house in Alpine now. His kids went to private school. So no, Bacard did not back off. He simply stared ahead and put the car in drive.

When he was gone, Lydia called Pavel with the two-way radio portion of the cell phone. Pavel was hiding behind some shrubs up the block. He still wore the flannel shirt. His walk was a labored lumber. His teeth had suffered under a lifetime of cigarettes and ill care. He had a squashed-from-too-many-fights nose. He was Balkan rough trade. He had seen a lot in his life. Didn’t matter, though. When you don’t know what’s happening, you are in over your head.

“You,” he said, spitting the word. “You no tell me.”

Pavel was right. She no tell him. In other words, he’d known nothing. His English was beyond broken, which was why he had been the perfect front man for this crime. He’d come over from Kosovo two years ago with a pregnant woman. During the first ransom drop, Pavel had been given specific instructions. He’d been told to wait for a certain car to pull into the lot, to approach the car without speaking to the man, to take a bag from him, to get into the van. Oh, and to confuse matters a little more, they told Pavel to keep a phone in front of his mouth and pretend to talk into it.

That was it.

Pavel had no idea who Marc Seidman was. He had no idea about what was in the bag, about a kidnapping, about a ransom, nothing. He didn’t wear his gloves—his fingerprints were not on file in the United States—and he didn’t carry ID.

They paid him two thousand dollars and sent him back to Kosovo. Based on Seidman’s rather specific description, the police circulated a sketch of a man who, for all practical purposes, was impossible to find. When they decided to rerun the ransom drop, Pavel was the natural go-to guy. He would dress the same, look the same, play with Seidman’s head in case he decided to fight back this time.

Still, Pavel was a realist. He would adapt. He had spent time selling women in Kosovo. White slavery in the guise of strip clubs was a big market over there, though Bacard had come up with another way of using those women. Pavel, no stranger to sudden change, would do what needed to be done. He gave Lydia some attitude, but once she handed him a wad of bills adding up to five thousand dollars, he grew quiet. The fight was out of him. It was only a question of how.

She handed Pavel a gun. He knew how to use it.

Pavel set up near the driveway, keeping his two-way radio channel open. Lydia called Heshy and told them they were ready. Fifteen minutes later, Heshy drove past them. He tossed the tracking device out the car window. Lydia caught it and threw back a kiss. Heshy kept driving. Lydia brought the tracking device into the backyard. She took out her gun and waited.

The night air was starting to give way to the morning dew. That tingle was there, lighting up her veins. Heshy, she knew, was not far away. He wanted to join in, but this was her game. The street was silent. It was 4:00A .M.

Five minutes later, she heard the car pull up.

chapter 33

Something was verywrong here.

The roads were becoming so familiar I barely noticed them. I was wired, jazzed, the pain in my ribs barely noticeable. Rachel was absorbed in her Palm Pilot. She’d click screens with her little wand, tilt her head, change viewing angles. She dug through the backseat and found Zia’s road atlas. With the cap of the Flair pen in her mouth, Rachel started marking up the route, trying to discern a pattern, I guess. Or maybe she was just stalling, so I wouldn’t ask the inevitable.

I called her name softly. She flicked her eyes at me and then back to the screen.

“Did you know about that CD-ROM before you got here?” I said.

“No.”

“There were photos of you in front of the hospital where I work.”

“So you told me.”

She clicked the screen again.

“Are the photos real?” I asked.

“Real?”

“I mean, were they digitally altered or something—or were you really in front of my office two years ago?”

Rachel kept her head down, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see her shoulders slump. “Make a right,” she said. “Up here.”

We were on Glen Avenue now. This was getting creepy. My old high school was up on the left. They’d refurbished it four years ago, adding a weight room, a swimming pool, and a second gymnasium. The façade had been intentionally scuffed up and aged with ivy, giving the place a proper collegiate feel, reminding the youth of Kasselton what was expected of them.

“Rachel?”

“The pictures are real, Marc.”

I nodded to myself. I don’t know why. Maybe I was trying to buy myself some time. I was heading into something worse than unchartered waters here. I knew that the answers would alter everything again, make it all go topsy-turvy, just when I hoped to set the world right. “I think I’m owed an explanation,” I said.

“You are.” She kept her head down on the screen. “But not right now.”

“Yeah, right now.”

“We need to concentrate on what we’re doing.”

“Don’t hand me that crap. We’re just driving here. I can handle two things at the same time.”

“Maybe,” she said softly, “I can’t.”

“Rachel, what were you doing in front of that hospital?”

“Whoa.”

“Whoa what?”

We were approaching the traffic lights at Kasselton Avenue. Because of the hour, they were blinking yellow and red. I frowned and turned to her. “Which way?”

“Right.”

My heart iced. “I don’t understand.”

“The car has stopped again.”

“Where?”

“Unless I’m reading this wrong,” Rachel said, and finally she looked up and met my gaze, “they’re at your house.”

I made the right turn. Rachel no longer needed to direct me. She kept her eyes on the screen. We were less than a mile away now. My parents had taken this route to the hospital on the day I was born. I wondered how many times I’d been on this road since. Weird thought, but the mind goes where it must.

I made the right on Monroe. My parents’ house was on the left. The lights were off except, of course, for the lamp downstairs. We had it on a timer. It stayed on from 7:00P .M. to 5:00A .M. every day. I’d put in one of those long-life, energy-saving light bulbs that look like soft-ice-cream swirls. Mom bragged about how long it lasted. She’d read somewhere that keeping a radio on was also a good way to scare away burglars, so she had an old AM radio constantly tuned into a talk station. The problem was, the sound of the radio kept her up at night, so now Mom put the volume so low that a burglar would have to press his ear against it to be warded off.

I started making the turn onto my road, onto Darby Terrace, when Rachel said, “Slow down.”

“They moving?”

“No. The signal is still coming from your house.”

I looked up the block. I started thinking about it. “They didn’t exactly take a direct route here.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Maybe they found your Q-Logger,” I said.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

The car inched forward. We were in front of the Citrons’ house now, two away from mine. No lights were on—not even a timer lamp. Rachel chewed on her lower lip. We were at the Kadisons’ house now, nearing my driveway. It was one of those situations people describe as “too quiet,” as if the world had frozen, as if all you saw, even animate objects, were trying to stay still.

“This has to be a setup,” she said.

I was just about to ask her what we should do—pull back, park and walk, call the cops for help?—when the first bullet shattered the front windshield. Shards of glass smacked my face. I heard a short scream. Without conscious thought, I ducked my head and raised my forearm. I looked down and saw blood.

“Rachel!”

The second shot zinged so close to my head that I felt it in my hair. The impact hit my seat with a sound like a pillowy wallop. Instincts took over again. But this time it had a mission, a direction of sorts. I hit the accelerator. The car lurched forward.

The human brain is an amazing instrument. No computer can duplicate it. It can process millions of stimuli in hundredths of a second. That was, I guess, what was going on now. I was hunched over in the driver’s seat. Someone was taking shots at me. The base part of my brain wanted to flee, but something farther along the evolutionary path realized that there might be a better way.

The thought process took—and this is just a rough estimate—less than a tenth of a second. I had my foot on the accelerator. The tires shrieked. I thought about my house, the familiar setup of it, the direction the bullets had come from. Yes, I know how that sounds. Maybe panic speeds up those brain functions, I don’t know, but I realized that if I were the one doing the shooting, if I had been lying in wait for this car to approach, I’d have hidden behind the three shrubs that divide my property from the Christies’ next door. The shrubs were big and bushy and right on our driveway. If I had pulled all the way in, bam, you could have blown us away from the passenger side. When I hesitated, when the shooter had seen that we might back away, he was still in position, though not as good, to take us from the front.

So I looked up, turned the wheel, and aimed the car for those bushes.

A third bullet rang out. It hit something metal, probably the front grill, with aka-ping . I sneaked a glance at Rachel long enough to take a visual snapshot: her head was down, her hand pressed against the side of her head, blood seeping through the fingers. My stomach fell, but my foot stayed on the pedal. I moved my head back and forth, as if that might throw off the shooter’s aim.

My headlights illuminated the bushes.

I saw flannel.

Something happened to me. I talked before about sanity being a thin string and that mine had snapped. In that case, I went quiet. This time, a mix of rage and dread roared through my body. I pressed the pedal harder, almost through the floor. I heard a yell of surprise. The man in the flannel shirt tried to leap to the right.

But I was ready.

I turned the steering wheel toward him like we were playing bumper cars. There was a crash, a dull thud. I heard a scream. The bushes were caught up in the bumper. I looked for the man in the flannel. Nothing. I had my hand on the door handle, about to open it and go after him, when Rachel said, “No!”

I stopped. She was alive!

Her hand reached up and shifted the car into reverse. “Go back!”

I listened. I don’t know what I’d been thinking. The man was armed. I wasn’t. Despite the impact, I didn’t know if he was dead or injured or what.

I started back. I noticed that my dark suburban street was lit up now. Shots and shrieking tires are not common noises here on Darby Terrace. People had woken up and turned on the lights. They’d be dialing 911.

Rachel sat up. Relief flooded me. She had a gun in one hand. The other was still over her wound. “It’s my ear,” she said, and again, the mind working in funny ways, I had already started thinking about what procedure I would use to repair the damage.

“There!” she shouted.

I turned. The man in the flannel was hobbling down the driveway. I turned the wheel and aimed the car lights in his direction. He disappeared around back. I looked over at Rachel.

“Back up,” she said. “I’m not sure he’s alone.”

I did. “Now what?”

Rachel had her gun out, her free hand on the door handle. “You stay.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“You keep revving the engine and moving a little. Let them think we’re still in the car. I’ll sneak up on them.”

Before I could protest any further, she rolled out. With blood still flowing down her side, she darted away. I, per her instructions, revving the engine and feeling like a total dweeb, shifted the car into drive, moved forward, shifted the car into reverse, went back.

A few seconds later, I lost sight of Rachel.

A few seconds after that, I heard two more shots.

Lydia had watched it all from her spot in the backyard.

Pavel had shot too early. It was a mistake on his part. From her vantage point behind a wall of firewood, Lydia could not see who was in the car. But she’d been impressed. The driver had not only flushed Pavel out but wounded him as well.

Pavel limped into view. Lydia’s eyes adjusted enough to see the blood on his face. She raised her arm and waved him toward her. Pavel fell and then started crawling. Lydia kept her eyes on the routes to the backyard. They would have to come from the front. There was a fence behind her. She was near the back neighbor’s gate in case she needed to escape.

Pavel kept crawling. Lydia urged him on while keeping watch. She wondered how this ex-fed would play it. The neighbors were awake now. Lights were going on. The cops would be on their way.

Lydia would have to hurry.

Pavel made it to the pile of firewood and rolled next to her. For a moment, he stayed on his back. His breathing was wheezy and wet. Then he forced himself up. He knelt next to Lydia and looked out into the yard. He winced and said, “Leg broken.”

“We’ll take care of it,” she said. “Where’s your gun?”

“Dropped.”

Untraceable, she thought. Not a problem. “I have another weapon you can use,” she told him. “Keep a lookout.”

Pavel nodded. He squinted into the dark.

“What?” Lydia said. She moved a little closer to him.

“Not sure.”

As Pavel stared out, Lydia pressed the barrel of her gun against the hollow spot behind his left ear. She squeezed the trigger, firing two shots into his head. Pavel dropped to the ground like a marionette with his strings cut.

Lydia looked down at him. In the end, this might be best. Plan B was probably better than Plan A anyway. Had Pavel killed the woman—an ex–FBI agent—that would not have ended it. They’d probably search even harder for the mysterious man in flannel. The investigation would have continued. There wouldn’t be closure. This way, with Pavel dead—dead by the gun used at the original Seidman crime scene—the police would conclude that either Seidman or this Rachel (or both) was behind it. They’d be arrested. The charges might not stick, but no matter. The police would stop looking for anyone else. They could disappear with the money now.

Case closed.

Lydia suddenly heard the shriek of tire wheels. She tossed the weapon into the neighbor’s yard. She didn’t want it in plain sight. That would be too obvious. She quickly checked Pavel’s pockets. There was money, of course, the wad of bills she’d just given him. She’d let him keep that. One more thing to tie it all up nice and neat.

There was nothing else in his pockets—no wallet, no slip of paper, no identification or anything that could trace back to anything. Pavel had been good about that. More lights in windows now. Not much time. Lydia rose.

“Federal agent! Drop your weapon!”

Damn! A woman’s voice. Lydia fired toward where she thought the voice had originated from and ducked back behind the firewood. Shots came back in her direction. She was pinned down. What now? Still behind the firewood, Lydia stretched up behind her and released the gate hatch.

“All right!” Lydia shouted. “I’m surrendering!”

Then she jumped up with the semiautomatic already going. She pulled the trigger as fast as she could. Bullets flew, the sound ringing in her ears. She didn’t know if the shots were being returned or not. She didn’t think so. There was no hesitation, though. The gate was open. She darted through it.

Lydia ran hard. A hundred yards away, Heshy was waiting in a neighbor’s yard. They met up. Keeping low, they followed a trail of recently pruned shrubs. Heshy was good. He always tried to prepare for the worst. His car was hidden in a cul-de-sac two blocks down.

When they were safely on their way, Heshy asked, “You okay?”

“Fine, Pooh Bear.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and settled back. “Just fine.”

It wasn’t until they were near the highway that Lydia wondered what had happened to Pavel’s cell phone.

My first reaction, naturally enough, was panic.

I opened the car door to give chase, but my brain finally kicked in and made me pull up. It was one thing to be brave or even foolhardy. It was another to be suicidal. I did not have a gun. Both Rachel and her assailant did. Rushing to her aid unarmed would be, at best, fruitless.

But I couldn’t just stay here.

I closed the car door. Once again, my foot stamped down on the accelerator. The car bolted forward. I spun the wheel and veered across my front lawn. The shots had come from the back of the house. I aimed the car there. I tore through the flower beds and shrubs. They had been here so long that I almost cared.

My headlights danced through the dark. I started toward the right, hoping that I could work around the big elm. No go. The tree was too close to the house. The car wouldn’t fit. I floored it in reverse. The tires ripped into dewy lawn, taking a second or two to catch. I headed toward the Christies’ property line. I took out their new gazebo. Bill Christie would be pissed.

I was in the backyard now. The headlights slipped along the Grossmans’ stockade fence. I swung the steering wheel toward the right. And then I saw her. I hit the brake. Rachel stood by the pile of firewood. The wood had been there when we bought the house. We hadn’t used any. It was probably rotten and bug infested. The Grossmans had complained that it was so close to their fence that the bugs would start eating into it. I had promised to get rid of it, but I hadn’t yet gotten around to it.

Rachel had her gun drawn and pointing down. The man in the flannel was lying at her feet like yesterday’s refuse. I didn’t have to roll down a window. The windshield was gone from the earlier gunshots. I heard nothing. Rachel lifted her hand. She waved to me, signaling that it was okay. I hurried out of the car.

“You shot him?” I asked, almost rhetorically.

“No,” she said.

The man was dead. You didn’t have to be a doctor to see that. The back of his skull had been blown off. Brain matter, congealed and pink-white, clung to the firewood. I am not on expert on ballistics but the damage was severe. It was either a very large bullet or from very close range.

“Someone was with him,” Rachel said. “They shot him and escaped through that gate.”

I stared down at him. The rage boiled up again. “Who is he?”

“I checked his pockets. He has a wad of bills but no ID.”

I wanted to kick him. I wanted to shake him and ask what he had done with my daughter. I looked at his face, damaged yet handsome, and wondered what had led him here, why our life paths had crossed. And that was when I noticed something odd.

I tilted my head to the side.

“Marc?”

I dropped to my knees. Brain matter did not bother me. Bone splinters and bloody tissue did not faze me in the least. I had seen worse trauma. I examined his nose. It was practically putty. I remembered that from last time. A boxer, I’d thought. Either that or he’d lived some rough years. His head lolled back at a funny angle. His mouth was open. That was what had drawn my eye.

I put my fingers on his jaw and palate and pulled his mouth farther open.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rachel asked.

“Do you have a flashlight?”

“No.”

Didn’t matter. I lifted his head up and aimed his mouth toward the car. The headlights did the trick. I could see clearly now.

“Marc?”

“It always bothered me that he let me see his face.” I lowered my head toward his mouth, trying to do so without casting too much of a shadow. “They were so careful about everything else. The altered voice, the stolen van sign, the welding together of license plates. Yet he lets me see his face.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought maybe he’d worn an elaborate disguise the first time I’d seen him. That would make sense. But now we know that’s not the case. So why would he let me see him?”

She seemed taken aback that I was asserting myself, but that didn’t last long. She joined in. “Because he had no record.”

“Maybe. Or . . .”

“Or what? Marc, we don’t have time for this.”

“His dental work.”

“What about it?”

“Look at his crowns. They’re tin cans.”

“They’re what?”

I lifted my head. “On his upper right molar and upper left cuspid. See, our crowns used to be made of gold, though most are now porcelain. Your dentist makes a mold so you can get an exact fitting. But this is just an aluminum, ready-made cap. You put it over the teeth and squeeze it on with pliers. I did two oral rotations overseas, mostly dealing with reconstruction, but I saw lots of mouths with these things in them. They call them tin cans. And they don’t do it here in the USA, except maybe as a temporary.”

She took a knee next to me. “He’s foreign?”

I nodded. “I’d bet he’s from the old Soviet bloc, something like that. The Balkans, maybe.”

“That would make sense,” she said. “Whatever prints they’d find they’d send down to NCIC. Same with any sort of face ID. Our files and computers wouldn’t pick him up. Hell, it’ll take the police forever to ID him unless someone comes forward.”

“Which probably won’t happen.”

“My God, that’s why they killed him. They know that we won’t be able to trace him back.”

The sirens sounded. Our eyes locked.

“You got a choice to make here, Marc. We stay, we’re going to jail. They’ll think he was part of our plot and we killed him. My guess is, the kidnappers knew that. Your neighbors will claim it was quiet until we drove up. Suddenly there’s shrieking tires and gunfire. I’m not saying that we won’t be able to explain it eventually.”

“But it will take time,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And whatever opening we have here, it will close. The cops will pursue it their own way. Even if they can help, even if they believe us, they’ll make a lot of noise.”

“One more thing,” she said.

“What?”

“The kidnappers set us up. They knew about the Q-Logger.”

“We figured that out already.”

“But now I’m wondering, Marc. How did they find it?”

I looked up, remembering the warning in the ransom note. “A leak?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out anymore.”

We both started toward the car. I put my hand on her arm. She was still bleeding. Her eye was almost swollen shut now. I looked at her, and again something primitive took over: I wanted to protect her. “If we run, it’ll make us look guilty,” I said. “I don’t mind that—I don’t have anything to lose here—but what about you?”

Her voice was soft. “I don’t have anything to lose either.”

“You need a doctor,” I said.

Rachel almost smiled. “Aren’t you one?”

“True enough.”

There was no time to discuss the pros and cons. We had to act. We got into Zia’s car. I swerved it around and headed out the back way, the Woodland Road exit. Thoughts—rational, clear thoughts—were starting to filter in now. When I really considered where we were and what we were doing, the truth nearly crushed me. I almost pulled over. Rachel saw it.

“What?” she said.

“Why are we running?”

“I don’t understand.”

“We hoped to find my daughter or at least who did this to her. We said there was a small opening.”

“Yes.”

“But don’t you see? The opening, if there ever really was one, is gone. That guy back there is dead. We know he’s foreign, but so what? We don’t know who he is. We’ve reached a dead end. We don’t have any other clues.”

There was suddenly a trace of mischief on Rachel’s face. She reached into her pocket and pulled something into a view. A cell phone. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t hers. “Maybe,” she said, “we do.”

chapter 34

“First thing,” Rachelsaid, “we need to get rid of this car.”

“The car,” I said, shaking my head at the damage. “If this search doesn’t kill me, Zia will.”

Rachel managed another smile. We were in the zone now, so deep in, so far past scared that we had found a little quiet. I debated where we should go, but really there was only one alternative.

“Lenny and Cheryl,” I said.

“What about them?”

“They live four blocks from here.”

It was five in the morning. Dark had begun to surrender to the inevitable. I dialed Lenny’s home number and hoped that he hadn’t gone back to the hospital. He answered on the first ring and barked a hello.

“I got a problem,” I said.

“I hear sirens.”

“That would be part of the problem.”

“The police called me,” he said. “After you took off.”

“I need your help.”

“Is Rachel with you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

There was an awkward silence. Rachel fiddled with the dead man’s cell phone. I had no idea what she was looking for. Then Lenny said, “What are you trying to do here, Marc?”

“Find Tara. Are you going to help me or not?”

Now there was no hesitation. “What do you need?”

“To hide the car we’re using and borrow another.”

“And then what are you going to do?”

I turned the car to the right. “We’ll be there in a minute. I’ll try to explain it to you then.”

Lenny wore a pair of old gray sweatpants, the kind with the tie waist, a pair of slippers, and a Big Dog T-shirt. He pressed a button and the garage door slid to a smooth close as soon as we entered. Lenny looked exhausted, but then again, I don’t think Rachel and I were ready for our close-ups either.

When Lenny saw the blood on Rachel, he took a step back. “What the hell happened?”

“Do you have any bandages?” I asked.

“Cabinet over the kitchen sink.”

Rachel still had the cell phone in her hand. “I need to get on the Internet,” she said.

“Look,” Lenny said, “we have to discuss this.”

“Discuss it with him,” Rachel said. “I need Web access.”

“In my office. You know where it is.”

Rachel hurried inside. I followed, staying in the kitchen. She continued on to the den. We both knew this house well. Lenny stayed with me. They had recently renovated the kitchen into something French Farmesque and added a second refrigerator because four kids ate like four kids. The fronts of both fridges were overloaded with artwork and family photos and a brightly colored alphabet. The new one had one of those magnetic poetry sets. The wordsI STAND ALONE AROUND THE SEA ran down the handle. I started going through the cabinet over the sink.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I found Cheryl’s first aid kit and pulled it out. “There was a shooting at our house.”

I gave him the bare bones, opening the first aid kit and checking the supplies. There’d be enough in here for now. I finally glanced at him. Lenny just gaped at me. “You ran away from a murder scene?”

“If I stayed, what would have happened?”

“The police would have picked you up.”

“Exactly.”

He shook his head and kept his voice low. “They don’t think you did it anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“They think it was Rachel.”

I blinked, not sure how to react.

“Has she explained those photos to you?”

“Not yet,” I said. Then, “I don’t understand. How did they figure it was Rachel?”

Lenny rapidly outlined a theory involving jealousy and rage and my forgetting key moments before the shooting. I stood there too stunned to respond. When I did, I said, “That’s nuts.”

Lenny did not reply.

“That guy with the flannel shirt just tried to kill us.”

“And what ended up happening to him?”

“I told you. Someone else was with him. He was shot.”

“You saw someone else?”

“No. Rachel . . .” I saw where he was going. “Come on, Lenny. You know better.”

“I want to know about those photos on the CD, Marc.”

“Fine, let’s go ask her.”

When we left the kitchen, I spotted Cheryl on the stairwell. She looked down at me, arms crossed. I don’t think I had ever seen that look on her face before. It made me pause. There was some blood on the carpet, probably from Rachel. On the wall was one of those studio photos of all four kids, trying to look casual in matching white turtlenecks against a white background. Children and all that white.

“I’ll take care of it,” Lenny told her. “You stay upstairs.”

We hurried through the den. A DVD case from the latest Disney movie lay splayed on top of the television. I nearly tripped over a Wiffle Ball and plastic bat. A game of Monopoly featuring Pokemon characters was spread across the floor in midgame clutter. Someone, one of the kids I assumed, had scrawledDO NOT TOUCH A THING ! on a piece of paper and laid it over the board. As we passed the fireplace mantel, I noticed that they’d recently updated the photographs. The kids were older now, in those images as in real life. But the oldest photograph, the “formal dance” image of the four of us, was gone. I don’t know what that meant. Probably nothing. Or maybe Lenny and Cheryl were taking their own advice: It was time to move on.

Rachel sat at Lenny’s desk, hovering over the keyboard. The blood had dried down the left side of her neck. Her ear was a mess. She glanced up when she saw us and then went back to typing. I examined her ear. Severe damage. The bullet had scraped along the upper region. It had skimmed the side of her head too. Another inch—hell, another quarter inch—and she’d probably be dead. Rachel ignored me, even when I applied the Bactine and threw on a bandage. It would be good enough for now. I’d fix it for real when we had the chance.

“Bang,” Rachel said suddenly. She smiled and hit a key. The printer began to whir. Lenny nodded toward me. I put the finishing touches on the bandage and said, “Rachel?”

She looked up at me.

“We need to talk,” I said.

“No,” she countered, “we need to get out of here. I just found us a major lead.”

Lenny stayed where he was. Cheryl slipped into the room now, her arms still folded. “What lead?” I asked.

“I checked the logs on the cell phone,” Rachel said.

“You can do that?”

“They’re in plain view, Marc,” she said, and I could hear the impatience. “The dialed and received call logs. It’s pretty much standard on every phone.”

“Right.”

“The dial log didn’t help. No numbers were listed, which means, if the guy did dial out, it was to a blocked number.”

I was trying to stay with her. “Okay.”

“But the received log is another story. There was only one incoming call on the list. According to the internal timer, it came in at midnight. I just checked the phone number in the reverse directory at Switchboard dot-com. It’s a residence. One Verne Dayton in Huntersville, New Jersey.”

Neither the name nor the city rang any bells. “Where is Huntersville?”

“I MapQuested it. It’s near the Pennsylvania border. I zoomed in to within a few hundred yards. The house is all by itself out there. Acres of land in the heart of Nowheresville.”

The chill started in my center and spread. I turned to Lenny. “I need to borrow your car.”

“Hold up a second,” Lenny said. “What we need here are some answers.”

Rachel stood. “You want to know about the photos on the CD.”

“For starters, yes.”

“It’s me in the pictures. Yes, I was there. The rest is none of your business. I owe Marc an explanation, not you. What else?”

For once, Lenny didn’t know what to say.

“You also want to know if I killed my husband, right?” She looked at Cheryl. “Do you think I killed Jerry?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Cheryl said. “But I want you both out of here.”

“Cheryl,” Lenny said.

She shot him a look that could have downed a charging rhino. “They shouldn’t have brought this to our doorstep.”

“He’s our best friend. He’s the godfather of our son.”

“Which makes it that much worse. He drags this danger into our home? Into the lives of our children?”

“Come on, Cheryl. You’re exaggerating.”

“No,” I said. “She’s right. We should get out of here now. Let me have the keys.”

Rachel grabbed the sheet out of the printer. “Directions,” she explained.

I nodded and looked at Lenny. His head was down. His feet rocked back and forth. Again, I thought of our childhood. “Shouldn’t we call Tickner and Regan?” he said.

“And tell them what?”

“I can explain it to them,” Lenny said. “If Tara is at this place”—he stopped, shook his head as if he suddenly saw how ridiculous the thought was—“they’ll be better equipped to go in.”

I moved right up next to him. “They found out about Rachel’s tracking device.”

“What?”

“The kidnappers. We don’t know how. But they found it. Add it up, Lenny. The ransom note warned us that they had an inside source. First time out, they knew I’d told the cops. Second time out, they learn about the tracking device.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Do you think I have time to look for proof?”

Lenny’s face sank.

“You know I can’t risk that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Lenny reached into his pocket and handed me the keys. We were off.

chapter 35

When Regan andTickner got the call about the shooting at the Seidman residence, both men leapt to their feet. They were nearing the elevator when Tickner’s cell phone rang.

A stiff, overly formal female voice said, “Special Agent Tickner?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher.”

Tickner knew the name. He may have even met her once or twice. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Where are you right now?” she asked.

“New York Presbyterian Hospital, but I’m heading out to New Jersey.”

“No,” she said. “Please come down to One Federal Plaza immediately.”

Tickner checked the time. It was only five in the morning. “Now?”

“That is what immediately means, yes.”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo would like to see you.”

Pistillo? That made him pause. Pistillo was the top agent on the East Coast. He was the boss of Tickner’s boss’s boss. “But I’m on the way to a crime scene.”

“This isn’t a request,” Fisher said. “Assistant Director Pistillo is waiting. He expects you here within the half hour.”

The phone went dead. Tickner lowered his hand.

“What the hell was that about?” Regan asked.

“I gotta go,” Tickner said, heading down the corridor.

“Where?”

“My boss wants to see me.”

“Now?”

“Right now.” Tickner was already halfway down the hall. “Call me when you know something.”

“This isn’t easy to talk about,” Rachel said.

I drove. The unanswered questions had started to gather, weighing us both down, sapping our energy. I kept my eyes on the road and waited.

“Was Lenny with you when you saw the photos?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Was he surprised by them?”

“Looked that way to me.”

She settled back. “Cheryl probably wouldn’t have been.”

“Why’s that?”

“When you asked for my number, she called to warn me.”

“About what?” I asked.

“About us.”

No further explanation required. “She warned me too,” I said.

“When Jerry died—that was my husband’s name, Jerry Camp—when he died, let’s just say it was a very hard time for me.”

“I understand.”

“No,” she said. “Not like that. Jerry and I, we hadn’t worked in a very long time. I don’t know if we ever did. When I went for training at Quantico, Jerry was one of my instructors. More than that, he was a legend. One of the best agents ever. You remember that KillRoy case a few years back?”

“He was a serial killer, right?”

Rachel nodded. “That capture was mostly due to Jerry. He had one of the most distinguished records in the bureau. With me . . . I don’t know how it happened exactly. Or maybe I do. He was older. Something of a father figure maybe. I loved the FBI. It was my life. Jerry had a crush on me. I was flattered. But I don’t know if I ever really loved him.”

She stopped. I could feel her eyes on me. I kept mine on the road.

“Did you love Monica?” she asked. “I mean, really love her?”

The muscles in my shoulder bunched. “What the hell kind of a question is that?”

She was still. Then she said, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

The silence grew. I tried to slow my breathing. “You were telling me about the photos?”

“Yes.” Rachel started fidgeting. She only wore one ring. Now she twisted and tugged at it. “When Jerry died—”

“Was shot,” I interjected.

Again I could feel her eyes on me. “Was shot, yes.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“This isn’t good, Marc.”

“What isn’t?”

“You’re already angry.”

“I just want to know if you shot your husband.”

“Let me tell it my way, okay?”

There was a touch of steel in her voice now. I backed down, gave her a suit-yourself shrug. “When he died, I pretty much lost it. I was forced to resign. Everything I had—my friends, my work, hell, my life—was wrapped in the bureau. Now it was gone. I started drinking. I sank deeper into a funk. I hit bottom. And when you hit bottom, you look for a way to bounce back up. You look for anything. You get desperate.”

We slowed at an interchange.

“I’m not saying this right,” she said.

I surprised myself then. I reached through the red and put my hand on hers. “Just tell me, okay?”

She nodded, keeping her gaze down, staring at my hand on hers. I kept it there. “One night, when I had too much to drink, I dialed your number.”

I remembered what Regan had told me about the phone records. “When was this?”

“A few months before the attack.”

“Did Monica answer?” I asked.

“No. Your machine picked up. I—I know how stupid this sounds—I left a message for you.”

I slowly took my hand back. “What did you say exactly?”

“I don’t remember. I was drunk. I was crying. I think I said that I missed you and hoped you’d call back. I don’t think I went further than that.”

“I never got the message,” I said.

“I realize that now.”

Something clicked. “That means,” I said, “that Monica listened to it.”

A few months before the attack, I thought. When Monica was feeling her most insecure. When we were starting to have serious problems. I remembered other things too. I remembered how often Monica had cried at night. I remembered how Edgar had told me that she’d started seeing a psychiatrist. And there I was, in my oblivious little world, taking her to Lenny and Cheryl’s house, subjecting her to that picture with my old lover in it—my old lover who had called our house late at night and said she missed me.

“My God,” I said. “No wonder she hired a private investigator. She wanted to know if I was cheating on her. She probably told him about your call, about our past.”

She said nothing.

“You still haven’t answered the question, Rachel. What were you doing in front of the hospital?”

“I came to New Jersey to see my mother,” she began. There was a hitch in her voice now. “I told you that she has a condo now in West Orange.”

“So? Are you trying me to tell me she was a patient there?”

“No.” She went quiet again. I drove. I almost flipped on the radio, just out of habit, just to do something. “Do I really have to say this?”

“I think so, yeah,” I said. But I knew. I understood exactly.

Her voice was stripped off all passion. “My husband is dead. My job is gone. I’ve lost everything. I’d been talking to Cheryl a lot. I could tell from what she said that you and your wife were having problems.” She turned to me full. “Come on, Marc. You know we never got over each other. So that day I went to the hospital to face you. I don’t know what I expected. Was I really naïve enough to think you’d sweep me into your arms? Maybe, I don’t know. So I hung around and tried to work up the courage. I even went up to your floor. But in the end, I couldn’t go through with it—not because of Monica or Tara. I wish I could say I was that noble. I wasn’t.”

“So why then?”

“I walked away because I thought you’d reject me and I wasn’t sure I could handle that.”

We fell into silence then. I had no idea what to say. I don’t even know how I felt.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“I don’t know.”

We drove some more. I wanted so very much to do the right thing. I thought about it. We both stared straight ahead. The tension pressed against the windows. Finally I said, “It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is finding Tara.”

I glanced at Rachel. I saw a tear on her cheek. The sign was up ahead now—small, discreet, nearly indiscernible. It read simply:HUNTERSVILLE . Rachel brushed the tear away and sat up. “Then let’s concentrate on that.”

Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo was at his desk, writing. He was large, barrel chested, big shouldered, and bald, the sort of old-timer that makes you think of dock workers and city-saloon fights—power without the show muscle. Pistillo was probably on the wrong side of sixty. Rumor had it that he’d be retiring soon.

Special Agent Claudia Fisher showed Tickner into the office and closed the door as she left. Tickner took his sunglasses off. He stood with his hands behind his back. He was not invited to sit. There was no greeting, no handshake, no salute, or anything such.

Without looking up, Pistillo said, “I understand you’ve been asking about the tragic death of Special Agent Jerry Camp.”

Alarm bells rang in Tickner’s head. Whoa, that was fast. He’d only started his inquiries a few hours ago. “Yes, sir.”

More scribbling. “He taught you at Quantico, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was a great teacher.”

“One of the best, sir.”

“Thebest, Agent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your inquiries into his death,” Pistillo went on, “do they have anything to do with your past relationship with Special Agent Camp?”

“No, sir.”

Pistillo stopped writing. He put down the pen and folded his rock-breaking hands on his desk. “Then why are you asking about it?”

Tickner looked for the traps and pitfalls he knew lurked in his answer. “His wife’s name has arisen in another case I’m working on.”

“That would be the Seidman murder-kidnapping case?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pistillo frowned. His forehead crinkled. “You think there’s a connection between the accidental shooting death of Jerry Camp and the Tara Seidman kidnapping?”

Careful, Tickner thought. Careful. “It’s an avenue I need to explore.”

“No, Agent Tickner, it is not.”

Tickner stayed still.

“If you can tie Rachel Mills to the Seidman murder-kidnapping, do it. Find evidence that connects her to the case. But you don’t need Camp’s death to do that.”

“They could be related,” Tickner said.

“No,” Pistillo said in a voice that left little room for doubt, “they’re not.”

“But I need to look—”

“Agent Tickner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve looked into the file already,” Pistillo said. “More than that, I helped investigate the death of Jerry Camp personally. He was my friend. Do you understand?”

Tickner did not reply.

“I am completely satisfied that his shooting was a tragic accident. That means you, Agent Tickner”—Pistillo pointed a meaty finger at Tickner’s chest—“are completely satisfied too. Do I make myself clear?”

The two men stared at each other. Tickner was not a foolish man. He liked working for the bureau. He wanted to rise up the ladder. It would not pay to upset someone as powerful as Pistillo. So in the end, Tickner was the first to look away.

“Yes, sir.”

Pistillo relaxed. He picked up his pen. “Tara Seidman has been missing for over a year now. Is there any proof she is still alive?”

“No, sir.”

“Then the case doesn’t belong to us anymore.” He started writing now, making no bones about the fact that this was a dismissal. “Let the locals handle it.”

New Jersey is our most densely populated state. That doesn’t surprise people. New Jersey has cities, suburbs, and plenty of industry. That doesn’t surprise people either. New Jersey is called the Garden State and has plenty of rural areas. That surprises people.

Even before we hit the border of Huntersville, signs of life—human life, that is—had already started fading away. There were few houses. We had passed one general store straight out ofMayberry RFD , but that was boarded up. During the next three miles we hit six different roads. I saw no houses. I passed no cars.

We were in the thick of the woods. I made my final turn and the car climbed up the side of a mountain. A deer—the fourth I’d seen by my count—sprinted out of the road, far enough up so I wasn’t in any danger of hitting it. I was beginning to suspect that the name Huntersville was to be taken literally.

“It’ll be on the left,” Rachel said.

A few seconds later, I could see the mailbox. I began to slow, searching for a house or building of some kind. I saw nothing but trees.

“Keep driving,” Rachel said.

I understood. We couldn’t just pull into the driveway and announce ourselves. I found a small indentation off the road about a quarter of a mile up. I parked and turned off the engine. My heart started to triphammer. It was six in the morning. Dawn was here.

“Do you know how to use a gun?” Rachel asked me.

“I used to fire my dad’s at the range.”

She jammed a weapon into my hand. I stared down at it as if I’d just discovered an extra finger. Rachel had her gun out too. “Where did you get this?” I asked.

“At your house. Off the dead guy.”

“Jesus.”

She shrugged as if to say,Hey, you never know. I looked at the gun again and suddenly a thought hit me: Was this the weapon used to shoot me? To kill Monica? I stopped there. There was no time for this squeamish nonsense. Rachel was already out the door. I followed. We started into the woods. There was no path. We made our own. Rachel took the lead. She tucked her weapon into the back of her pants. For some reason, I didn’t do the same. I wanted to hold the gun. Faded orange signs tacked to trees warned trespassers to stay away. They had the wordNO in giant font and a surprising amount of finer print, overexplaining what seemed to me to be pretty obvious.

We angled closer to where we thought the driveway was. When we spotted it, we had our guiding star. We stayed near the unpaved stretch and continued on our way. A few minutes later, Rachel stopped. I nearly bumped into her. She pointed ahead.

A structure.

It looked like a barn of some sort. We were more careful now. We kept low. We darted from tree to tree and tried to stay out of sight. We did not speak. After a bit, I started hearing music. Country, I think, but I’m no expert. Up ahead, I spotted a clearing. There was indeed a barn that appeared to be in mid-demolition. There was another structure too—a ranch or maybe extended trailer.

We moved a little closer, right to the end of the woods. We pressed ourselves against trees and peeked out. There was a tractor in the yard. I saw an old Trans Am up on cement blocks. Directly in front of the ranch was a white, overly sporty car—some might call it a “hot rod,” I guess—with a thick black stripe up the hood. It looked like a Camaro.

The woods had ended, but we were still at least fifty feet from the ranch house. The grass was high, knee level. Rachel took out her gun. I still held mine. She dropped to the ground and began to commando-crawl. I did the same. On television commando-crawling looks pretty easy. You simply crawl with your butt down. And for about ten feet, it is pretty easy. Then it gets a lot harder. My elbows ached. The grass kept getting caught up in my nose and mouth. I do not suffer from hay fever or allergies, but we were kicking up something. Gnats and the like rose vengefully as we disturbed their slumber. The music was louder now. The singer—a man hitting nary a note—complained about his poor, poor heart.

Rachel stopped. I crawled to her right and pulled up even. “You okay?” she whispered.

I nodded, but I was panting.

“We may have to do something once we get there,” she said. “I can’t have you exhausted. We can slow down if you need to.”

I shook her off and started moving. I was not going to slow down. Slowing down was simply not on the menu. We were getting closer. I could see the Camaro more clearly now. There were black mud flaps with the silver silhouette of a shapely girl behind the rear tires. There were bumper stickers on the back. One read:GUNS DON ’T KILL PEOPLE,BUT THEY SURE MAKE IT EASIER .

Rachel and I were near the end of the grass, almost exposed, when the dog started barking. We both froze.

There are several varieties of dog barks. The yap of an annoying toy dog. The call of a friendly golden retriever. The warning of a basically harmless pet. And then there is that guttural, junkyard, rip-out-the-thorax bark that makes the blood thin.

This bark fit into the last category.

I was not particularly scared of the dog. I had a gun. It’d be easier, I guess, to use it on a dog than a human being. What did frighten me, of course, was that the barking would be heard by the ranch’s occupant. So we waited. A minute or two later, the dog stopped. We kept our eyes on the ranch door. I was not sure what we would do if someone came out. Suppose we were spotted. We couldn’t shoot. We still didn’t know anything. The fact that a call had been made from the residence of Verne Dayton to the cell phone of a dead man did not add up to much. We didn’t know if my daughter was here or not.

We knew, in fact, nothing.

There were hubcaps in the yard. The rising sun gleamed off them. I spotted a bunch of green boxes. And something about them held my gaze. Forgetting caution, I started moving closer.

“Wait,” Rachel whispered.

But I couldn’t. I needed to get a better look at those boxes. Something about them . . . but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I crawled to the tractor and then hid behind it. I peered out toward the boxes again. Now I saw it. The boxes were indeed green. They also had a graphic featuring a smiling baby.

Diapers.

Rachel was next to me now. I swallowed. A big box of diapers. The kind you buy in bulk at a price club. Rachel saw it too. She put her hand on my arm, warning me to stay calm. We got back down on the ground. She signaled that we were going to make our way to a side window. I nodded that I understood. There was a long fiddle solo blaring from the stereo now.

We were both on our stomachs when I felt something cold against the back of my neck. I slid my eyes toward Rachel. There was a rifle barrel there too, pressed against the base of her skull.

A voice said, “Drop your weapons!”

It was a man. Rachel’s right hand was bent in front of her face. The gun was in it. She let it go. A work boot stepped forward and kicked it away. I tried to discern the odds. One man. I could see that now. One man with two rifles. I could conceivably make a move here. No way I’d make it in time, but it might free up Rachel. I met her eyes and saw panic in them. She knew what I was thinking. The rifle suddenly dug deeper into my skull, pushing my face into the dirt.

“Don’t try it, Chief. I can splatter two sets of brains as easy as one.”

My mind scurried, but it kept hitting dead ends. So I let the gun drop from my hand and watched this man kick away our hope.

chapter 36

“Stay on yourstomachs!”

“I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Rachel said.

“Shut the hell up.”

With our faces still in the dirt, he had us both put our hands on top of our head, fingers laced. He put a knee in my spine. I grimaced. Using his body for leverage, the man pulled my arms back, nearly popping my shoulders out of their sockets. My wrists were expertly bound together with nylon flex cuffs. They felt like those ridiculously complicated plastic ties they use to package toys so they can’t be shoplifted.

“Put your feet together.”

Another cuff fastened my ankles together. He pushed down on my back to get up. Then he moved over to Rachel. I was going to say something stupidly chivalric likeLeave her alone! but I knew that this would be, at best, futile. I kept still.

“I’m a federal agent,” Rachel said.

“I heard you the first time.”

He put a knee in her back and pulled her hands together. She grunted in pain.

“Hey,” I said.

The man ignored me. I turned and took my first real look at him, and it was like I’d been dropped into a time warp. No doubt about it—the Camaro belonged to him. His hair was eighties-hockey-player long, maybe permed, the color a strange offshoot of orange-blond, tucked back behind his ears and styled into the kind of mullet cut I hadn’t seen since a Night Ranger music video. He had a cheesy blond mustache that could have been a milk stain. His T-shirt readUNIVERSITY OF SMITH AND WESSON . His jeans were unnaturally dark blue and looked stiff.

After he bound Rachel’s hands, he said, “Get up, missy. You and me are taking a walk.”

Rachel tried to make her voice stern. “You’re not listening,” she said, her hair falling down over her eyes. “I’m Rachel Mills—”

“And I’m Verne Dayton. So what?”

“I’m a federal agent.”

“Your ID says retired.” Verne Dayton smiled. He wasn’t toothless, but he wasn’t exactly an orthodontic poster boy either. His right incisor was totally turned in like a door off its hinge. “Kinda young to be retired, don’t you think?”

“I still work special cases. They know I’m here.”

“Really? Don’t tell me. There’s a bunch of agents waiting down yonder and if they don’t hear from you in three minutes, they’re all gonna come storming in. That about it, Rachel?”

She stopped. He had read her bluff. She had nowhere else to go.

“Get up,” he said again, this time pulling on her arms.

Rachel stumbled to her feet.

“Where are you taking her?” I asked.

He did not reply. They started walking toward the barn. “Hey!” I called out, my voice booming with impotence. “Hey, come back!” But they kept walking. Rachel struggled, but her hands were tied behind her back. Every time she moved too much, he lifted the hands up, forcing her to bend forward. Eventually she complied and just walked.

Fear lit my nerves. In a frenzy, I looked for something, anything, that would get me free. Our guns? No, he had picked them up already. And even if he hadn’t, what would I do? Fire with my teeth? I debated rolling over onto my back, but I wasn’t sure how that would help yet. So now what? I started moving inchworm-style toward the tractor. I looked for a blade or anything that I might use to cut myself free.

In the distance, I heard the barn door creak open. My head swerved in time to see them disappear inside. The door closed behind them. The sound echoed into silence. The music—it must have been a CD or tape—had stopped. It was quiet now. And Rachel was gone from sight.

I had to get my hands free.

I started crawling forward, lifting my butt, pushing off with my legs. I made it to the tractor. I searched for some kind of blade or sharp edge. Nothing. My eyes darted to the barn.

“Rachel!” I shouted.

My voice echoed through the stillness. That was the only reply. My heart started doing flip-flops.

Oh God, now what?

I rolled onto my back and sat up. Pushing with my legs, I pressed against the tractor. I had a clear view of the barn. I don’t know what the hell that did for me. There was still no movement, no sound. My eyes darted all over the place, desperately hunting for something that could bring salvation. But there was nothing.

I thought about going for the Camaro. A gun nut like this probably had two, three concealed weapons on him at all times. There might be something in there. But again, even if I managed to get there in time, how would I open the door? How would I search for a gun? How would I fire it when I found one?

No, I had to get this cuff off me first.

I looked on the ground for . . . I don’t even know. A sharp rock. A broken beer bottle. Something. I wondered how much time had passed since they disappeared. I wondered what he was doing to Rachel. My throat felt as if it might close up.

“Rachel!”

I heard the desperation in the echo. It scared me. But again there was no reply.

What was going on in there?

I looked again for some kind of edge on the tractor, something I could use to break free. There was rust. Lots of rust. Would that work? If I rubbed the cuff against a rusty corner, would it eventually cut through? I doubted it, but there was nothing else.

I managed to get on my knees. I leaned my wrists against the rusted corner and moved up and down like a bear using a tree to scratch his back. My arms slipped. The rust bit into my skin, and the sting ran up my arm. I looked back over at the barn, listened hard, still heard nothing.

I kept going.

The problem was, I was doing this by feel. I turned my head as far as I could, but I couldn’t see my wrists. Was this having any effect at all? I had no idea. But it was all I had to work with. So I continued moving up and down, trying to break free by pulling my arms apart like Hercules in a B movie.

I don’t know how long I kept it up. Probably no more than two or three minutes, though it felt like a lot longer. The cuff did not break or even loosen. What finally made me stop was a sound. The barn door had opened. For a moment, I saw nothing. Then the Hick with the Hair came out. Alone. He started walking toward me.

“Where is she?”

Without speaking, Verne Dayton bent down and checked my cuffs. I could smell him now. He smelled of dried grass and work sweat. He was studying my hands. I glanced back. There was blood on the ground. My blood, no doubt. An idea suddenly came to me.

I reared back and aimed a head butt in his direction. .

I know how devastating a proper head-butt can be. I had performed surgeries on faces crushed by such blows.

This would not be the case here.

My body position was awkward. My hands and feet were both bound. I was on my knees. I was twisting behind me. My skull didn’t land on the nose or softer part of his face. It caught him on the forehead. There was a hollowklunk like something out of a Three Stooges soundtrack. Verne Dayton rolled back, cursing. I was totally off balance now, in free fall with nothing but my face to cushion my landing. My right cheek took the brunt of it, rattling my teeth. But I was beyond pain. I slid my eyes in his direction. He sat shaking out the cobwebs. There was a small laceration on his forehead.

Now or never.

Still tied up, I flailed toward him. But I was too slow.

Verne Dayton leaned back and raised a work boot. When I was close enough, he stomped my face as if he were beating back a brushfire. I fell back. He backpedaled to a safe distance and grabbed the rifle.

“Don’t move!” His fingers checked the gash on his head. He looked at the blood in disbelief. “You out of your mind?”

I was flat on my back, my breaths coming in deep heaves. I didn’t think anything was broken, but then again, I wasn’t sure it was going to matter. He walked over to me and kicked me hard in the ribs. I rolled over. He grabbed my arms and started dragging me. I tried to get my feet under me. He was strong as hell. The steps to the trailer didn’t slow him down. He pulled me up them, shouldered the door open, and tossed me in like bag of peat moss.

I landed with a thud. Verne Dayton stepped inside and closed the door. My eyes took in the room. It was half what you’d expect, half not. The expected: There were guns mounted on the wall, antique muskets, hunter’s rifle. There was the obligatory deer head, a framed NRA membership made out to Verne Dayton, a quilted American flag. The unexpected: The place was spotless and what some might call tastefully furnished. I spotted a playpen in the corner, but it wasn’t cluttered. The toys were in one of those fiberglass chests with different color drawers. The drawers were categorized and labeled.

He sat down and looked at me. I was still on my stomach. Verne Dayton toyed with his hair a little, pushing back the strands, tucking the long sides behind his ears. His face was thin. Everything about him screamed yokel.

“You the one beat her up?” he said.

For a moment I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I remembered that he’d seen Rachel’s injuries. “No.”

“That get you off, huh? Beating up a woman?”

“What did you do with her?”

He took out a revolver, opened the chamber, slid a bullet into it. He spun it to a close and pointed it at my knee. “Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“You want to get capped?”

I’d had enough. I rolled onto my back, waiting to hear him pull the trigger. But he didn’t shoot. He let me move, keeping the gun on me. I sat up and stared him down. That seemed to confuse him. He took a step back.

“Where’s my daughter?” I said.

“Huh?” He tilted his head. “You trying to be funny?”

I looked into his eyes and I saw it. This was no act. He had no idea what I was talking about.

“You come here with guns,” he said, his face reddening. “You want to kill me? My wife? My kids?” Verne raised the gun to my face. “Give me one good reason I don’t blow you both away and bury you in the woods?”

Kids. He said kids. Something about this whole setup suddenly wasn’t making sense. I decided to take a chance. “Listen to me,” I said. “My name is Marc Seidman. Eighteen months ago, my wife was murdered and my daughter abducted.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Please, just let me explain.”

“Wait a second.” Verne’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed his chin. “I remember you. From the television. You were shot too, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why do you want to steal my guns?”

I closed my eyes. “I’m not here to steal your guns,” I said. “I’m here”—I wasn’t sure how to say this—“I’m here to find my daughter.”

It took this a second to register. Then his mouth dropped open. “You think I had something to do with that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You better start explaining.”

So I did. I told him all of it. The story sounded insane in my ears, but Verne listened. He gave me his full attention. Toward the end, I said, “The man who did this. Or was somehow involved. I don’t know anymore. We got his cell phone. He only had one incoming call. It came from here.”

Verne thought about it. “This man. What’s his name?”

“We don’t know.”

“I call a lot of people, Marc.”

“We know the call was made sometime last night.”

Verne shook his head. “Nope, no way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t home last night. I was on the road, making a delivery. I only got home about half an hour before you got here. Spotted you when Munch—that’s my dog—started the low growl. The bark, that don’t mean much. It’s the low growl tells me someone’s there.”

“Wait a second. No one was here last night?”

He shrugged. “Well, my wife and boys. But the boys are six and three. I don’t think they were calling anyone. And I know Kat. She wouldn’t be making any calls that late either.”

“Kat?” I said.

“My wife. Kat. It’s short for Katarina. She’s from Serbia.”

“Get you a beer, Marc?”

I surprised myself by saying, “That would be nice, Verne.”

Verne Dayton had cut off the plastic cuffs. I rubbed my wrists. Rachel was next to me. He hadn’t harmed her. He’d just wanted us separated, in part, he said, because he thought that I’d beaten her up and forced her to help me. Verne had a valuable gun collection—many of them still in working condition—and people were a little too interested in them. He’d figured that was the case with us.

“A Bud, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You, Rachel?”

“No thanks.”

“Soft drink? Some ice water maybe?”

“Water would be great, thanks.”

Verne smiled, which wasn’t the most pleasant sight. “No problem.” I rubbed my wrists again. He spotted it and grinned. “We used those in the Gulf War. Kept them Iraqis under control, I can tell you.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. I looked at Rachel. She shrugged. Verne came back with two Buds and a glass of water. He passed out the drinks. He raised the bottle for us to clink. I did. He sat down.

“I got two kids of my own. Boys. Verne Junior and Perry. If something ever happened to them . . .” Verne whistled low and shook his head. “I don’t know how you even get out of bed in the morning.”

“I think about finding her,” I said.

Verne nodded hard at that. “I can relate, I guess. Long as a man ain’t fooling himself, you know what I mean?” He looked over at Rachel. “You absolutely sure the phone number is mine?”

Rachel took out the cell phone. She pressed some digits and then showed him the small screen. Using his mouth, Verne extracted a Winston from the pack. He shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

“We’re hoping your wife can help.”

He nodded slowly. “She wrote a note, says she went food shopping. Kat likes to do that early in the morning. At the twenty-four-hour A and P.” He stopped. I think Verne was torn here. He wanted to be able to help, but he didn’t want to hear that his wife had called a strange man at midnight. He raised his head. “Rachel, how about I get you some fresh bandages?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Really, thank you.” She held the glass of water with both hands. “Verne, do you mind if I ask you how you and Katarina met?”

“Online,” he said. “You know, one of those Web sites for foreign brides. Cherry Orchid, it’s called. They used to call it mail order. I don’t think they do that anymore. Anyway, you go to the site. You look at these pictures of women from all over—Eastern Europe, Russia, the Philippines, wherever. They list measurements, a little bio, likes and dislikes, that kinda thing. You see one that strikes your fancy, you can buy her address. They got package deals too, if you want to write to more than one.”

Rachel and I gave each other a quick glance. “How long ago was this?”

“Seven years ago. We started sending each other e-mails and stuff. Kat was living on a farm in Serbia. Her parents had nothing. She used to walk four miles to get computer access. I wanted to call too, you know, talk on the phone. But they didn’t even have one. She had to call me. Then one day, she says she’s coming over. To meet me.”

Verne put his hands up, as if to silence an interruption. “Now see, this is where the girls usually hit you up for some money, you know, dollars to buy a plane ticket and stuff. So I was ready for that. But Kat didn’t. She came over on her own. I drove up to New York City. We met. We were married three weeks later. Verne Junior came in a year. Perry three years after that.”

He took a deep sip of his beer. I did the same. The coldness felt wonderful sliding down my throat.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking,” Verne said. “But it ain’t like that. Kat and me, we’re real happy. I was married before to a grade-A American ball-buster. All she did was whine and complain. I wasn’t making enough money for her. She wanted to stay at home and do nothing. Ask her to do a load of laundry, she’d go all ballistic on me with that feminazi crap. Always tearing me down, telling me I’m a loser. With Kat, it ain’t like that. Do I like the fact that she makes a nice house and home? Sure, okay, that’s important to me. If I’m working outside and it’s hot, Kat’ll fetch me a beer without giving me aMs . magazine lecture. Is there anything wrong with that?”

Neither of us replied.

“Look, I want you to think about it, okay? Why are any two people attracted to each other? Looks maybe? Money? Because you have an important job? We all join up because we want to get something out of it. Give and take, am I right? I wanted a loving wife who’d help me raise children and take care of a home. I wanted a partner too, someone, I don’t know, who’d just be nice to me. I get that. Kat, she wanted out of a terrible life. I mean, they were so poor, dirt was a luxury. She and me, we got it good here. In January, we took the kids and went down to Disney World. We like hiking and canoeing. Verne Junior and Perry, they’re good kids. Hey, maybe I’m simple. Hell, I’mdefinitely simple. I like my guns, my hunting and fishing—and most of all, my family.”

Verne lowered his head. His mullet hair dropped like a curtain blocking his face. He started ripping the label off the beer. “Some places—probably most, I don’t know—marriages are arranged. That’s the way it’s always been. The parents decide. They force them. Well, no one forced Kat and me. She could walk away anytime. Me too. But it’s been seven years now. I’m happy. So is she.”

Then he shrugged his shoulders. “At least, I thought she was.”

We drank in silence.

“Verne?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re an interesting man.”

He laughed, but I could see the fear. He took a swig of beer to hide it. He’d carved out a life for himself. A nice life. It’s funny. I am not a very good judge of people. My initial impressions are usually wrong. I see this gun-toting redneck with his hair and his bumper stickers and his monster-truck-rally ’tude. I hear he has a mail-order bride from Serbia. How can you not judge? But the more I listened to him, the more I liked him. I must be at least as alien to him. I’d crept up on his house with a gun. Yet as soon as I had started telling my story, Verne had acted. He knew that we were telling the truth.

We heard the car pull up. Verne moved to the window and looked out. There was a small, sad smile on his face. His family was pulling into the drive. He cherished them. Intruders had come to his home with guns, and he had done what he could to protect it. And now, maybe, in my attempt to bring my family together, I might tear apart his.

“Look! Daddy’s home!”

That had to be Katarina. The accent was unmistakably foreign, something in the Balkan–East European–Russian family. I am not linguist enough to know which. I heard the happy squeals of little children. Verne’s smile widened a bit. He stepped out onto the porch. Rachel and I stayed where we were. We could hear running feet on the steps. The greeting lasted a minute or two. I stared at my hands. I heard Verne say something about presents in the truck. The kids sprinted for them.

The door opened. Verne entered with his arm around his wife.

“Marc, Rachel, this here’s my wife, Kat.”

She was lovely. She wore her long hair straight down. Her yellow sundress left her shoulders exposed. Her skin was pure white, her eyes blue ice. She had that certain bearing so that I could have told, even if I hadn’t known, that she was foreign. Or maybe I was projecting. I tried to guess her age. She could pass for mid-twenties, but the age lines around the eyes told me I was probably a decade off.

“Hi,” I said.

We both stood and shook her hand. It was dainty, but there was steel in the grip. Katarina held on to the hostess smile, but it wasn’t easy. Her eyes stayed on Rachel, on the wounds. The sight, I guess, was rather shocking. I was almost getting used to it.

Still smiling, Katarina turned to Verne as if to ask a question. He said, “I’m trying to help them out.”

“Help them?” she repeated.

The children had located the presents and were hooting and hollering. Verne and Katarina didn’t seem to hear. They were looking at each other. He held her hand. “That man over there”—he gestured with his chin toward me—“somebody murdered his wife and took away his little girl.”

She put a hand to her mouth.

“They’re here trying to find his daughter.”

Katarina did not move. Verne turned to Rachel and nodded a go-ahead.

“Mrs. Dayton,” Rachel began, “did you make a phone call last night?”

Katarina’s head jerked as though she’d just been startled. She looked at me first, as if I were some kind of circus oddity. Then she turned her attention to Rachel. “I don’t understand.”

“We have a phone record,” Rachel said. “Last night at midnight, someone placed a call from this house to a certain cell phone. We assume it was you.”

“No, that’s not possible.” Katarina’s eyes started shifting as if seeking out an escape route. Verne still held her hand. He tried to meet her gaze, but she kept avoiding it. “Oh wait,” she said. “Maybe I know.”

We waited.

“Last night, when I was sleeping, the phone rang.” She tried the smile again, but it was having trouble staying anchored. “I don’t know what time it was. Very late. I thought maybe it was you, Verne.” She looked at him and now the smile held. He smiled back. “But when I answered it, there was no one there. So I remembered something I saw on the television. Star, six, nine. You hit those numbers and it dials the number. So I did that. A man answered. It wasn’t Verne, so I hung up.”

She looked at us expectantly. Rachel and I exchanged a glance. Verne was still smiling, but I saw his shoulders drop. He let go of her hand and half collapsed onto the couch.

Katarina started toward the kitchen. “You need another beer, Verne?”

“No, darling, I don’t. I want you to sit here next to me.”

She was hesitant but she listened. She sat with her spine still ramrod. Verne, too, sat up tall and again took her hand.

“I want you to listen to me, okay?”

She nodded. The children were wailing with delight outside. Corny to say, but there are few sounds like the unimpeded laughter of children. Katarina looked at Verne with an intensity that almost made me turn away.

“You know how much we love our boys, right?”

She nodded.

“Imagine if someone took them away from us. Imagine if that happened more than a year ago. Think about it. Imagine if someone stole, say, Perry and for more than a year, we didn’t know where he was.” He pointed to me. “That man over there. He doesn’t know what happened to his little girl.”

Her eyes were brimming with tears.

“We have to help him, Kat. Whatever you know. Whatever you done. I don’t care. If there are secrets, you tell them now. We wipe the slate clean. I can forgive just about anything. But I don’t think I can forgive if you don’t help that man and his little girl.”

She lowered her head and said nothing.

Rachel ratcheted up a notch. “If you’re trying to protect the man you called, don’t bother. He’s dead. Someone shot him a few hours after you called.”

Katarina’s head stayed down. I rose and started pacing. From outside, there was another squeal of laughter. I walked over to the window and looked out. Verne Junior—the boy looked to be about six—shouted, “Ready or not, here I come!” It wouldn’t be too hard to find him. I couldn’t see Perry, but the hiding child’s laughter was clearly coming from behind the Camaro. Verne Junior pretended to look elsewhere but not for very long. He sneaked up on the Camaro and yelled, “Boo!”

Perry popped out still laughing and ran. When I saw the boy’s face, I felt my world, already teetering, take another hit. See, I recognized Perry.

He was the little boy I’d seen in the car last night.

chapter 37

Tickner parked infront of the Seidman house. They hadn’t put up the yellow crime-scene tape yet, but he counted six squad cars and two news vans. He wondered if it’d be a good idea to approach, what with the cameras rolling. Pistillo, his boss’s boss, had made it pretty clear where he stood. In the end, Tickner figured that it was safe enough to stay. If he was caught on camera, he could always opt for the truth: He had come to let the locals know that he was off the case.

Tickner found Regan in the backyard with the body. “Who is he?”

“No ID,” Regan said. “We’ll send in the prints, see what we come up with.”

They both looked down.

“He matches that sketch Seidman gave us last year,” Tickner said.

“Yup.”

“So what does that mean?”

Regan shrugged.

“What have you learned so far?”

“Neighbors heard shots first. That was followed by screeching tires. They saw a BMW Mini driving across the grass. More shots. They spotted Seidman. One neighbor said he might have seen a woman with him.”

“Probably Rachel Mills,” Tickner said. He looked up in the morning sky. “So what does it mean?”

“Maybe the victim worked for Rachel. She silenced him.”

“In front of Seidman?”

Regan shrugged. “The BMW Mini struck a chord though. I remembered that Seidman’s partner had one. Zia Leroux.”

“That would be who helped him get out of the hospital.”

“We have an APB on the car.”

“I’m sure they switched vehicles.”

“Yeah, probably.” Then Regan stopped. “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

He pointed at Tickner’s face. “You’re not wearing your sunglasses.”

Tickner smiled. “Bad omen?”

“The way this case is going? Maybe it’s a good one.”

“I came to tell you I’m off the case. Not just me. The bureau. If you can prove the girl is still alive—”

“—which we both know she ain’t—”

“—or that she was transported across state lines, I can probably get back in. But this case is no longer a priority.”

“Back to terrorism, Lloyd?”

Tickner nodded. He looked back up in the sky. It felt weird without the sunglasses.

“What did your boss want, anyway?”

“To tell me what I just told you.”

“Uh-huh. Anything else?”

Tickner shrugged. “The shooting of Federal Agent Jerry Camp was accidental.”

“Your big boss called you into his office before six in the morning to tell you that?”

“Yep.”

“Yowza.”

“Not only that, he investigated the case personally. He and the victim were friends.”

Regan shook his head. “Does this mean Rachel Mills has powerful friends?”

“Not at all. If you can nail her for the Seidman murder or kidnapping, go to it.”

“Just don’t involve the death of Jerry Camp.”

“There you go.”

Someone called out. They looked over. A gun had been found in the neighbor’s yard. A quick sniff told them that it had been fired recently.

“Convenient,” Regan added.

“Yup.”

“Any thoughts?”

“Nope.” Tickner turned to him. “It’s your case, Bob. Always was. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Tickner walked away.

“Hey, Lloyd?” Regan called out.

Tickner stopped. The gun had been bagged. Regan stared at it, then at the body by his feet.

“We still don’t know what’s going on here, do we?”

Tickner continued toward his car. “Not a clue,” he said.

Katarina had her hands in her lap. “Is he really dead?”

“Yes,” Rachel said.

Verne stood, fuming, his arms folded over his chest. He had been that way since I told him that Perry had been the child I saw in the Honda Accord.

“His name is Pavel. He was my brother.”

We waited for her to say more.

“He was not a good man. I always knew that. He could be cruel. Kosovo makes you that way. But kidnapping a small child?” She shook her head.

“What happened?” Rachel asked.

But her eyes were on her husband. “Verne?”

He would not look at her.

“I lied to you, Verne. I lied to you about so much.”

He tucked his hair behind his ears and blinked. I saw him wet his lip with his tongue. But he would still not look at her.

“I didn’t come from a farm,” she said. “My father died when I was three. My mother took any job she could. But we couldn’t get by. We were too poor. We’d steal rinds out of the garbage. Pavel, he stayed on the streets, begging and stealing. I started working in sex clubs when I was fourteen. You can’t imagine what it was like, but there is no way out of that life in Kosovo. I wanted to kill myself, I can’t tell you how many times.”

She raised her head toward her husband, but Verne still wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Look at me,” she said to him. When he didn’t she leaned forward, “Verne?’

“This ain’t about us,” he said. “Just tell them what they need to know.”

Katarina put her hands in her lap. “After a while, when you live like that, you don’t think about escape. You don’t think about pretty things or happiness or any of that. You become like an animal. You just hunt and survive. And I don’t even know why you do that. But one day, Pavel came to me. He told me he knew a way out.”

Katarina stopped. Rachel moved closer to her. I let her handle this. She had experience with interrogation and at the risk of sounding sexist, I thought that Katarina would have an easier time being drawn out by a fellow female.

“What was the way out?” Rachel asked.

“My brother said he could get us some money—and to America—if I could get pregnant.”

I thought—check that: I hoped—I’d heard wrong. Verne whipped his head toward her. This time Katarina was ready. She looked at him steadily.

“I don’t understand,” Verne said.

“I’m worth something as a prostitute. But a baby is worth more. If I get pregnant, someone can get us to America. They will pay us money.”

The room went silent. I could still hear the children outside, but the sound suddenly seemed far away, a distant echo. I was the one who spoke next, reaching through the numb. “They pay you,” I said, hearing the horror and disbelief in my own voice, “for the baby?”

“Yes.”

Verne said, “Sweet Jesus.”

“You can’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” Verne said. “Did you go through with it?”

“Yes.”

Verne turned away as if he’d been slapped. His hand reached up and took hold of the curtain. He stared out at his own children.

“In my country, if you have a baby, they put it in a horrible orphanage. American parents, they want so much to adopt. But it’s hard. It takes a long time. More than a year sometimes. Meanwhile, the baby lives in squalor. The parents, they must pay government officials. The system is so corrupt.”

“I see,” Verne said. “You were doing it for the good of mankind?”

“No, I did it for me. For me only, okay?”

Verne winced. Rachel put her hand on Katarina’s knee. “So you flew over here?”

“Yes. Pavel and I.”

“Then what?”

“We stayed at a motel. I would visit a woman with white hair. She would check on me, make sure I was eating okay. She gave me money to buy food and supplies.”

Rachel nodded, encouraging. “Where did you have the baby?”

“I don’t know. A van with no windows came. The woman with white hair, she was there. She delivered the baby. I remember hearing it cry. Then they took it away. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. They drove us back to the motel. The woman with the white hair, she gave us our money.”

Katarina shrugged.

It felt as if my circulation had stopped. I tried to think this through, get past the horror. I looked at Rachel and started to ask how, but she shook her head. Now was not the time to make deductions. Now was the time to gather information.

“I loved it here,” Katarina said after some time had passed. “You think you have a wonderful country. But you really have no idea. I wanted so much to stay. But the money started running low. I looked for ways. I met a woman who told me about the Web site. You put your name and men write you. They wouldn’t want a whore, she told me. So I made up a biography with a farm. When men asked, I gave them an e-mail address. I met Verne three months later.”

Verne’s face fell even farther. “You mean the whole time we were writing . . . ?”

“I was in America, yes.”

He shook his head. “Was anything you told me the truth?”

“Everything that mattered.”

Verne made a scoffing sound.

“What about Pavel?” Rachel asked, trying to get us back on topic. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. He went back home sometimes, I know. He would recruit other girls to bring over. For the finder’s fee. Time to time, he would contact me. If he needed a few dollars, I’d give it to him. It was really no big deal. Until yesterday.”

Katarina looked up at Verne. “The children, they will be hungry.”

“They can wait.”

“What happened yesterday?” Rachel asked.

“Pavel called late in the afternoon. He says he needs to see me right away. I don’t like that. I ask him what he wants. He says he’ll tell me when he gets here, not to worry. I don’t know what to say.”

“How about no?” Verne snapped.

“I couldn’t say no.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer.

“Oh, I see. You were afraid he’d tell me the truth. Isn’t that it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Yes, I was terrified he’d tell you the truth.” Again she looked up at her husband. “And I prayed he would.”

Rachel tried to get us back on course. “What happened when your brother got here?”

She started welling up.

“Katarina?”

“He said he needed to take Perry with him.”

Verne’s eyes widened.

Katarina’s chest started hitching, as if it was hard to get air. “I said to him no. I said I wouldn’t let him touch my children. He threatened me. He said he’d tell Verne everything. I said I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let him take Perry. Then he punched me in the stomach. I fell down. He promised me he’d bring Perry back in a few hours. He promised me no one would get hurt unless I said something. If I called Verne or the police, he’d kill Perry.”

Verne’s hand were balled into tight fists. His face was scarlet.

“I tried to stop him. I tried to stand up, but Pavel pushed me back down. And then”—her voice caught—“then he drove away. With Perry. The next six hours were the longest of my life.” She sneaked a guilty glance in my direction. I knew what she was thinking. She had experienced this terror for six hours. I’d been living with it for a year and half.

“I didn’t know what to do. My brother is a bad man. I know that. But I couldn’t believe he’d ever hurt my children. He was their uncle.”

I thought about Stacy then, my sister, my words of sibling defense echoing in hers.

“For hours, I stayed by the window. I couldn’t stand it. Finally, at midnight, I called his cell phone. He told me he was on his way back. Perry was fine, he said. Nothing had happened. He tried to sound light, but there was something in his voice. I asked him where he was. He told me he was on Route Eighty near Paterson. I couldn’t just sit in the house and wait. I told him I’d meet him halfway. I packed Verne Junior and we went. When we got to the gas station by the Sparta exit. . . .” She looked at Verne. “He was fine. Perry. I felt such relief, you can’t imagine.”

Verne was tugging on his bottom lip with his thumb and index finger. He looked away again.

“Before I left, Pavel grabbed my arm hard. He pulled me close to him. I could see how scared he was. He said no matter what, never tell anybody about what happened. That if they found out about me—if they knew he had a sister—they would kill us all.”

“Who is they?” Rachel asked.

“I don’t know. Whoever he was working for. The people who bought the babies, I think. He said they were crazy.”

“What did you do then?”

Katarina opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “I went to the supermarket,” she said with a sound that might have even been a laugh. “I bought the kids juice boxes. I let them drink while we shopped. I just wanted to do something normal. To, I don’t know, to put it all behind me.”

Katarina looked up at Verne then. I followed her gaze. I again studied this man with the long hair and the bad teeth. After a moment, he turned to her.

“It’s all right,” Verne said in the gentlest voice I’d ever heard. “You were scared. You’ve been scared your whole life.”

Katarina started sobbing.

“I don’t want you to be scared anymore, okay?”

He moved toward her. He took her in his arms. She settled enough to say, “He said they’d come after us. The whole family.”

“Then I’ll protect us,” Verne said simply. He looked at me over her shoulder. “They took my kid. They threatened my family. You hear what I’m saying?”

I nodded.

“I’m in this now. I’m with you till it’s over.”

Rachel sat back. I saw her grimace. Her eyes closed. I didn’t know how much longer she could go. I moved toward her. She held up her palm. “Katarina, we need you to help us here. Where was your brother staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think. Do you have any of his possessions, something that can lead us to who he worked for?”

She let go of her husband. Verne stroked her hair with a blend of tenderness and strength I envied. I turned to Rachel. I wondered if I had the courage to do the same.

“Pavel just arrived from Kosovo,” Katarina said. “And he would not come here empty handed.”

Rachel nodded. “You think he brought a pregnant woman with him?”

“He always did before.”

“Do you know where she’s staying?”

“The women always stay at the same place—the same place I stayed. It’s in Union City.” Katarina looked up. “You’ll want this woman to help you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll have to go with you. She most likely won’t speak English.”

I looked at Verne. He nodded. “I’ll watch the kids.”

No one moved for several moments. We needed to gather our strength, adjust as if we’d entered a no-gravity zone. I used the time to step outside and call Zia. She answered on the first ring and started right in.

“The cops might be listening in, so let’s not stay on the line too long,” Zia said.

“Okay.”

“Our friend Detective Regan came to my house. He told me that he thought you used my car to leave the hospital. I called Lenny. Lenny told me to neither confirm nor deny any allegation. You can probably guess the rest.”

“Thanks.”

“You being careful?”

“Always.”

“Sure. By the way, the cops aren’t stupid. They figure that if you used one friend’s car, maybe they would look for another.”

I got her meaning—don’t use Lenny’s car.

“Better hang up now,” she said. “Love you.”

The phone went dead. I moved back inside. Verne had unlocked his gun cabinet using a key. He was checking weapons. On the other side of the room, he had a safe with ammunition. It opened by combination. I looked over his shoulder. Verne wiggled his eyebrows at me. He had enough firepower to overthrow a European country.

I told them about my conversation with Zia. Verne did not hesitate. He slapped my back and said, “I have just the vehicle for you.”

Ten minutes later, Katarina, Rachel, and I drove off in a white Camaro.

chapter 38

We found thepregnant girl right away.

Before we vroomed off in Verne’s ride, Rachel jumped in the shower to rinse off the blood and grime. I quickly changed her bandage. Katarina loaned her a summer dress with a flower print, the kind that fits loose but clings just right. Rachel’s hair was wet and kinky, still dripping when we reached the car. Forget the bruises and swelling—I am not sure that I ever saw a more beautiful woman in my life.

We started driving. Katarina insisted on taking the fold-down seat in the back. That left Rachel and me in the front. For a few minutes, nobody spoke. We were, I think, decompressing.

“What Verne said,” Rachel began. “About getting the secrets out of the way and wiping the slate clean.”

I kept driving.

“I didn’t kill my husband, Marc.”

She didn’t seem to care that Katarina was in the car. Neither did I. “The official word is that it was an accident,” I said.

“The official word is a lie.” She let out a long breath. She needed time to gather herself. I gave it to her.

“It was Jerry’s second marriage. He had two kids from his first. His son, Derrick, has cerebral palsy. The expenses are ridiculous. Jerry was never good with finances or anything like that, but he did his best there. He even set up a large life-insurance policy in case something happened to him.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see her hands. They didn’t move or tighten into fists. They just sat primly in her lap.

“Our marriage fell apart. There were a lot of reasons. I mentioned some before. I really didn’t love him. I think he sensed that. But most of all, Jerry was a manic depressive. When he stopped taking his medication, it got worse. So I finally filed for divorce.”

I peeked over at her. She was biting her lip and blinking.

“On the day they served him papers, Jerry shot himself in the head. I was the one who found him slumped over our kitchen table. There was an envelope with my name on it. I recognized Jerry’s handwriting right away. I opened it up. There was just a single sheet of paper with one word written on it. ‘Bitch.’ ”

Katarina put a comforting hand on Rachel’s shoulder. I concentrated hard on the road.

“I think Jerry did it like that on purpose,” she said, “because he knew what I’d have to do.”

“What was that?” I asked

“A suicide would mean that the life insurance wouldn’t pay. Derrick would be financially devastated. I couldn’t let that happen. I called one of my old bosses, a friend of Jerry’s named Joseph Pistillo. He’s a big deal in the FBI. He brought down a few of his men, and we made it look like an accident. The official line was, I mistook him for a burglar. The local cops and the insurance company were both pressured into signing off on it.” She shrugged.

“So why did you leave the bureau?” I asked.

“Because the rank-and-file never bought it. They all thought that I must be sleeping with someone powerful. Pistillo couldn’t protect me. It would look bad. I couldn’t defend myself, for that matter. I tried to tough it out, but the FBI is not a place for the unwanted.”

Her head dropped back against the pad. She looked out the passenger window. I didn’t know what to make of the story. I didn’t know what to make of any of this yet. I wished that I could say something comforting. I couldn’t. I just kept driving until we mercifully arrived at the motel in Union City.

Katarina approached the check-in desk, pretending to speak only Serbian, gesturing like mad, until the clerk, figuring that it was the only way to settle her down, told her the room number of the only other person on the premises who seemed to speak that language. We were in business.

The pregnant girl’s room was more a low-end efficiency unit than something you’d find in a normal highway motel. I refer to her as a pregnant “girl” because Tatiana—that was what she said her name was—claimed to be sixteen. I suspected that she was younger. Tatiana had the sunken eyes of a child who’d just stepped out of a war newsreel, which in this situation, may have literally been the case.

I stayed back, almost out of the room. So did Rachel. Tatiana did not speak English. We let Katarina handle it. The two of them talked for about ten minutes. After that, there was a brief silence. Tatiana sighed, opened the drawer under the phone, and gave Katarina a piece of paper. Katarina kissed her cheek and then came over to us.

“She’s scared,” Katarina said. “She only knew Pavel. He left her yesterday and said not to leave the room under any circumstances.”

I glanced over at Tatiana. I tried to give her a reassuring smile. It fell, I’m certain, way short.

“What did she say?” Rachel asked.

“She doesn’t know anything, of course. Like me. She only knows that her baby will find a good home.”

“What was that piece of paper she gave you?”

Katarina lifted the slip of paper into view. “It’s a phone number. If there is an emergency, she’s supposed to call and dial in four nines.”

“A beeper,” I said.

“Yes, I believe so.”

I looked at Rachel. “Can we trace it?”

“I doubt it will lead anywhere. It’s easy to get beepers using a phony name.”

“So let’s call it,” I said. I turned to Katarina. “Has Tatiana met anyone else besides your brother?”

“No.”

“Then you make the call,” I said to her. “You say you’re Tatiana. You tell whoever answers that you’re bleeding or in pain or something.”

“Whoa,” Rachel said. “Slow down a second.”

“We need to get someone here,” I said.

“And then what?”

“What do you mean, then what? You interrogate them. Isn’t that what you do, Rachel?”

“I’m not a fed anymore. And even if I was, we can’t just bulldoze them over like that. Pretend you’re one of them for a second. You show up and I confront you. What would you do if you were involved in something like this?”

“Cut a deal.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’d just clam up and ask for a lawyer. Then where would we be?”

I thought about that. “If the person asks for a lawyer,” I said, “you leave them alone with me.”

Rachel stared at me. “Are you serious?”

“We’re talking about my daughter’s life.”

“We’re talking about a lot of children now, Marc. These people buy babies. We need to put them out of business.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We page them. Like you said. But Tatiana will have to do the talking. She’ll have to say whatever to get them here. They’ll examine her. We check their license plate. We follow them when they leave. We find out who they are.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why can’t Katarina make the call?”

“Because whoever comes will want to examine the person they talked to on the phone. Katarina and Tatiana don’t sound alike. They’ll know what we’re up to.”

“But why do we need to go through all that? We’ll have them here. Why risk following them home?”

Rachel closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Marc, think. If they find out we’re on to them, how will they react?”

I stopped.

“And I want to be clear about something else. This isn’t about just Tara anymore. We need to bring these guys down.”

“And if we just jump them here,” I said, seeing her true point now, “they’ll be forewarned.”

“That’s right.”

I wasn’t sure how much I cared about that. Tara was my priority. If the FBI or cops want to build a legal case against these people, I was all for it. But that sat way off my personal radar.

Katarina talked to Tatiana about our plan. I could see it wasn’t taking. The young girl was petrified. She kept shaking her head no. Time passed—time we really didn’t have. I snapped and decided to do something fairly stupid. I picked up the phone, dialed the beeper number, and pressed the nine button four times. Tatiana went still.

“You’ll do it,” I said.

Katarina translated.

No one spoke for the next two minutes. We all just stared at Tatiana. When the phone rang, I did not like what I saw in the young girl’s eyes. Katarina said something, her tone urgent. Tatiana shook her head and crossed her arms. The phone rang a third time. Then a fourth.

I took out my gun.

Rachel said, “Marc.”

I kept the gun at my side. “Does she know we’re talking about my daughter’s life?”

Katarina burst off something in Serbian. I looked Tatiana hard in the eyes. There was no reaction. I raised the gun and fired. The lamp exploded, the sound reverberating too loudly in the room. Everyone jumped. Another stupid move. I knew that. I just wasn’t sure I cared.

“Marc!”

Rachel put her hand on my arm. I shook it off. I looked at Katarina. “Tell her if the caller hangs up . . .”

I never finished the thought. Katarina started talking quickly. I gripped the gun, but it was back at my side now. Tatiana still had her eyes on me. Sweat popped up on my forehead. I felt my body shake. As Tatiana watched me, something in her face began to soften.

“Please,” I said.

On the sixth ring Tatiana snatched up the receiver and started talking.

I glanced over at Katarina. She listened to the conversation and then she nodded at me. I moved back to the other side of the room. I still had the gun in my hand. Rachel stared at me. But I stared back.

Rachel blinked first.

We parked the Camaro in a restaurant lot next door and waited.

There was not a lot of chitchat. The three of us looked everywhere but at each other, as if we were all strangers on an elevator. I wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t sure what I felt. I had fired a gun and come pretty close to threatening a teenage girl. Worse, I don’t think I cared very much. The repercussions, if there were any, seemed far away, storm clouds that might gather and then again might disperse.

I flipped on the radio and dialed into the local news station. I half expected someone to say, “We interrupt this program with this special bulletin,” and then announce our names and give out descriptions and maybe warn that we were armed and dangerous. But there were no stories on a shooting in Kasselton or a police search for us.

Rachel and I were still in the front while Katarina lay across the fold-down seat in the back. Rachel had her Palm Pilot out. The stylus was in her hand, poised to tap. I debated calling Lenny, but I remembered Zia’s warning. They’d be listening in. I had nothing much to report anyway—just that I had threatened a pregnant sixteen-year-old girl with an illegal handgun taken off the corpse of a man who’d been murdered in my backyard. Lenny the Lawyer would certainly not relish the details.

“Do you think she’ll cooperate?” I said.

Rachel shrugged.

Tatiana had promised that she was now with us. I didn’t know if we could believe her or not. To be on the safe side, I unplugged her phone and took the cord with me. I searched the room for papers and writing material, so she couldn’t sneak her visitor a note. I found nothing. Rachel also put her cell phone on the window ledge to be used as a listening device. Katarina had the phone to her ear now. Again she would translate.

Half an hour later, a gold-toned Lexus SC 430 roared into the lot. I whistled low. A colleague at the hospital had just bought the same car. It put him back sixty grand. The woman who emerged sported a short, spiky shock of white hair. She wore a too-tight, hair-matching white shirt and, keeping with the theme, white pants so tight they seemed to be hovering below skin level. Her arms were toned and tan. The woman had that look. You know the one. She brought on memories of the hot mother strutting around the tennis club.

Rachel and I both turned to Katarina. Katarina nodded solemnly. “That’s her. That’s the woman who delivered my baby.”

I saw Rachel begin working her Palm Pilot. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Putting in the license plate and make. We should know who the car is registered to in a matter of minutes.”

“How do you do that?”

“It’s not hard,” Rachel said. “Every law enforcement officer makes connections. And if you don’t, you pay off someone at the DMV. Five hundred bucks usually.”

“Are you online or something?”

She nodded. “Wireless modem. A friend of mine named Harold Fisher, he’s a tech geek who works freelance. He didn’t like how the feds pushed me out.”

“So he helps you now?”

“Yes.”

The white-haired woman leaned back in and pulled out what might have been a medical bag. She threw on a pair of designer sunglasses and hurried toward Tatiana’s room. The woman knocked, the door opened, Tatiana let her in.

I turned around in my seat and watched Katarina. She had the phone on mute. “Tatiana is telling her that she feels better now. The woman is annoyed she called for nothing.” She paused.

“Have you heard a name yet?”

Katarina shook her head. “The woman is going to examine her.”

Rachel stared at her tiny Palm Pilot screen as if it were a magic eight ball. “Bang.”

“What?”

“Denise Vanech, Forty-seven Riverview Avenue, Ridgewood, New Jersey. Forty-six years of age. No outstanding parking violations.”

“You got it that fast?”

She shrugged. “All Harold has to do is type the license plate. He’s going to see what he can dig up on her.” Her stylus started up again. “Meanwhile I’m going to plug the name into Google.”

“The search engine?”

“Yup. You’d be surprised what you can find.”

I knew about that, actually. I once put my own name in. I don’t remember why. Zia and I were drunk and did it for fun. She calls it “ego surfing.”

“Not much speaking now.” Katarina’s face was a mask of concentration. “Maybe she’s examining her?”

I looked over at Rachel. “Two hits on Google,” she said. “The first is a Web site for the Bergen County planning board. She requested a variance to subdivide her lot. It was rejected. The second, however, is more interesting. It’s an alumni site. It lists past graduates that they’re trying to locate.”

“What school?” I asked.

“University of Philadelphia Family Nurse and Midwifery.”

That fit.

Katarina said, “They’re done.”

“Fast,” I said.

“Very.”

Katarina listened some more. “The woman is telling Tatiana to take care of herself. That she should eat better, for the baby. That she should call if she feels any further discomfort.”

I turned to Rachel. “Sounds more pleasant than when she arrived.”

Rachel nodded. The woman we assumed was Denise Vanech came out. She walked with her head high, her rear end twitching in that cocky way. The stretched white shirt was ribbed and, I couldn’t help but notice, rather see-through. She got in her car and took off.

I started up the Camaro, the engine roaring like a lifetime smoker with a hacking cough. I followed at a safe distance. I wasn’t too worried about losing her. We knew where she lived now.

“I still don’t understand,” I said to Rachel. “How do they get away with buying babies?”

“They find desperate women. They lure them here with promises of money and a stable, comfortable home for their child.”

“But in order to adopt,” I said, “there’s a whole procedure you have to go through. It’s a pain in the ass. I know some children overseas—physically deformed children—people tried to bring over. You can’t believe the paperwork. It’s impossible.”

“I don’t have the answer to that, Marc.”

Denise Vanech veered onto the New Jersey Turnpike north. That would be the way back to Ridgewood. I let the Camaro drop back another twenty, thirty feet. The right blinker came on, and the Lexus turned off at the Vince Lombardi rest stop. Denise Vanech parked and headed inside. I pulled the car to the side of the ramp and looked at Rachel. She was biting her lip.

“Could be she’s using the bathroom,” I said.

“She washed up after examining Tatiana. Why didn’t she go then?”

“Maybe she’s hungry?”

“Does she look like she eats much Burger King to you, Marc?”

“So what do we do?”

There was little hesitation. Rachel gripped the door handle. “Drop me off by the door.”

Denise Vanech was pretty sure that Tatiana was faking.

The girl had claimed to be hemorrhaging. Denise checked the sheets. They hadn’t been changed, yet there was no blood on them. The tiles on the bathroom floor were clean. The toilet seat was clean. There was no blood anywhere.

That alone, of course, wouldn’t mean all that much. There was a chance the girl had cleaned up. But there were other things. The gynecological examination showed no signs of distress. Nothing. Not the slightest red tint. Her vaginal hairs, too, had no traces of blood. Denise checked the shower when she finished up. Dry as bone. The girl had called less than an hour before. She claimed to be bleeding heavily.

It didn’t add up.

Lastly, the girl’s demeanor was wrong. The girls are always scared. That goes without saying. Denise had moved out of Yugoslavia when she was nine, during Tito’s reign of relative peace, and she knew what a hellhole it was. To this girl, from where she had come, the United States must seem like Mars. But her fear had a different quality to it. Usually the girls stare at Denise as if she were some kind of parent or savior, looking up to her with a mix of trepidation and hope. But this girl averted her gaze. She fidgeted too much. And there was something else. Tatiana had been brought in by Pavel. He was usually good about watching them. But he hadn’t been there. Denise was about to ask about that, but she decided to wait and play it out. If nothing was wrong, the girl would certainly raise Pavel’s name.

She hadn’t.

Yes, something was definitely wrong.

Denise did not want to raise suspicion. She finished the exam and hurried out. Behind her sunglasses, she checked for possible surveillance vans. There were none. She looked for obvious unmarked police cars. Again nothing. Of course, she was no expert. Though she had been working with Steven Bacard for nearly a decade, there had never been any complications. Perhaps that was why she’d let her guard down.

As soon as she got back into her car, Denise reached for her cell phone. She wanted to call Bacard. But no. If they were somehow on to them, they’d be able to trace that back. Denise debated using a pay phone at the nearest gas station. But they’d be expecting that too. When she saw the sign for the rest stop, she remembered that they had a huge bank of pay phones. She could call from there. If she moved fast enough, they wouldn’t see her or know what phone she used.

But was that safe either?

She quickly sorted through the possibilities. Suppose she was indeed being followed. Driving to Bacard’s office would definitely be the wrong move. She could wait and call him when she got home. But they might have a tap on her phone. This—calling from the large bank of pay phones—seemed the least risky.

Denise grabbed a napkin and used it to keep her fingerprints off the receiver. She was careful not to wipe it off. There were probably dozens of fingerprints already on it. Why make their job any easier?

Steven Bacard picked up. “Hello?”

The obvious strain in his voice made her heart sink. “Where is Pavel?” she asked.

“Denise?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I just visited his girl. Something isn’t right.”

“Oh God,” he moaned. “What happened?”

“The girl called the emergency number. She said she was hemorrhaging, but I think she was lying.”

There was silence.

“Steve?”

“Go home. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“Okay.” Denise saw the white Camaro pull up. She frowned. Hadn’t she seen it before?

“Are there any records in your house?” Bacard asked.

“No, of course not.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, good.”

A woman was getting out of the Camaro. Even from this distance, Denise could see the bandage on the woman’s ear.

“Go home,” Bacard said.

Before the woman could turn around, Denise hung up the phone and slipped into the bathroom.

Steven Bacard had loved the oldBatman TV show as a kid. Every episode, he remembered, started out pretty much the same way. A crime would be committed. They would flash to Commissioner Gordon and Chief O’Hara. The two law-enforcement buffoons would be grim faced. They would discuss the situation and realize that there was only one way out. Commissioner Gordon would then pick up the red Batphone. Batman would answer, promise to save the day, turn to Robin and say, “To the Batpoles!”

He stared at the phone with that creepy feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was no hero he was calling. Just the opposite, in fact. But in the end, survival was what mattered. Pretty words and justification were great during times of peace. In times of war, in times of life and death, it was simpler: Us or Them. He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

Lydia answered sweetly. “Hello, Steven.”

“I need you again.”

“Bad?”

“Very.”

“We’re on our way,” she said.

chapter 39

“When I gotin there,” Rachel said, “she was in the bathroom. But I have a feeling she made a call first.”

“Why?”

“There was a line in the bathroom. She was only three people ahead of me. She should have been more.”

“Any way of figuring out who she called?”

“Not in the near future, no. Every phone in that place is taken. Even if I had full FBI access, it would take some time.”

“So we keep following.”

“Yes.” She turned behind her. “Do you have an atlas in the car?”

Katarina smiled. “Many. Verne likes maps. World, country, state?”

“State.”

She dug into the pocket behind my seat and handed Rachel the atlas. Rachel uncapped a pen and started marking it up.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

The cell phone rang. I picked it up.

“You guys all right?”

“Yeah, Verne, we’re fine.”

“Got my sister to watch the kids for me. I’m in the pickup heading east. What’s your ten-twenty?”

I told him we were heading to Ridgewood. He knew the town.

“I’m about twenty minutes away,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Ridgewood Coffee Company on Van Neste Park.”

“We may be at this midwife’s house,” I said.

“I’ll wait.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Marc,” Verne said, “not to get sentimental or anything, but if somebody needs shooting—”

“I’ll let you know.”

The Lexus turned off at Linwood Avenue. We dropped farther back. Rachel kept her head down, alternating between the stylus on the Palm Pilot and the marker on the atlas. We hit the suburbs. Denise Vanech turned left on Waltherly Road.

“She’s definitely heading home,” Rachel said. “Let her go. We need to think this through.”

I couldn’t believe what she was suggesting. “What do you mean, think this through? We need to approach her.”

“Not yet. I’m working on something.”

“What?”

“Just give me a few minutes.”

I slowed my speed and turned down Van Dien, right near Valley Hospital. I looked back at Katarina. She gave me a small smile. Rachel kept working at whatever. I checked the dashboard clock. Time to meet Verne. I took North Maple to Ridgewood Avenue. A parking spot opened in front of a store named Duxiana. I grabbed it. Verne’s pickup truck was parked across the street. It had mag wheels and two bumper stickers, one reading,CHARLTON HESTON FOR PRESIDENT and the other:DO I LOOK LIKE A HEMORRHOID ?THEN GET OFF MY ASS .

Ridgewood’s town center was a blend of turn-of-the-century picture-postcard splendor and modern-day extravagant food-court mall. Most of the old mom-n-pop shops were gone now. Sure, the independent bookstore still thrived. There was an upscale mattress store, a cute place that sold sixties paraphernalia, a smattering of boutiques, beauty parlors, and jewelry stores. And, yes, a few of the chains—Gap, Williams-Sonoma, the prerequisite Starbucks—had gobbled up space. But more than anything, the town center had become a veritable smorgasbord, a potpourri of eateries for too many tastes and budgets. Name a country, they had a bistro here. Throw a stone, even pathetically, in any direction, you would hit three such eateries.

Rachel took the atlas and Palm Pilot with her. She worked as we walked. Verne was already inside the coffee shop, chatting up the burly guy behind the counter. Verne wore a Deere baseball cap with a T-shirt that read:MOOSEHEAD :A GREAT BEER AND A NEW EXPERIENCE FOR A MOOSE .

We grabbed a table.

“So what’s the deal?” Verne said.

I let Katarina fill him in. I was watching Rachel. Every time I started to speak, she held up a finger to silence me. I told Verne that he should take Katarina home. We didn’t need their help anymore. They should be with their children. Verne was reluctant.

The time was sneaking up on 10:00A .M. I wasn’t really tired. Lack of sleep—even for reasons far less adrenaline generating than this—does not bother me. I credit my medical residency and the many nights on call for that.

“Bang,” Rachel said again.

“What?”

With her eyes still on the Palm Pilot, Rachel put out her hand. “Let me use your phone.”

“What is it?”

“Just give it to me, okay?”

I handed her the cell phone. She dialed and moved to the corner of the café. Katarina excused herself to use the bathroom. Verne poked me with his elbow and pointed at Rachel.

“You two in love?”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Only if you’re a dumb-ass.”

I may have shrugged.

“You either love her or you don’t,” Verne said. “The rest? That’s for dumb-asses.”

“Is that how you dealt with what you heard this morning?”

He thought about that. “What Kat said. What she did in the past. It don’t matter much. There’s a core. I’ve slept with that woman for eight years. I know the core.”

“I don’t know Rachel that well.”

“Yeah, you do. Look at her.” I did. And I felt something airy and light travel through me. “She got beaten up. She got shot, for Chrissake.” He paused. I wasn’t looking, but I bet he shook his mane in disgust. “You let that go, you know what you are?”

“A dumb-ass.”

“Aprofessional dumb-ass. You give up your amateur status.”

Rachel hung up the phone and hurried back over. Maybe it was something Verne said, but I could swear that I saw a bit of fire back in her eyes. In that dress, with her hair mussed, with the confident lick-the-world smile, I was transported back. It didn’t last long. No more than a moment or two. But maybe it was enough.

“Bang?” I asked.

“Cannon-fire, Fourth-of-July bang.” She starting tapping with the stylus again. “I just need to do one more thing. In the meantime, look at this atlas.”

I pulled it over. Verne looked over my shoulder. He smelled like motor oil. There were all kinds of markings on the atlas—little stars, crosses, but the thickest line was a circuitous route. I recognized enough of it.

“That’s the route the kidnappers took last night,” I said. “When we were following them.”

“Right.”

“What’s with all the stars and stuff?”

“Okay, first thing. Look at the actual route they took. Up north over the Tappan Zee. Then west. Then south. Then west again. Then back east and north.”

“They were stalling,” I said.

“Right. It’s like we said. They were setting up that trap for us at your house. But think about it a second. Our theory is that someone from law enforcement warned them about the Q-Logger, right?”

“So?”

“So no one knew about the Q-Logger until you were at the hospital. That means, for at least part of the journey, they wouldn’t have known I was tailing them.”

I wasn’t sure I followed, but I said, “Okay.”

“Do you pay your phone bill online?” she asked.

The subject change threw me for a moment. “Yes,” I said.

“So you get a statement, right? You click on the link, you sign in, you can see all your calls. It probably has a reverse directory link too—so you can click on the number and see who you called.”

I nodded. It did.

“Well, I got Denise Vanech’s last phone bill.” She held up a hand. “Don’t worry about how. Again it’s fairly easy. Harold could probably do it by hacking, if he had more time, but having a connection or a giving a bribe is easier. Now with the Internet billing, it’s easier than ever.”

“Harold sent you her bill online?”

“Yep. Anyway, Ms. Vanech makes a fair amount of calls. That’s what took me so long. We’ve been sorting through them, finding the names, then the addresses.”

“And a name popped out?”

“No, an address did. I wanted to see if she called anybody on the kidnapper’s route.”

Now I saw where she was going. “And I assume the answer is yes?”

“Better than yes. Remember when they stopped at the MetroVista office complex?”

“Sure.”

“Over the past month, Denise Vanech placed six calls to the law office of a Steven Bacard.” Rachel pointed to the star she’d drawn on the map. “At MetroVista.”

“A lawyer?”

“Harold is going to see what he can dig up, but again I just used Google. The name Steven Bacard pops up frequently.”

“In what context?”

Rachel smiled again. “His expertise is adoption.”

Verne said, “Sweet mother of God.”

I sat back and tried to digest it all. Warning lights flashed, but I wasn’t sure what they meant. Katarina came back to the table. Verne told her what we’d found. We were getting close. I knew that. But I felt adrift. My cell phone—or should I say, Zia’s—rang. I looked down at the Caller ID. It was Lenny. I debated not answering, remembering what Zia had said. But of course, Lenny would know about the possibility of a tap. He had been the one who warned Zia.

I hit the answer button.

“Let me talk first,” Lenny said before I could even utter a hello. “For the record, if this is being taped, this conversation is between an attorney and his client. It is thus protected. Marc, don’t tell me where you are. Don’t tell me anything that would force me to lie. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Did your trip bear fruit?” he asked.

“Not the fruit we wanted. Not yet anyway. But we’re getting very close.”

“Any way I can help?”

“I don’t think so.” Then, “Wait.” I remembered that Lenny had handled my sister’s arrests. He had been her main legal advisor. “Did Stacy ever say anything to you about adoption?”

“I’m not following.”

“Did she ever think about giving up a baby for adoption, or in any way mention adoption to you?”

“No. Is this somehow connected with the kidnapping?”

“Could be.”

“I don’t remember anything like that. Look, they might be taping us, so let me tell you why I called. They found a dead body at your house—a man shot twice in the head.” Lenny knew that I was already aware of this. I assumed that he was saying this for the benefit of whoever might be eavesdropping. “They haven’t made an ID, but they did locate the murder weapon in the Christies’ backyard.”

I was not surprised. Rachel had figured that they’d plant the gun somewhere.

“The thing is, Marc, the murder weapon is your old gun, the one that’s been missing since the shooting at your house. They already ran a ballistics test. You and Monica were shot with two different thirty-eights, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that gun—yourgun—was one of the two used that morning.”

I closed my eyes. Rachel mouthed a “what?” at me.

“I better go,” Lenny said. “I’ll look into Stacy and an adoption angle, if you want. See what I can dig up.”

“Thanks.”

“Stay safe.”

He hung up. I turned to Rachel and told her about the gun discovery and the ballistics test. She leaned back and bit down on her lower lip, another familiar habit from our dating days. “So that means,” she said, “that Pavel and the rest of these people are definitely linked to the first attack.”

“You still had doubts?”

“A few hours ago, we thought it was a total hoax, remember? We thought that maybe these guys knew enough to fake like they had Tara, just to con some ransom money out of your father-in-law. But now we know different. These people were there that morning. They were part of the original abduction.”

It made sense, but something about it still felt wrong. “Where do we go from here?” I asked.

“The logical step is to visit this lawyer, Steven Bacard,” Rachel said. “The problem is, we don’t know if he’s the boss or just another employee. For all we know, Denise Vanech is the mastermind and he works for her. Or they both work for a third party. And if we go busting in there, Bacard is just going to clam up. He’s a lawyer. He’s too smart to talk to us.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It might be time to call in the feds. Maybe they can raid his office.”

I shook my head. “That’ll take too long.”

“We might be able to get them to move fast.”

“Assuming they believe us—which is a big assumption—how fast?”

“I don’t know, Marc.”

I didn’t like it. “Suppose Denise Vanech was suspicious back there. Suppose Tatiana gets scared and calls her again. Suppose there is indeed a leak. There are too many variables here, Rachel.”

“So what do you think we should do?”

“A two-prong attack,” I said, the words coming out without much thought. There was a problem. I suddenly had a solution. “You take Denise Vanech. I take Steven Bacard. We coordinate it so that we hit them at the same time.”

“Marc, he’s a lawyer. He’s not going to open up to you.”

I looked at her. She saw it. Verne sat up a little and made a smallwoo-ee noise.

“You’re going to threaten him?” Rachel asked.

“We’re talking about my child’s life.”

“And you’re talking about taking the law into your own hands.” Then she added, “Again.”

“So?”

“You threatened a teenage girl with a gun.”

“I was trying to intimidate, that’s all. I would have never really hurt her.”

“The law—”

“The law hasn’t done squat to help my daughter,” I said, trying not to shout. In the corner of my eye, I saw Verne nodding along with my outrage. “They’re too busy wasting time on you.”

That made her straighten up. “Me?”

“Lenny told me at the house. They think you did it. Without me. That you were obsessed with having me back or something.”

“What?”

I rose from the table. “Look, I’m going to see this Bacard guy. I don’t plan on hurting anyone, but if he knows something about my daughter, I’m going to find out what it is.”

Verne raised his fist. “Right on.”

I asked Verne if I could keep borrowing the Camaro. He reminded me that he was behind me all the way. I expected Rachel to argue some more. She didn’t. Maybe she knew that I would not change my mind. Maybe she knew I was right. Or maybe—perhaps most likely—she had been stunned to learn that her old colleagues had zeroed in on her as the sole serious suspect.

“I’ll come with you,” Rachel said.

“No.” My voice left no wiggle room. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, but I knew that I was capable of plenty. “What I said before makes sense.” I could hear my familiar surgeon-tone taking over. “I’ll call you when I get to Bacard’s office. We hit him and Denise Vanech at the same time.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I got back in the Camaro and started toward the MetroVista office complex.

chapter 40

Lydia checked hersurroundings. She was a little more in the open than she liked to be, but that couldn’t be helped. She had on the spiky blond wig—the one not unlike Steven Bacard’s description of Denise Vanech. She knocked on the door of the efficiency.

The curtain next to the door moved. Lydia smiled. “Tatiana?”

No reply.

She had been warned that Tatiana spoke very little English. Lydia had debated how to play this. Time was critical. Everything and everyone needed to be shut down. When someone who dislikes blood as much as Bacard says that, you immediately understand the ramifications. Lydia and Heshy had split up. She had come down here. They would meet up afterward.

“It’s okay, Tatiana,” she said through the door. “I’m here to help.”

There was no movement.

“I’m a friend of Pavel’s,” she tried. “You know Pavel?”

The curtain moved. A young woman’s face appeared for a brief moment, gaunt and childlike. Lydia nodded at her. The woman still did not open the door. Lydia scanned her surroundings. Nobody looking, but she still felt too exposed. This had to end fast.

“Wait,” Lydia said. Then, looking at the curtain, she reached into her purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and pen. She wrote something down, making sure that if someone was still at the window, they would see exactly what she was doing. She capped the pen and stepped close to the window. Lydia held the piece of paper up to the pane of glass so Tatiana could read it.

It was like drawing a scared cat out from under the sofa. Tatiana moved slowly. She came toward the window. Lydia stayed still, so as not to startle her. Tatiana leaned closer. Here, kitty, kitty. Lydia could see the girl’s face now. She was squinting, trying to see what was on the piece of paper.

When Tatiana came close enough, Lydia pressed the barrel of the gun against the glass and aimed between the young girl’s eyes. At the last second, Tatiana tried to veer away. Too little, too late. The bullet went clean through the glass and into Tatiana’s right eye. Blood appeared. Lydia fired again, automatically tilting the gun downward. It caught the falling Tatiana in the top of the forehead. But the second bullet had been superfluous. The first shot, the one in the eye, had ripped into the brain and killed the young girl instantly.

Lydia hurried away. She risked a glance behind her. No one. When she reached the neighboring mall, she dumped the wig and the white coat. She found her car in a lot another half mile away.

I called Rachel when I arrived at MetroVista. She was parked down the street from Denise Vanech’s house. We were both ready to go.

I’m not sure what I expected to happen here. I guess I figured that I would explode into Bacard’s office, stick my gun in his face, and demand answers. What I hadn’t foreseen was a regular, state-of-the-state office setup—that is, Steven Bacard had a well-appointed reception area. There were two people waiting—a married couple, by all appearances. The husband had his face stuck in a waiting-room-laminatedSports Illustrated . The wife looked to be in pain. She tried to smile at me, but it was as if the effort would wound her.

I realized how shoddy I must look. I was still in my hospital scrubs. I was unshaven. My eyes were undoubtedly red from lack of sleep. My hair, I imagined, was probably sticking up in a textbook case of bedhead.

The receptionist was behind one of those sliding glass windows I usually associate with a dental practice. The woman—a small nameplate readAGNES WEISS —smiled at me sweetly.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Bacard.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She kept the tone sweet, but there was a rhetorical twang there too. She already knew the answer.

“This is an emergency,” I said.

“I see. Are you a client of ours, Mr. . . . ?”

“Doctor,” I snapped back automatically. “Tell him Dr. Marc Seidman needs to see him immediately. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

The young couple was watching us now. The receptionist’s sweet smile began to falter. “Mr. Bacard’s schedule is very full today.” She opened her appointment ledger. “Let me see when we have something available, okay?”

“Agnes, look at me.”

She did.

I gave her my gravest, you-might-die-if-I-don’t-operate-right-away expression. “Tell him Dr. Seidman is here. Tell him it’s an emergency. Tell him if he doesn’t see me now, I will go to the police.”

The young couple exchanged a glance.

Agnes adjusted herself in the chair. “If you’ll just have a seat—”

“Tell him.”

“Sir, if you don’t step back, I’ll call security.”

So I stepped back. I could always step forward again. Agnes did not pick up the phone. I moved to a nonthreatening distance. She slid the little window closed. The couple looked at me. The husband said, “She’s covering for him.”

The wife said, “Jack!”

Jack ignored her. “Bacard ran out of here half an hour ago. That receptionist keeps telling us he’ll be right back.”

I noticed a wall of photographs. Now I took a closer look. The same man was in all of them with a potpourri of politicos, quasi celebrities, gone-to-flab athletes. Steven Bacard, I assumed. I stared at the man’s face—pudgy, weak chinned, country-club shiny.

I thanked the man named Jack and started for the door. Bacard’s office was on the first floor, so I decided to wait by the entrance. This way, I could catch him unawares on neutral ground and before Agnes had a chance to warn him. Five minutes passed. Several suits came and went, all harried from their days of printer toner and paperweights, dragged down by briefcases the size of car trunks. I paced the corridor.

Another couple entered. I could tell right away by their tentative steps and shattered eyes that they, too, were heading for Bacard’s office. I watched them and wondered what path they had taken here. I saw them getting married, holding hands, kissing freely, making love in the morning. I saw their careers begin to thrive. I saw them feel the pang and segue toward the initial attempts at conceiving, the wait-till-next-month shrug when the home tests were negative, the slowly blossoming worry. A year passes. Still nothing. Their friends are starting to have children now and talk about them incessantly. Their parents are wondering when they’ll have grandkids. I see them visiting the doctor—“a specialist”—the endless probing for the woman, the humiliation of masturbating into a beaker for the man, the personal questions, the blood and urine samples. More years pass. Their friends drift away. Making love is now strictly about procreation. It is calculated. It is always tinged with sadness. He stops holding her hand. She rolls over at night unless it’s the right time in her cycle. I see the drugs, the Pergonal, the ridiculously expensive in-vitro fertilization, the time off from work, the checking of calendars, the same home tests, the crushing disappointments.

And now they were here.

No, I didn’t know if any of this was really the case. But somehow I suspected that I was close. How far, I wondered, would they go to end this pain? How much would they pay?

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

I jerked my head toward the scream. A man banged through the door.

“Call nine-one-one!”

I ran toward him. “What is it?”

I heard another scream. I ran through the door and outside. Yet another scream, this one more high pitched. I turned to my right. Two women were running out of the lower-level parking garage. I sprinted down the ramp. I slipped past the gate where you pick up your parking ticket. Someone else was calling for help, begging people to call 911.

Up ahead, I saw a security guard shouting into a walkie-talkie of some sort. He broke into a full gallop too. I followed him. When we turned the corner, the security guard pulled up. There was a woman next to him. She had her hands on her cheeks and was screaming. I ran next to them and looked down.

The body was jammed between two cars. His eyes stared open at nothing. His face was still pudgy, weak chinned, country-club shiny. The blood flowed from the wound in his head. The world teetered again.

Steven Bacard, maybe my last hope, was dead.

chapter 41

Rachel rang thedoorbell. Denise Vanech had one of those pretentious chimes that ring up and then down the scale. The sun was all the way up now. The sky was blue and clear. On the street, two women power-walked carrying tiny mauve dumbbells. They nodded at Rachel, never missing a step. Rachel nodded back.

The intercom sounded. “Yes?”

“Denise Vanech?”

“Who is this please?”

“My name is Rachel Mills. I used to work with the FBI.”

“Did you say, used to?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk, Ms. Vanech.”

“About what?”

Rachel sighed. “Could you please just open the door?”

“Not until I know what this is about.”

“The young girl you just visited in Union City. It’s about her. For starters.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t discuss my patients.”

“I said, for starters.”

“Why would a former FBI agent be interested in any of this anyway?”

“Would you prefer I call a current agent?”

“I don’t care what you do, Ms. Mills. I have nothing else to say to you. If the FBI has questions, they can call my lawyer.”

“I see,” Rachel said. “And would your lawyer be Steven Bacard?”

There was a brief silence. Rachel glanced back at the car.

“Ms. Vanech?”

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“No, that’s true. I’ll start going door-to-door maybe. Talk to your neighbors.”

“And say what?”

“I’ll ask them if they know anything about a baby-smuggling operation that runs out of this house.”

The door opened quickly. Denise Vanech with her tan skin and white hair pushed her head through the door. “I’ll sue you for libel.”

“Slander,” Rachel said.

“What?“

“Slander. Libel is for the printed word. Slander is for the spoken. You mean slander. But either way, you’d have to prove what I’m saying is untrue. And we both know better.”

“You have no evidence I’ve done anything wrong.”

“Sure I do.”

“I was treating a woman who claimed to be ill. That’s all.”

Rachel pointed up the lawn. Katarina stepped out of the car. “And what about this former patient?”

Denise Vanech put a hand to her mouth.

“She’ll testify that you paid her money for her baby.”

“No, she won’t. They’ll arrest her.”

“Oh sure, right, the FBI would much rather crack down on a poor Serbian woman than break up a baby-smuggling ring. That’s rich.”

When Denise Vanech paused, Rachel pushed open the door. “Mind if I come in?”

“You have it wrong,” she said quietly.

“Cool.” Rachel was inside now. “You can correct me on all my misgivings.”

Denise Vanech seemed suddenly unsure what to do. With one more look at Katarina, she slowly closed the front door. Rachel was already heading into the den. It was white. Totally white. White sectional couches against a white carpet. White porcelain statues of naked women riding horses. White coffee table, white side tables, and two of those white ergonomic-looking chairs with no backs. Denise followed her in. Her white clothes blended into the background, camouflagelike, making it look like her head and arms were floating.

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a specific child.”

Denise let her eyes wander toward the door. “Hers?”

She was talking about Katarina.

“No.”

“It wouldn’t matter. I don’t know anything about placement.”

“You’re a midwife, correct?”

She folded the smooth, muscular arms under her bosom. “I’m not answering any of your questions.”

“See, Denise, I know most of it. I just need you to fill in a few blanks.” Rachel sat on the vinyl couch. Denise Vanech didn’t move. “You have people in a foreign country. Maybe more than one country, I don’t know. But I know about Serbia. So let’s start there. You have people there who recruit girls. The girls come over pregnant, but they don’t mention that at customs. You deliver the baby. Maybe here, maybe you have another spot, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know a lot.”

Rachel smiled. “I know enough.”

Denise put her hands on her hips now. Her poses all seemed unnatural, as if she practiced them in front of a mirror.

“Anyway, the women have the babies. You pay them. You turn the baby over to Steven Bacard. He works for desperate couples who might be willing to bend the rules. They adopt the child.”

“That’s a nice story.”

“Are you saying it’s fiction?”

Denise grinned. “Total fiction.”

“Cool, fine.” She took out her cell phone. “Then let me call the feds. I’ll introduce them to Katarina. They can go down to Union City and grill Tatiana. They can start going through your phone records, your finances—”

Denise started waving her hands. “Okay, okay, tell me what you want. I mean, you said you’re not an FBI agent anymore. So what do you want with me?”

“I want to know how it works.”

“You trying to cut yourself in?”

“No.”

Denise waited a beat. “You said before that you’re looking for a specific kid.”

“Yes.”

“You’re working for someone, then?”

Rachel shook her head. “Look, Denise, you don’t have a lot of options here. You either tell me the truth or you do serious jail time.”

“And if I do tell you what I know?”

“Then I’ll leave you out of it,” Rachel said. It was a lie. But it was an easy one. This woman was involved in baby selling. There was no way Rachel was just going to let that go.

Denise sat. The tan seemed to be leaving her face. She looked suddenly older. The lines around her mouth and eyes deepened. “It’s not what you think,” she began.

Rachel waited.

“We aren’t hurting anyone. The truth is, we’re helping.”

Denise Vanech picked up her purse—white, of course—and dug out a cigarette. She offered one to Rachel. Rachel shook her off.

“Do you know anything about orphanages in poor countries?” Denise asked.

“Just what I see on PBS documentaries.”

Denise lit the cigarette and drew a deep breath. “They are beyond awful. They may house forty babies to one nurse. The nurse is uneducated. The job is often a political favor. Some of the children are abused. Many are born drug dependent. The medical care—”

“I get the picture,” Rachel said. “It’s bad.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And we’ve found a way to save some of these children.”

Rachel sat back and crossed her legs. She could see where this was going. “You pay pregnant women to fly over and sell you their babies?”

“That’s hyperbole,” she said.

Rachel shrugged. “How would you put it?”

“Put yourself in their position. You are a poor woman—and I mean poor—maybe a prostitute or somehow involved in white slavery. You are dirt. You have nothing. Some man knocks you up. You can abort or, if your religion forbids that, you can stick the kid in a godforsaken orphanage.”

“Or,” Rachel added, “if they’re lucky, they end up with you?”

“Yes. We will give them adequate medical care. We will offer financial restitution. And most importantly, we will make sure that their baby is placed in a loving home with caring, financially stable parents.”

“Financially stable,” Rachel repeated. “As in wealthy?”

“The service is expensive,” she admitted. “But let me ask you something now. Take your friend out there. Katarina you said her name was?”

Rachel kept still.

“What would her life be like right now if we hadn’t brought her here? What would her child’s life be like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you did with her child.”

Denise smiled. “Fine, be argumentative. But you know what I mean. Do you think the baby would be better off with a dirt-poor prostitute in a war-torn hellhole—or with a caring family here in the United States?”

“I see,” Rachel said, trying not to squirm. “So you’re sort of like the world’s most wonderful social worker. This is charity work you’re doing?”

Denise chuckled. “Look around you. I have expensive taste. I live in a ritzy neighborhood. I have a kid in college. I like to vacation in Europe. We have a house in the Hamptons. I do this because it’s incredibly profitable. But so what? Who cares about my motives? My motives don’t change the conditions in those orphanages.”

“I still don’t understand,” Rachel said. “The women sell you their babies.”

“They give us their babies,” she corrected. “In return, we offer financial restitution—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You get the baby. They get money. But then what? There has to be paperwork on the child, otherwise the government would step in. They wouldn’t just let Bacard keep running adoptions like this.”

“True.”

“So how do you work it?”

She smiled. “You plan on busting me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She was still smiling. “You’ll remember I cooperated, right?”

“Yes.”

Denise Vanech pressed her palms together and closed her eyes. It looked as if she might be praying. “We hire American mothers.”

Rachel made a face. “Excuse me?”

“For example, let’s say Tatiana is about to have the baby. We might hire you, Rachel, to pose as the mother. You’d go to vital records at your town hall. You’d tell them you’re pregnant and going to have a home birth, so there won’t be a hospital record. They give you forms to fill out. They never check to see if you’re really pregnant. How would they? It’s not like they can give you a gynecological exam.”

Rachel sat back. “Jesus.”

“It’s pretty simple when you think about it. There is no record that Tatiana is going to have a baby. There is a record that you are. I deliver the baby. I sign as the attending witness to your child being born. You become the mother. Bacard has you fill in the paperwork for adoption. . . .” She shrugged.

“So the adopting parents never learn the truth?”

“No, but they don’t look too hard either. They’re desperate. They don’t want to know.”

Rachel suddenly felt drained.

“And before you turn us in,” Denise went on, “consider something else. We’ve been doing this for almost ten years now. That means there are children who’ve been happily placed with families that long. Dozens. All of those adoptions will be considered null and void. The birth mothers can come over here and demand their children back. Or take a payoff. You’d be ripping apart a lot of lives.”

Rachel shook her head. It was too much to consider right now. Another time. She was getting off track. Had to keep her eye on the prize. She turned and squared her shoulders. She looked Denise deep in the eye.

“So how does Tara Seidman fit into all this?”

“Who?”

“Tara Seidman.”

Now it was Denise’s turn to look confused. “Wait a second. Wasn’t that the little girl kidnapped in Kasselton?”

Rachel’s cell phone rang. She checked the Caller ID and saw it was Marc. She was just about to press the answer button when a man stepped into view. Her breath stopped. Sensing something, Denise turned around. She jumped back at the sight.

It was the man from the park.

His hands were huge, making the gun he now pointed at Rachel look like a child’s toy. He wiggled his fingers in her direction. “Give me the phone.”

Rachel handed it to him, trying her best to avoid his touch. The man put the barrel of the gun against her head. “Now give me your gun.”

Rachel reached into her handbag. He told her to lift it into view with two fingers. She complied. The phone rang for the fourth time.

The man hit the answer button and said, “Dr. Seidman?”

Even Rachel could hear the reply. “Who is this?”

“We’re all at Denise Vanech’s house now. You will come here unarmed and alone. I will tell you all about your daughter then.”

“Where’s Rachel?”

“She’s right here. You have thirty minutes. I will tell you what you need to know. You have a tendency to try to be cute in these situations. But not this time or your friend Ms. Mills dies first. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

The man hung up the phone. He looked down at Rachel. His eyes were brown with a gold center. They looked almost gentle, the eyes of a doe. Then the big man swung his gaze toward Denise Vanech. She flinched. A smile came to the man’s lips.

Rachel saw what he was about to do.

She shouted, “No!” as the big man aimed the gun at Denise Vanech’s chest and fired three shots. All three hit dead center. Denise’s body went slack. She slid off the couch and onto the floor. Rachel started to stand, but now the gun was pointed at her.

“Stay put.”

Rachel obeyed. Denise Vanech was clearly dead. Her eyes were open. Her blood streamed down, the color startlingly red against a sea of white.

chapter 42

Now what doI do?

I had been calling to tell Rachel about the shooting death of Steven Bacard. Now this man was holding her hostage. Okay, so what’s my next step? I tried to think it through, to analyze the data carefully, but there was not enough time. The man on the phone had been right. I had been “cute” in the past. During the first ransom drop, I had let the police and FBI in on it. During the second, I’d enlisted the aid of an ex–federal agent. For a long time, I blamed the first drop-gone-wrong on my decision. Not anymore. I had played the odds both times, but now I think the game was fixed from the get-go. They had never intended to give me back my daughter. Not eighteen months ago. Not last night.

And not now.

Maybe I had been on a search for an answer that I knew all along. Verne had understood my quest with one caveat: “Long as a man ain’t fooling himself.” But maybe I had been. Even now, even as we were uncovering this baby-smuggling scam, I had allowed myself fresh hope. Perhaps my daughter was alive. Perhaps she had gotten ensnared in this adoption con. Would that be horrible? Yes. But the obvious alternative—that Tara is dead—was a hell of a lot worse.

I no longer knew what to believe.

I checked my watch. Twenty minutes had passed. I wondered about how to play it. First things first. I called Lenny on the private line at his office.

“A man named Steven Bacard was just murdered in East Rutherford,” I said.

“Bacard the lawyer?”

“You know him?”

“I worked a case with him a few years ago,” Lenny said. Then: “Oh damn.”

“What?”

“You asked before about Stacy and an adoption. I didn’t see a connection. But now that you say Bacard’s name . . . Stacy asked me about him, what, three, four years ago.”

“What about him?”

“I don’t remember anymore. Something about being a mother.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I really didn’t pay that much attention. I just told her not to sign anything without showing it to me.” Then Lenny asked, “How do you know he’s been murdered?”

“I just saw his body.”

“Whoa, don’t say anything else. This line might not be secure.”

“I need your help. Call the cops. They need to get Bacard’s records. He ran an adoption scam. There’s a possibility that he had something to do with Tara’s kidnapping.”

“How?”

“I don’t have time to explain.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll call Tickner and Regan. Regan’s been searching for you pretty much nonstop, you know.”

“I figured.”

I hung up before he could ask more. I am not really sure what I expected them to find. I couldn’t make myself believe that the answer to Tara’s fate lay in some file cabinet in a law office. But maybe. And if something went wrong here—and there was certainly a decent chance of that happening—I wanted someone to be able to follow up.

I was in Ridgewood now. I did not believe for a second that the man on the phone was telling the truth. They were not in the trade-information business. They were here to clean house. Rachel and I knew too much. They were drawing me there so that they could kill us.

So what do I do?

There was very little time. If I stalled—if it took me much longer than a half an hour—the man on the phone would start getting antsy. That would be bad. I thought again about calling the police, but I remembered his warning about being “cute” and I still worried about a leak. I had a gun. I knew how to use it. I was a pretty good shot, but that was at a range. Shooting at people would, I assumed, be different. Or maybe not. I no longer had qualms about killing these people. I’m not sure I ever had.

A block away from Denise Vanech’s house, I parked the car, grabbed the gun, and started down the street.

He called her Lydia. She called him Heshy.

The woman had arrived five minutes ago. She was petite and pretty, her baby-doll eyes wide with excitement. She stood in front of Denise Vanech’s corpse and watched the blood still trickling out. Rachel sat still. Her hands had been bound behind her back with duct tape. The woman named Lydia turned to Rachel.

“That stain is going to be a bitch to get out.”

Rachel stared at her. Lydia smiled.

“You don’t think that’s funny?”

“Inside,” Rachel said. “Inside I’m cracking up.”

“You visited a young girl named Tatiana today, yes?”

Rachel said nothing. The big man named Heshy began to pull down the shades.

“She’s dead. Just thought you’d like to know.” Lydia sat next to Rachel. “Do you remember the TV showFamily Laughs ?”

Rachel wondered how to play this. This Lydia was insane, no doubt about it. Tentatively she said,“Yes.”

“Were you a fan?”

“The show was puerile nonsense.”

Lydia threw back her head and laughed. “I played Trixie.”

She smiled at Rachel. Rachel said, “You must be very proud.”

“Oh I am. I am.” Lydia stopped, tilted her face, moved it closer to Rachel’s. “You know, of course, that you’re going to die soon.”

Rachel did not blink. “Then how about telling me what you did with Tara Seidman?”

“Oh please.” Lydia stood. “I was an actress, remember? I was on television. So, what, is this the part of the show where we tell all so that the audience can catch up and your hero can sneak up on us? Sorry, sweetie.” She turned to Heshy. “Gag her, Pooh Bear.”

Heshy used the duct tape and wrapped it around Rachel’s mouth and the back of her head. He moved back toward the window. Lydia bent close to Rachel’s ear. Rachel could feel the woman’s breath.

“I will tell you this,” she whispered, “because it’s funny.” Lydia bent in a little closer. “I have no idea what happened to Tara Seidman.”

Okay, I wasn’t about to drive up and knock on the door.

Let’s face it. They were out to kill us. My only chance was to surprise them. I didn’t know the layout of the house, but I figured that I could find a side window and try to sneak in. I was armed. I was confident I could shoot without hesitation. I really wished that I had a better plan, but even if I had more time, I doubt that I’d come up with anything.

Zia had mentioned my surgeon’s ego. I admit that it scared me. I actually felt confident that I could pull this off. I was smart. I knew how to be careful. I would look for an opening. If I didn’t see one, I would offer them a trade—me for Rachel. I would not be sucked in by talk of Tara. Yes, I wanted to believe that she was still alive. Yes, I wanted to believe that they knew where she was. But I would no longer risk Rachel’s life for a pipe dream. My life? Sure. But not Rachel’s.

I moved closer to Denise Vanech’s house, trying to duck behind trees while not looking conspicuous. In an upscale suburban neighborhood, this was impossible. People don’t skulk. I imagined the neighbors watching me from behind the blinds, their fingers on the auto-911 dial button. I couldn’t worry about it. Whatever was going to happen, one way or the other, would happen before any police could get here.

When my cell phone rang, I nearly jumped out my skin. I was three houses away now. I cursed under my breath. Dr. Cool—Dr. Confident—had forgotten to put his phone on vibrate. I realized with a sinking certainty that I was deluding myself. I was out of my element here. Suppose, for example, the phone had rung when I was right up against the house. What then?

I leapt behind a shrub and answered it with a snap of my wrist.

“You got a lot to learn about sneaking up on places,” Verne whispered. “I mean, you’re godawful at it.”

“Where are you?”

“Check out the second-floor window, far back.”

I peeked out at Denise Vanech’s house. Verne was in the window. He waved to me.

“Back door was unlocked,” Verne whispered. “I let myself in.”

“What’s going on in there?”

“Stone-cold killing. I heard them say they killed that girl at the motel. They blew away that Denise woman. She’s lying dead not three feet from Rachel.”

I closed my eyes.

“This is a trap, Marc.”

“Yeah, I figured that.”

“There’s two of them—one man, one woman. I want you to hustle back to your car. I want you to drive and park on the street. You’ll be far enough away so that they won’t get a clear shot at you. Stay there. Don’t get any closer. I just want you to draw their attention, you got me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll try to keep one alive, but I can’t make any promises.”

He hung up. I hurried back to the car and did as he said. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. But there was hope now. Verne was there. He was inside the house and armed. I pulled up to the front of Denise Vanech’s house. The blinds and curtains were drawn. I took a deep breath. I opened the car door and stood.

Silence.

I expected to hear shots. But that was not what came first. The first sound was shattering glass. And then I saw Rachel fall out the window.

“His car just pulled up,” Heshy said.

Rachel’s hands were still bound behind her back, the duct tape over her mouth. She knew that this was it. Marc would come to the door. They would let him in, this mutant version of Bonnie and Clyde, and then they would shoot them both.

Tatiana was already dead. Denise Vanech was already dead. There was no other way to play this. Heshy and Lydia could not let them survive. Rachel had hoped that Marc would realize this and go to the police. She hoped that he wouldn’t show up, but of course, that would not be an option for him. So he was here. He would probably try something foolhardy or maybe he was still so blinded by hope that he would simply walk into the trap.

Either way, Rachel had to stop him.

Her only chance was to surprise them. Even then, even if everything fell into place, the best she could realistically hope for was to save Marc. The rest was fool’s gold.

Time to act.

They hadn’t bothered to tie her feet. With her hands behind her back and her mouth taped shut, what harm could she do? Trying to run at them would be suicide. She’d make an easy target.

And that was what she was counting on.

Rachel got to her feet. Lydia turned around and pointed the gun at her. “Sit down.”

She didn’t. And now Lydia had a dilemma. If she fired the gun, Marc would hear it. He would know something was wrong. A stalemate. But it wouldn’t last. An idea—a pretty lame idea—came to Rachel. She broke into a run. Lydia would either have to shoot or give chase or . . .

The window.

Lydia saw what Rachel was doing, but there was no way to stop her. Rachel lowered her head like a battering ram and dived straight toward the picture window. Lydia raised her gun to shoot. Rachel braced herself. She knew that this would hurt. The glass broke with surprising ease. Rachel flew through it, but what she hadn’t counted on was how far off the ground she was. Her hands were still tied behind her back. There was no way to break the fall.

She turned to the side and took the impact on her shoulder. Something popped. She felt a stabbing pain run down her leg. A shard of glass stuck out of her thigh. The sound would warn Marc, no question about it. He could be saved. But as Rachel rolled over, dread—deep, heavy dread—hit her next. Yes, she had warned Marc. He had seen her fall out the window.

But now, without thinking of the danger, Marc was running toward her.

Verne was crouched on the stairs.

He’d been about to make his move when Rachel suddenly stood up. Was she crazy? But no, he realized, she was just a brave lady. After all, she had no idea that he was hiding upstairs. She couldn’t just sit there and let Marc walk in on this setup. She wasn’t built that way.

“Sit down.”

The woman’s voice. The pert thing named Lydia. She started to swing her gun up. Verne panicked. He wasn’t in position yet. He wouldn’t have a clear shot. But Lydia didn’t pull the trigger. Verne watched in amazement as Rachel ran and jumped through the window.

Talk about a distraction.

Verne moved now. He had heard countless times about how time stands still in moments of extreme violence, that brief seconds can drag so that you can see everything clearly. In reality, that was total bull. When you looked back, when you ran it through your mind in safety and comfort, that’s when you imagine it went by slowly. But in the heat of the moment, when he and three buddies had gotten into a firefight with some of Saddam’s “elite” soldiers, time had actually sped up. That was what was happening here.

Verne spun around the corner. “Drop it!”

The big man had his gun aimed at the window where Rachel had fallen out. There was no time to call out another warning. Verne fired twice. Heshy went down. Lydia screamed. Verne ducked into a roll and disappeared behind the couch. Lydia screamed again.

“Heshy!”

Verne peered out, expecting to see Lydia aiming the gun at him. But that wasn’t the case. She ditched the weapon. Still crying out, Lydia dropped to her knees and gently cradled Heshy’s head.

“No! Don’t die. Please, Heshy, please don’t leave me!”

Verne kicked her gun away. He kept his pointed at Lydia.

Her voice was low now, soft and motherly. “Please, Heshy. Please don’t die. Oh God, please don’t leave me.”

Heshy said, “I never will.”

Lydia looked at Verne, her eyes pleading. He didn’t bother calling 911. He could hear the sirens now. Heshy grabbed Lydia’s hand. “You know what you have to do,” he said.

“No,” she said, her voice small.

“Lydia, we planned for this.”

“You’re not going to die.”

Heshy closed his eyes. His breathing was labored.

“The world will think you were a monster,” she said.

“I only care what you think. Promise me, Lydia.”

“You’re going to be fine.”

“Promise me.”

Lydia shook her head. The tears were flowing freely now. “I can’t do it.”

“You can.” Heshy managed a final smile. “You’re a great actress, remember?”

“I love you,” she said.

But his eyes were closed. Lydia kept sobbing. She kept pleading with him not to leave her. The sirens came closer. Verne stepped back. The police arrived. When they came inside, they stood around her in a circle. Lydia suddenly lifted her head off Heshy’s chest.

“Thank God,” she said to them—and the tears started rolling again. “My nightmare is finally over.”

Rachel was rushed to the hospital. I wanted to follow, but the police had other ideas. I spoke to Zia. I asked her to look in on Rachel for me.

The police questioned us for hours. They questioned Verne, Katarina, and me separately and then together. I think they believed us. Lenny was there. Regan and Tickner showed up, but it took some time. They’d been going through Bacard’s files per Lenny’s phone call.

Regan took the lead with me. “Long day, huh, Marc?”

I sat across from him. “Do I look in the mood for chitchat, Detective?”

“The woman goes by the name Lydia Davis. Her real name is Larissa Dane.”

I made a face. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“She was a child actor.”

“Trixie,” I said, remembering. “OnFamily Laughs .”

“Yep, that’s her. Or at least, that’s what she says. Anyway, she claims this guy—we only know him as Heshy—kept her locked up and abused her. She said he forced her to do things. Your friend Verne thinks it’s all a scam. But that’s not important right now. She claims that she doesn’t know anything about your daughter.”

“How can that be?”

“She says they were just hired hands. That Bacard came to Heshy with this scheme about asking for ransom for a kid they hadn’t kidnapped. Heshy loved the idea. Lot of money—and since they didn’t really have the kid, there was almost no risk.”

“She says they had nothing to do with the shooting at my house?”

“That’s right.”

I looked at Lenny. He saw the problem too. “But they had my gun. The one they used on Katarina’s brother.”

“Yeah, we know. She claims that Bacard gave it to Heshy. To set you up. Heshy shot Pavel and planted the gun so you and Rachel would take the fall.”

“How did they get Tara’s hair for the ransom drop? How did they get her clothes?”

“According to Ms. Dane, Bacard provided them.”

I shook my head. “So Bacard was the one who kidnapped Tara?”

“She claims not to know.”

“How about my sister? How did she get involved?”

“Again she claims it was Bacard. He gave them Stacy’s name as a fall guy. Heshy gave Stacy the money and told her to cash it at a bank. Then he killed her.”

I looked over at Tickner, then back at Regan. “It doesn’t add up.”

“We’re still working on it.”

Lenny said, “I have a question. Why did they come back after a year and a half and try it again?”

“Ms. Dane claims not to know for sure, but she suspects it was simple greed. She says Bacard called and asked if Heshy would want to make another million. He said yes. Going through Bacard’s records, he was clearly in financial trouble. We think she’s right. Bacard simply decided to take another bite of the apple.”

I rubbed my face. My ribs began to ache. “Did you find Bacard’s adoption records?”

Regan glanced at Tickner. “Not yet.”

“How can that be?”

“Look, we just got on this. We’ll find them. We’re going to check every adoption he’s ever made, especially anything involving a female eighteen months ago. If Bacard had Tara adopted, we’ll find out.”

I shook my head again.

“What is it, Marc?”

“That doesn’t make any sense. The guy has a decent thing going with this adoption scam. Why shoot me and Monica and up the ante to kidnapping and murder?”

“We don’t know,” Regan said. “I think we can all agree that there’s more to the story. But the truth is, the most likely scenario right now is that your sister and an accomplice shot you and Monica and took the baby. She then brought it to Bacard.”

I closed my eyes and replayed it in my head. Could Stacy have really done that? Could she have broken into my house and shot me? I still couldn’t make myself believe. And then I thought of something.

Why hadn’t I heard the window break?

More than that, before I was shot, why hadn’t I heardanything ? A window break, a doorbell, heck, a door opening. Why hadn’t I heard any of that? The answer, according to Regan, had been that I was blocking. But now I saw that wasn’t it.

“The granola bar,” I said.

“Pardon me?”

I turned to him. “Your theory is that I’m forgetting something, right? Stacy and her accomplice either broke the window or, I don’t know, rang the doorbell. I would have heard either one of those. But I didn’t. I remember eating my granola bar and then going down.”

“Right.”

“But see, I was pretty specific. I had the granola bar in my hand. When you found me, it was on the floor. How much had been eaten?”

“Maybe a bite or two,” Tickner said.

“Then your amnesia theory is wrong. I was standing over the sink eating the granola bar. I remember that. When you found me, that’s what I was doing. There is no time unaccounted for. And if it was my sister, why would she strip Monica, for Chrissake . . . ?” I stopped.

Lenny said, “Marc?”

Did you love her?

I stared straight ahead.

You know who shot you, don’t you, Marc?

Dina Levinsky. I thought about her bizarre visits to the house she’d grown up in. I thought about the two guns—one being mine. I thought about the CD-ROM hidden in the basement, in the spot Dina had told me about. I thought about those pictures taken in front of the hospital. I thought about what Edgar said about Monica seeing a psychiatrist.

And then an awful thought, one so terrible I might indeed have suppressed it, began to surface.

chapter 43

I feigned illnessand excused myself. I went to the bathroom and dialed Edgar’s phone number. My father-in-law himself answered. “Hello?”

“You said Monica was seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Marc? Is that you?” Edgar cleared his throat. “I just heard from the police. Those pissant fools had me convinced that you were behind all this—”

“I don’t have time for that now. I’m still trying to find Tara.”

“What do you need?” Edgar asked.

“Did you ever find out the name of her psychiatrist?”

“No.”

I thought about it. “Is Carson there?”

“Yes.”

“Put him on.”

There was a brief pause. I tapped my foot. Uncle Carson’s rich voice came over the line. “Marc?”

“You knew about those pictures, didn’t you?”

He didn’t reply.

“I checked our accounts. The money didn’t come from us. You paid for the private detective.”

“It had nothing to do with the shooting or kidnapping,” Carson said.

“I think it did. Monica told you the name of her psychiatrist, didn’t she? What was it?”

Again he did not reply.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Tara.”

“She only saw him twice,” Carson said. “How can he help you?”

“He can’t. His name can.”

“What?”

“Just tell me, yes or no. Was his name Stanley Radio?”

I could hear him breathing.

“Carson?”

“I already spoke to him. He knows nothing—”

But I had already hung up. Carson wouldn’t say any more.

But Dina Levinsky might.

I asked Regan and Tickner if I was under arrest. They said no. I asked Verne if I could still borrow the Camaro.

“No problemo,” Verne said. Then squinting, he added, “Do you need my help?”

I shook my head. “You and Katarina are out of this now. It’s over for you.”

“I’m still here, if you need me.”

“I don’t. Go home, Verne.”

He surprised me with a big hug then. Katarina kissed my cheek. I let go and watched them drive off in the pickup. I headed toward the city. There was heavy traffic at the Lincoln Tunnel. It took me over an hour to get through the tolls. That gave me time to make some phone calls. I learned that Dina Levinsky shared an apartment in Greenwich Village with a friend.

Twenty minutes later, I knocked on her door.

When Eleanor Russell returned from lunch, there was a plain manila envelope on her chair. It was addressed to her boss, Lenny Marcus, and markedPERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL .

Eleanor had worked with Lenny for eight years. She loved him dearly. Having no family of her own—she and her husband, Saul, who had died three years before, had never been blessed with children—she had become something of a surrogate grandmother to the Marcuses. Eleanor even had photographs of Lenny’s wife, Cheryl, and their four children on her desk.

She studied the envelope and frowned. How had it gotten here? She peeked into Lenny’s office. He looked so harried. That was because Lenny had just returned from a homicide scene. The case involving his best friend, Dr. Marc Seidman, had exploded back into the headlines. Normally Eleanor would not bother Lenny at a time like this. But the return address . . . well, she thought he should see it for himself.

Lenny was on the phone. He saw her enter and put his hand over the receiver. “I’m kinda busy,” he said.

“This came for you.”

Eleanor handed him the envelope. Lenny almost ignored it. Then Eleanor watched as he spotted the return address. He turned it over, then back again.

The return address simply read,From a friend of Stacy Seidman.

Lenny put down the phone and tore open the envelope.

I don’t think Dina Levinsky was surprised to see me.

She let me in without a word. The walls were blanketed with her paintings, many hung at odd angles. The effect was dizzying, giving the entire apartment a Salvador Dalí feel. We sat in the kitchen. Dina offered to make tea. I said no. She put her hands on the table. I could see that her fingernails were bitten down past the cuticle. Had they been that way at my house? She seemed different now, sadder somehow. Her hair was straighter. Her eyes were downcast. It was as if she was transforming back to the pitiful girl I had known in elementary school.

“You found the pictures?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Dina closed her eyes. “I should have never led you to them.”

“Why did you?”

“I lied to you before.”

I nodded.

“I’m not married. I don’t enjoy sex. I do have troubles with relationships.” She shrugged. “I even have problems with telling the truth.”

Dina tried to smile. I tried to smile back.

“In therapy we’re taught to confront our fears. The only way to do that is to let the truth in, no matter how much it hurts. But see, I wasn’t even sure what the truth was. So I tried to lead you there.”

“You were back in the house before the night I saw you, weren’t you?”

She nodded.

“And that’s how you met Monica?”

“Yes.”

I kept going. “You two became friends?”

“We had something in common.”

“That being?”

Dina looked up at me, and I saw the pain.

“Abuse?” I said.

She nodded.

“Edgar sexually abused her?”

“No, not Edgar. Her mother. And it wasn’t sexual. It was more physical and emotional. The woman was very ill. You knew that, right?”

“I guess I did,” I said.

“Monica needed help.”

“So you introduced her to your therapist?”

“I tried. I mean, I set up an appointment for her with Dr. Radio. But it didn’t work out.”

“How come?”

“Monica was not the sort of woman who believed in therapy. She thought that she could best handle her own problems.”

I nodded. I knew. “At the house,” I said, “you asked me if I loved Monica.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She thought you didn’t.” Dina put her finger in her mouth, searching for a sliver of nail to bite. There was none. “Of course, she thought herself unworthy of love. Like me. But there was a difference.”

“What was that?”

“Monica felt that there was one person who could love her forever.”

I knew the answer here. “Tara.”

“Yes. She trapped you, Marc. You probably realize that. It wasn’t an accident. She wanted to get pregnant.”

Sadly, I was not surprised. Again I tried, as in surgery, to put the pieces together. “So Monica believed that I no longer loved her. She was afraid I wanted a divorce. She was troubled. She was crying at night.” I paused. I was saying this as much for my benefit as Dina’s. I didn’t want to keep following this train of thought, but there was no way to stop me. “She’s fragile. Her mind is frayed. And then she hears that phone message from Rachel.”

“That’s your ex-girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“You still keep her picture in your desk drawer. Monica knew about that too. You keep mementos of her.”

I closed my eyes, remembering the Steely Dan CD in Monica’s car. College music. Music I had listened to with Rachel. I said, “So she hired a private detective to see if I was having an affair. He took those photographs.”

Dina nodded.

“So now she has proof. I’m going to leave her for another woman. I’m going to claim she’s unstable. I’ll say she’s an unfit mother. I’m a well-respected doctor, and Rachel has connections with law enforcement. We’d end up with custody of the only thing that really mattered to Monica. Tara.”

Dina rose from the table. She washed out a glass in the sink and then filled it with water. I thought again about what had happened that morning. Why hadn’t I heard the window break? Why hadn’t I heard the doorbell ring? Why hadn’t I heard the intruder enter?

Simple. Because there was no intruder.

Tears filled my eyes. “So what did she do, Dina?”

“You know, Marc.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“I didn’t think she’d really do it,” Dina said. “I thought she was just acting out, you know? Monica was so despondent. When she asked me if I knew how to get a gun, I thought she wanted to kill herself. I never thought . . .”

“She would shoot me?”

The air was suddenly heavy. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I was too tired to cry anymore. But there was still more to unearth here. “You said she asked you to help her get a gun?”

Dina wiped her eyes and nodded.

“Did you?”

“No. I wouldn’t know how to get one. She said you had a gun at home, but she didn’t want something that could trace back. So she went to the only person she knew with seedy enough contacts to help.”

I saw it now. “My sister.”

“Yes.”

“Did Stacy get her a gun?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The morning you were both shot, Stacy came to see me. See, Monica and I had come up with the idea of going to Stacy together. So Monica mentioned me to her. She came and asked what Monica needed a gun for. I didn’t tell her because, well, I really wasn’t all that sure. Stacy ran out. I was in a panic. I wanted to ask Dr. Radio what to do, but my next session was that afternoon. I figured it could wait.”

“And then?”

“I still don’t know what happened, Marc. That’s the truth. But I know Monica shot you.”

“How?”

“I got scared. So I called your house. Monica answered. She was crying. She told me you were dead. She kept saying, ‘What have I done, what have I done?’ And then suddenly she hung up. I called back. But no one answered. I really didn’t know what to do. Then the TV had the story. When they said your daughter was missing . . . I didn’t understand. I thought they’d find her right away. But they never did. And I never heard anything about those pictures either. I hoped, I don’t know, I hoped leading you to those photographs might shed some light on what really happened. Not so much for the two of you. But for your daughter.”

“Why did you wait so long?”

Her eyes closed and for a moment, I thought that she might be praying. “I had a bad spell, Marc. Two weeks after you were shot, I was hospitalized with a breakdown. The truth is, I was so far gone I forgot about it. Or maybe I wanted to forget, I don’t know.”

My cell phone rang. It was Lenny. I picked it up.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“With Dina Levinsky.”

“Get over to Newark Airport. Terminal C. Now.”

“What’s going on?”

“I think,” Lenny said. Then he slowed down, caught his breath. “I think I may know where we can find Tara.”

chapter 44

By the timeI arrived at Terminal C, Lenny was already standing by the Continental check-in desk. It was six o’clock at night now. The airport was jammed with the weary. He handed me the anonymous note that had been found in his office. It read:

Abe and Lorraine Tansmore

26 Marsh Lane

Hanley Hills, MO

That was it. Just the name and address. Nothing else.

“It’s a suburb near St. Louis,” Lenny explained. “I did some research already.”

I just kept staring down at the name and address.

“Marc?”

I looked up at him.

“The Tansmores adopted a daughter eighteen months ago. She was six months old when they got her.”

Behind him, a Continental service rep said, “Next please.” A woman pushed past me. She might have said, “Excuse me,” but I’m not sure.

“I have us booked on the next flight to St. Louis. We’re leaving in an hour.”

When we reached the departure gate, I told him about my meeting with Dina Levinsky. We sat, as we often do, next to each other, facing out. When I finished, he said, “You have a theory now.”

“I do.”

We watched a plane take off. An old couple sitting across from us shared a tin of Pringles. “I’m a cynic. I know that. I hold no illusions about drug addicts. If anything, I overestimate their depravity. And that, I think, is what I did here.”

“How do you figure?”

“Stacy wouldn’t shoot me. And she would never hurt her niece. She was an addict. But she still loved me.”

“I think,” Lenny said, “that you’re right.”

“I look back. I was so wrapped up in my own world that I never saw . . .” I shook my head. Now was not the time for this. “Monica was desperate,” I said. “She couldn’t get a gun and maybe, she decided, she didn’t have to.”

“She used yours,” Lenny said.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Stacy must have guessed what was up. She ran to the house. She saw what Monica had done. I don’t know how it played exactly. Maybe Monica tried to shoot her too—that could explain the bullet hole near the stairs. Or maybe Stacy just reacted. She loved me. I was lying there. She probably thought I was dead. So I don’t know, but either way Stacy came armed. And she shot Monica.”

The gate attendant announced that the flight would soon be boarding but those with special needs or One Pass Gold and Platinum members could board now.

“You said on the phone that Stacy knew Bacard?”

Lenny nodded. “She mentioned him, yeah.”

“Again I’m not sure how it played exactly. But think about it. I’m dead. Monica is dead. And Stacy is probably freaking out. Tara is crying. Stacy can’t just leave her. So she takes Tara with her. Later she realizes that she can’t raise a kid on her own. She’s too messed up. So she turns her over to Bacard and tells him to find her a good family. Or, if I want to be cynical, maybe she gives Tara over for the money. We’ll never know.”

Lenny was nodding.

“From there, well, we just follow what we already learned. Bacard decides to rake in extra money by pretending it was a kidnapping. He hires those two lunatics. Bacard would be able to get hair samples, for example. He double-crossed Stacy. He set her up to take the fall.”

I saw something cross Lenny’s face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

They called our row.

Lenny stood. “Let’s board.”

The flight was delayed. We didn’t arrive in St. Louis until past midnight local time. It was too late to do anything tonight. Lenny booked us a room at the Airport Marriott. I bought clothes at their all-night boutique. When we got to the room, I took a very long, very hot shower. We settled in and stared at the ceiling.

In the morning, I called the hospital to check on Rachel. She was still sleeping. Zia was in her room. She assured me that Rachel was doing fine. Lenny and I tried to eat the hotel’s buffet breakfast. Nothing would stay down. Our rental car was waiting for us. Lenny had gotten directions to Hanley Hills from the desk clerk.

I don’t remember what we saw on the drive. Aside from the Arch in the distance, there was nothing distinct. The United States has a strip-mall sameness about it now. It’s easy to criticize that—I often do—but maybe the appeal is that we all like what we already know. We claim to embrace change. But in the end, especially in these times, what truly draws us is the familiar.

When we reached the town limits, I felt a tingling in my legs. “What do we do here, Lenny?”

He had no answer.

“Do I just knock on the door and say, ‘Excuse me, I think that’s my daughter?’ ”

“We could call the police,” he said. “Let them handle it.”

But I didn’t know how that would play out. We were so close now. I told him to keep on driving. We made a right onto Marsh Lane. I was shaking now. Lenny tried to give me a buck-up look, but his face was pale too. The street was more modest than I’d expected. I had assumed that all of Bacard’s clients were wealthy. That was clearly not the case with this couple.

“Abe Tansmore works as a schoolteacher,” Lenny said, reading my thoughts as usual. “Sixth grade. Lorraine Tansmore works for a day-care center three days a week. They’re both thirty-nine years old. They’ve been married for seventeen years.”

Up ahead, I saw a house with a cherry-wood sign that read 26—THE TANSMORES. It was a small, one-level, what I think they called “bungalow” style. The rest of the houses on the block seemed tired. This one did not. The paint glistened like a smile. There were lots of clusters of color, of flowers and shrubs, all trimly laid out and perfectly pruned. I could see a welcome mat. A low picket fence encircled the front yard. A station wagon, a Volvo model from several years back, sat in the driveway. There was a tricycle, too, and one of those bright-hued plastic Big Wheels.

And there was a woman outside.

Lenny pulled over in front of an empty lot. I barely noticed. The woman was in the flower beds, on her knees. She was working a small digging spade. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna. Every few digs she would wipe her forehead with her sleeve.

“You say she works at a day-care center?”

“Three days a week. The daughter goes with her.”

“What do they call the daughter?”

“Natasha.”

I nodded. I don’t know why. We waited. The woman, this Lorraine, worked hard, but I could see she enjoyed it. There was a serenity about her. I opened the car window. I could hear her whistling to herself. I don’t know how many minutes passed. A neighbor walked by. Lorraine rose and greeted her. The neighbor gestured toward the garden. Lorraine smiled. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she had a great smile. The neighbor left. Lorraine waved good-bye and turned back to her garden.

The front door opened.

I saw Abe. He was a tall man, thin and wiry, slightly balding. He had a neatly trimmed beard. Lorraine stood and looked over at him. She gave him a small wave.

And then Tara ran outside.

The air around us stopped. I felt my insides shut down. Next to me, Lenny stiffened and muttered, “Oh my God.”

For the last eighteen months, I had never really believed that this moment was possible. What I had done instead was convince myself—no, trick myself—into believing that maybe, somehow, Tara was still alive and okay. But my subconscious knew it was only a self-delusion. It winked at me. It nudged me in my sleep. It whispered the obvious truth: that I would never see my daughter again.

But it was my daughter. She was alive.

I was surprised at how little Tara had changed. Oh she’d grown, of course. She was able to stand. She was even able, as I now saw, to run. But her face . . . there was no mistake. No being blinded by hope. It was Tara. It was my little girl.

With a huge smile, Tara ran with total abandon toward Lorraine. Lorraine bent low, her face lighting up in that celestial way only a mother’s can. She swept my child into her arms. Now I could hear the melodious sound of Tara’s laughter. The sound pierced my heart. Tears streamed down my face. Lenny put a hand on my arm. I could hear him sniffling. I saw the husband, this Abe, walk toward them. He was smiling too.

For several hours, I watched them in their small, perfect yard. I saw Lorraine patiently point out the flowers, explaining what each one was. I saw Abe give her a horsey ride on his back. I saw Lorraine teach her how to pat the dirt down with her hand. Another couple dropped by. They had a little girl about Tara’s age. Abe and the other father pushed the girls on the metal swing-set in the backyard. Their giggles pounded in my ears. Eventually they all went inside. Abe and Lorraine were the last to disappear. They walked through the door with their arms around each other.

Lenny turned to me. I let my head drop back. I had hoped that today would be the end of my journey. But it wasn’t.

After a while, I said, “Let’s go.”

chapter 45

When we gotback to the Airport Marriott, I told Lenny to go home. He said he would stay. I told him that I could handle this on my own—that Iwanted to handle this on my own. He reluctantly agreed.

I called Rachel. She was doing well. I told her what had happened. “Call Harold Fisher,” I said. “Ask him to do a thorough background check on Abe and Lorraine Tansmore. I want to know if there’s something there.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I wish I could be there.”

“Me too.”

I sat on my bed. My head dropped into my hands. I don’t think I cried. I don’t know what I felt anymore. It was over. I had learned as much as I would. When Rachel called back two hours later, nothing she told me was a surprise. Abe and Lorraine were solid citizens. Abe was the first person in his family to graduate college. He had two younger sisters who lived in the area. Both had three children. He had met Lorraine during their freshman year at Washington University in St. Louis.

Night fell. I stood and looked in the mirror. My wife had tried to kill me. Yes, she was unstable. I knew that now. Hell, I probably knew it then. I didn’t much care, I guess. When a child’s face breaks, I put it back together. I can do miracles in the surgical room. But my own family fell apart and I did nothing but watch.

I thought now about what it meant to be a father. I loved my daughter. I know that. But when I saw Abe today, when I see Lenny coaching soccer, I wonder. I wonder about my fitness. I wonder about my commitment. And I wonder if I am worthy.

Or do I already know the answer?

I wanted so badly to have my little girl back with me. I also wanted so badly for this not to be about me or my wants.

Tara had looked so damn happy.

It was midnight now. I looked at myself in the mirror again. What if leaving this alone—letting her stay with Abe and Lorraine—was the right thing? Was I really brave enough, strong enough, to walk away? I kept staring in the mirror, challenging myself. Was I?

I lay back. I think I fell asleep. A knock on the door startled me awake. I glanced at the digital clock next to my bed. It read 5:19A .M.

“I’m sleeping,” I said.

“Dr. Seidman?”

It was a male voice.

“Dr. Seidman, my name is Abe Tansmore.”

I opened the door. He was handsome up close, in a sort of James Taylor way. He wore jeans and a tan shirt. I looked at his eyes. They were blue but tinged with red. So, I knew, were mine. For a long time, we just stared at one another. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. I stepped back and let him in.

“Your lawyer stopped by. He”—Abe stopped, swallowed hard—“he told us the whole story. Lorraine and I stayed up all night. We talked it out. We cried a lot. But I think we knew right from the get-go that there was only one decision here.” Abe Tansmore was trying to hold on, but he was losing it now. He closed his eyes. “We have to give you your daughter back.”

I didn’t know what to say. I shook my head. “We have to do what’s best for her.”

“That’s what I’m doing, Dr. Seidman.”

“Call me Marc. Please.” It was a dumb thing to say. I know that. But I wasn’t ready for this. “If you’re worried about a long, drawn-out court case, Lenny shouldn’t have—”

“No, that’s not it.”

We stood there a little longer. I pointed toward the chair in the room. He shook his head. Then he looked at me. “All night, I’ve been trying to imagine your pain. I don’t think I can. I think there are places a man just can’t get to without experience. Maybe this is one of them. But your pain, awful as it must be, that’s not why Lorraine and I came to this decision. And it’s not because we blame ourselves either. In hindsight, maybe we should have wondered what was going on. We went to Mr. Bacard. But the fees would have added up to over a hundred thousand dollars. I’m not a rich man. I couldn’t afford that. Then a few weeks later, Mr. Bacard calls us. He said he had a baby that needed immediate placing. She wasn’t a newborn, he said. The mother had just abandoned her. We knew something was not quite right, but he said that if we wanted this, we’d have to go in no questions asked.”

He looked off then. I watched his face. “I think deep down, maybe we always knew. We just couldn’t face it. But that’s not the reason we came to this decision either.”

I swallowed. “What then?”

His eyes drifted toward mine. “You can’t do the wrong thing for the right reason.” I must have looked confused. “If Lorraine and I don’t do this, we’re not fit to raise her. We want Natasha to be happy. We want her to be a good person.”

“You might be the best ones to make that happen.”

He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. We don’t give children to whatever parents would be best to raise them. You and I can’t make that judgment. You don’t know how hard this is for us. Or maybe you do.”

I turned away. I caught my reflection in the mirror. Just for a second. Less maybe. But it was enough. I saw the man I was. I saw the man I wanted to be. I turned to him and said, “I want us both to raise her.”

He was stunned. So was I. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said.

“Neither do I. But that’s what we’re going to do.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Abe shook his head. “It can’t work. You know that.”

“No, Abe, I don’t know that. I came here to bring my daughter home—and I find that maybe she already is. Is it right for me to rip her away from that? I want you both in her life. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. But kids are raised by single parents, by stepparents, in foster homes. There are divorces and separations and who-knows-what. We all love this little girl. We’ll make it work.”

I saw the hope return to the man’s thin face. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds. Then he said, “Lorraine is in the lobby. Can I go talk to her?”

“Of course.”

They didn’t take long. There was a knock on my door. When I opened it, Lorraine threw her arms around me. I hugged her back, this woman I had never met. Her hair smelled of strawberry. Behind her, Abe came into the room. Tara was sleeping in his arms. Lorraine let go of me and moved away. Abe stepped closer. He handed me my daughter carefully. I held her, and my heart burst into flame. Tara began to stir. She started to fuss. I still held her. I rocked her back and forth and made shushing sounds.

And soon she settled on me and fell back to sleep.

chapter 46

It started toall go wrong again when I looked at the calendar.

The human brain is amazing. It is a curious mix of electricity and chemicals. It is, in effect, pure science. We understand more about the workings of the great cosmos than we do about the curious circuitry of the cerebrum, cerebellum, hypothalamus, medulla oblongata, and all the rest. And like any tricky compound, we are never sure how it will react to a certain catalyst.

There were several things that gave me reason to pause. There was the question of leaks. Rachel and I had thought that someone in either the FBI or police department had told Bacard and his people what was happening. But that never fit in with my theory about Stacy shooting Monica. There was the fact that Monica was found with no clothes on. I think I understood why now, but the thing is, Stacy wouldn’t have.

But the main catalyst occurred, I think, when I looked at the calendar and realized that today was Wednesday.

The shootings and original abduction had taken place on a Wednesday. Of course, there had been plenty of Wednesdays in the past eighteen months. The day of the week was a pretty innocuous thing. But this time, after we had learned so much, after my brain had digested all the fresh data, something meshed. All those little questions and doubts, all those idiosyncrasies, all those moments I took for granted and never really examined . . . they all shifted a little. And what I saw was even worse than what I had originally imagined.

I was back in Kasselton now—at my house where it had all started. I called Tickner for confirmation.

I said, “My wife and I were shot with thirty-eights, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure they were two different guns?”

“Positive.”

“And my Smith and Wesson was one of them?”

“You know all this, Marc.”

“Did you get all the ballistic reports back yet?”

“Most of them.”

I licked my lips and readied myself. I hoped to hell that I was wrong. “Who was shot with my gun—me or Monica?”

He turned coy on me. “Why are you asking me this now?”

“Curiosity.”

“Yeah, right. Hold on a second.” I could hear him shuffling papers. I felt my throat constrict. I almost hung up. “Your wife was.”

When I heard the car pull up outside, I put the receiver back in the cradle. Lenny turned the knob and opened the door. He didn’t knock. After all, Lenny never knocked, right?

I was sitting on the couch. The house was still, all the ghosts sleeping now. He had a Slurpee in either hand and a broad smile. I wondered how many times I had seen that smile. I remembered it more crooked. I remembered it jammed to overflowing with braces. I remembered it bleeding after he hit a tree when we went sledding down the Gorets’ backyard. I thought again about when big Tony Merruno picked a fight with me in third grade, how Lenny jumped on his back. I remembered now that Tony Merruno broke Lenny’s glasses. I don’t think Lenny cared.

I knew him so well. Or maybe I hadn’t known him at all.

When Lenny saw my face, his smile faded away.

“We were supposed to play racquetball that morning, Lenny. Remember?”

He lowered the cups and put them on the end table.

“You never knock. You always just open the door. Like today. So what happened, Lenny? You came to pick me up. You opened the door.”

He started shaking his head, but I knew now.

“The two guns, Lenny. That’s what gave it away.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But there was no conviction in his voice.

“We figured that Stacy didn’t get Monica a gun—that Monica used mine. But you see, she didn’t. I just checked with ballistics. It’s funny. You never told me that Monica was shot with my gun. I was shot with the other weapon.”

“So?” Lenny said, suddenly the attorney again. “That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Stacy got her a gun, after all.”

“She did,” I said.

“So fine, okay, it still adds up.”

“Tell me how.”

He shifted his feet. “Maybe Stacy helped Monica get a gun. Monica shot you with it. When Stacy arrived a few minutes later, Monica tried to shoot her.” Lenny moved over to the staircase as if to demonstrate. “Stacy ran upstairs. Monica fired—that would explain the bullet hole.” He pointed to the spackled area by the stairs. “Stacy grabbed your gun out of the bedroom, came downstairs, and shot Monica.”

I looked at him. “Is that how it happened, Lenny?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it could be.”

I waited a beat. He turned away. “One problem,” I said.

“What?”

“Stacy didn’t know where I hid the gun. She didn’t know the lockbox’s combination either.” I took a step closer. “But you did, Lenny. I kept all my legal documents there. I trusted you with everything. So now I want the truth. Monica shot me. You came in. You saw me lying on the floor. Did you think I was dead?”

Lenny closed his eyes.

“Make me understand, Lenny.”

He shook his head slowly. “You think you love your daughter,” he said. “But you have no idea. What you feel, it grows every day. The longer you have a child, the more attached you get. The other night I came home from work. Marianne was crying because some girls were teasing her in school. I went to bed feeling sick, and I realized something. I can only be as happy as my saddest child. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

“You have it pretty much right. I came to your house that morning. I opened the door. Monica was on the phone. She was still holding the gun in her hand. I ran over to you. I couldn’t believe it. I felt for a pulse but . . .” He shook his head. “Monica started screaming at me, about how she wouldn’t let anyone take away her baby. She pointed the gun at me. I mean, Jesus Christ. I thought for sure I was going to die. I rolled away and then I ran for the stairs. I remembered you had a gun up there. She fired at me.” He pointed again. “That’s the bullet hole.”

He stopped. He took a few breaths. I waited.

“I grabbed your gun.”

“Did Monica follow you up the stairs?”

His voice was soft. “No.” He started blinking. “Maybe I should have tried to use the phone. Maybe I should have sneaked out. I don’t know. I’ve gone through it hundreds of times. I try to imagine how I should have played it. But you were lying there, my best friend, dead. That crazy bitch was shouting about running away with your daughter—my godchild. She had already taken a shot at me. I didn’t know what she would do next.”

He looked away.

“Lenny?”

“I don’t know what happened, Marc. I really don’t. I sneaked back down the stairs. She still had the gun. . . .” His voice tailed.

“So you shot her.”

He nodded. “I didn’t mean to kill her. At least, I don’t think I did. But suddenly you were both lying there, dead. I was going to call the police. But now I wasn’t sure how it would look. I had shot Monica at a funny angle. They could claim her back was turned.”

“You thought maybe they’d arrest you?”

“Of course. The cops hate me. I’m a successful defense attorney. What do you think would have happened?”

I didn’t reply. “You broke the window?”

“From the outside,” he said. “So it would look like an intruder.

“And you took Monica’s clothes off?”

“Yes.”

“Same reason?”

“I knew that there would be gunpowder residue on the clothes. They’d realize she fired a gun. I was trying to make it look like a random attacker. So I got rid of her clothes. I used a baby wipe to clean off her hand.”

That was another thing that had bothered me. Monica being stripped down. There had been the possibility that Stacy would have done it to throw off the police, but I couldn’t imagine her thinking of that. Lenny was the defense attorney—him I could see.

We were getting to the heart of it now. We both knew that. I crossed my arms. “Tell me about Tara.”

“She was my godchild. It was my job to protect her.”

“I don’t understand.”

Lenny spread his hands. “How many times did I beg you to write a will?”

I was confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Think it through for a second. During all this, when you were in trouble, you resorted to your surgical training, right?”

“I guess.”

“I’m an attorney, Marc. I did the same. You were both dead. Tara was wailing in the other room. And I, Lenny the Lawyer, realized instantly what would happen.”

“What?

“You hadn’t made out a will. You hadn’t named guardians. Don’t you see? That meant Edgar would get your daughter.”

I looked at his face. I hadn’t thought of that.

“Your mother might contest, but she wouldn’t stand a chance against his finances. She had your father to worry about. She had a drunk driving conviction six years ago. Edgar would get custody.”

I saw it now. “And you couldn’t allow that.”

“I’m Tara’s godfather. It was my job to protect her.”

“And you hated Edgar.”

He shook his head. “Was I clouded by what he did to my dad? Yeah, maybe subconsciously, a little. But Edgar Portman is evil. You know that. Look at how Monica turned out. I couldn’t let him destroy your daughter like he did his own.”

“So you took her.”

He nodded.

“You brought her to Bacard.”

“He had been a client. I knew some of what he did, though not to what extent. I also knew that he would keep it confidential. I told him I wanted the best family he had. Forget money, forget power. I wanted good people.”

“So he placed her with the Tansmores.”

“Yes. You have to understand. I thought you were dead. Everyone did. And then it looked like you might end up a vegetable. By the time you were okay, it was too late. I couldn’t tell anybody. I would go to prison for sure. Do you know what that would do to my family?”

“Gee, I can’t imagine,” I said.

“That’s not fair, Marc.”

“I don’t have to be fair here.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask for any of this.” He was shouting now. “I walked in on a terrible situation. I did what I thought best—for your daughter. But you can’t expect me to sacrifice my family.”

“Better to sacrifice mine?”

“The truth? Yes, of course. I’d give up anything to protect my children. Anything. Wouldn’t you?”

Now I was the one who stayed silent. I had said it before: I would lay down my life in a second for my daughter. And truth be told, if push came to shove, I would lay down yours too.

“Believe it or not, I tried to think through this coldly,” Lenny said. “A cost-benefit analysis. If I come forward with the truth, I destroy my wife and four children and you take your daughter from a loving home. If I keep quiet . . .” He shrugged. “Yeah, you suffered. I didn’t want to do that. It hurt me to watch you. But what would you have done?”

I didn’t want to think about it. “You’re leaving something out,” I said.

He closed his eyes and muttered something unintelligible.

“What happened to Stacy?”

“She wasn’t supposed to be hurt. It was like you said. She had sold Monica the gun and when she realized why, she rushed to stop her.”

“But she arrived too late?”

“Yes.”

“She saw you?”

He nodded. “Look, I told her everything. She wanted to help, Marc. She wanted to do the right thing. But in the end, the habit was too strong.”

“She blackmailed you?”

“She asked for money. I gave it to her. That wasn’t important. But she was there. And when I went to Bacard, I told him everything that had happened. You have to understand. I thought you were going to die. When you didn’t, I knew that you’d go nuts without closure. Your daughter was gone. I talked to Bacard about it. He came up with the idea of a fake kidnapping. We’d all make a lot of money.”

“You took money for this?”

Lenny leaned back as if I’d just slapped him. “Of course not. I put my share into a trust fund for Tara’s college. But the idea of this fake kidnapping appealed to me. They’d set it up so in the end, it would look like Tara was dead. You’d have closure. We’d also be taking money from Edgar and funneling at least some of it to Tara. It seemed like a win-win.”

“Except?”

“Except when they heard about Stacy, they decided that they couldn’t depend on a drug addict to keep quiet. The rest you know. They lured her with money. They made sure she got caught on tape. And then, without telling me, they killed her.”

I thought about that. I thought about Stacy’s last minutes in the cabin. Did she know that she was going to die? Or did she just drift off, thinking she was merely getting yet another fix?

“You were the leak, weren’t you?”

He didn’t reply.

“You told them about the police being involved.”

“Don’t you see? It made no difference. They never intended to give Tara back. She was already with the Tansmores. After the ransom drop, I thought it was over. We all tried to move on.”

“So what happened?’

“Bacard decided to run the ransom again.”

“Were you in on it?” I asked.

“No, he kept me out of the loop.”

“When did you learn about it?”

“When you told me in the hospital. I was furious. I called him. He told me to relax, that there was no way it could be traced back to us.”

“But we did it trace it back.”

He nodded.

“And you knew that I was getting close to Bacard. I told you on the phone.”

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute.” A fresh chill ran up my neck. “In the end, Bacard wanted to clean house. He called those two lunatics. The woman, that Lydia, she went out and killed Tatiana. Heshy was sent to take care of Denise Vanech. But”—I thought it through—“but when I saw Steven Bacard, he had just been shot. He was still bleeding. There was no way either of them could have done it.”

I looked up. “You killed him, Lenny.”

Rage seeped into his voice. “You think I wanted to?”

“Then why?”

“What do you mean, why? I was Bacard’s get-out-of-jail-free card. When it all started to go wrong, he said he would turn state’s evidence against me. He’d claim I shot you and Monica and brought him Tara. Like I said before, the cops hate me. I’ve gotten too many bad guys off. They’d go for the deal in a second.”

“You’d have gone to jail?”

Lenny looked near tears.

“Your kids would have suffered?”

He nodded.

“So you killed a man in cold blood.”

“What else could I do? You’re looking at me like that, but deep down, you know the truth. This was your mess. I got stuck cleaning it up. Because I cared about you. I wanted to help your child.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and added, “And I knew that if I killed Bacard, maybe I could save you too.”

“Me?”

“Another cost-benefit analysis, Marc.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was over. Once Bacard was dead, he could take the fall. For everything. I was in the clear.” Lenny came over and stood in front of me. For a moment I thought he was going to try to hug me. But he just stood there.

“I wanted you to have peace, Marc. But that would never be. I knew that now. Not until you found your daughter. With Bacard dead, my family was safe. I could let you know the truth.”

“So you wrote up that anonymous note and left it on Eleanor’s desk.”

“Yes.”

I nodded and Abe’s words came back to me. “You did the wrong thing for the right reason.”

“Put yourself in my place. What would you have done?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I did it for you.”

And the saddest part was, he was telling the truth. I looked at him.

“You were the best friend I ever had, Lenny. I love you. I love your wife. I love your children.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If I say I’m going to talk, will you kill me too?”

“Never,” he said.

But I wasn’t sure, much as I loved him, much as he loved me, that I believed him.

epilogue

A year haspassed.

During the first two months, I racked up the frequent flier miles coming out to St. Louis every week, trying to figure out with Abe and Lorraine what we were going to do. We started slowly. For the first few visits, I asked Abe and Lorraine to stay in the room. Eventually, Tara and I started going places alone—the park, the zoo, the merry-go-round at the mall—but she looked over her shoulder a lot. It took some time for my daughter to get comfortable with me. I understood that.

My father passed away in his sleep ten months ago. After his funeral, I bought a house on Marsh Lane, two down from Abe and Lorraine, and moved out here permanently. Abe and Lorraine are remarkable people. Get this: We call “our” daughter Tasha. Think about it. It’s short for Natasha and close to Tara. The reconstructive surgeon in me likes that. I keep waiting for things to go wrong. They haven’t. It’s weird, but I don’t question it much.

My mother bought a condo and moved out here too. With Dad gone, there was no reason for her to stay in Kasselton anymore. After all the tragedies—my father’s poor health, Stacy, Monica, the attack, the abduction—we both needed a second act. I’m glad she’s near us. Mom has a new boyfriend, a guy named Cy. She’s happy. I like him, and not just because he has season tickets to the Rams. They laugh a lot. I almost forgot how hard my mom could laugh.

I talk to Verne a fair amount. He and Katarina brought Verne Junior and Perry out in an RV during the spring. We had a great week together. Verne took me fishing, a first for me. I liked it. Next time he wants to hunt. I told him no way, but Verne can be pretty persuasive.

I don’t talk much to Edgar Portman. He sends presents on Tasha’s birthday. He’s called twice. I’m hoping he’ll come out and see his granddaughter soon. But there is simply too much guilt there for both of us. It’s like I said before. Maybe Monica was unstable. Maybe it was just a chemical thing. I know that a great deal of psychiatry problems stem more from the physical, from hormonal imbalances, than life experiences. Chances are there was nothing we could have done. But in the end, whatever may have been the origin, we both let Monica down.

Zia was initially hit hard by my leaving, but then she saw it as an opportunity. She has a new doctor in the practice. I hear he’s pretty good. I’ve opened up a One World WrapAid branch office in St. Louis. So far, it seems to be going well.

Lydia—or Larissa Dane, if you prefer—is going to get off. She did a double-flip off a murder rap and stuck the “I was abused” landing with both feet. She is a celebrity again, what with the mysterious return of the Pixie named Trixie. Lydia appeared onOprah , crying on cue about the years of torment at the hands of Heshy. They flashed his picture up on the screen. The audience gasped. Heshy is hideous. Lydia is beautiful. So the world believes. Rumor has it she is set to appear in a TV movie based on her life story.

As for the baby-smuggling case, the FBI decided to “enforce the law,” which meant bringing the bad guys to justice. Steven Bacard and Denise Vanech were the bad guys here. They’re both dead. Officially, authorities are still searching for the records, but nobody wants to look too closely at what child ended up where. I think that’s best.

Rachel fully recovered from her injuries. I ended up doing the reconstructive work on her ear myself. Her bravery got major play in the press. She received credit for smashing the baby-smuggling ring. The FBI rehired her. She requested and received a post in St. Louis. We live together. I love her. I love her more than you can imagine. But if you are expecting a totally happy ending, I’m not sure I can give you one.

As of now, Rachel and I are still together. I cannot imagine living without her. I think about losing her and it makes me physically ill. Yet I’m not sure that’s enough. There is a lot of baggage here. It confuses things. I understand about her making that late-night call and showing up outside the hospital—and yet, I know those acts eventually led to death and destruction. I don’t blame Rachel, of course. But there is something there. Monica’s death has given our relationship a second chance. That feels strange. I tried explaining all of this to Verne when he visited. He told me that I’m a dumb-ass. I think he’s probably right.

The doorbell rings. There is a tug on my leg. Yes, it’s Tasha. She is fully acclimated to having me in her life now. Children, after all, adapt better than adults. Across the room, Rachel is on the couch. She is sitting with her legs curled under her. I look at her, then at Tasha, and I feel the wondrous blend of bliss and fear. They—bliss and fear—are constant companions. Rarely does one venture out without the other.

“One second, pumpkin,” I say to her. “Let’s go answer the door, okay?”

“Okay.”

The UPS man is there. He has packages. I bring them inside. When I look at the return address, I feel the familiar ache. The little sticker tells me that they are from Lenny and Cheryl Marcus of Kasselton, New Jersey.

Tasha looks up at me. “My present?”

I never told the police about Lenny. There was no evidence anyway—only his confession to me. That wouldn’t stand up in court. But that’s not why I decided not to say anything.

I suspect Cheryl knows the truth. I think maybe she knew from the beginning. I flash back to her face on the stairs, the way she snapped when Rachel and I arrived at their house that night, and now I wonder if it was out of anger or fear. I suspect the latter.

The fact is, Lenny was right. He did do it for me. What would have happened if he had just left the house? I don’t know. It might have been even worse. Lenny asked me if I would have done the same in his place. Back then, probably not. Because maybe I wasn’t that good a man. Verne, I bet, would have. Lenny was trying to protect my daughter without sacrificing his own family. He just messed up.

But man, I miss him. I think about how big a part of my life he was. There are times I reach for the phone and begin dialing his number. But I never finish the call. I won’t speak to Lenny again. Not ever. I know that. And it hurts like hell.

But I also think about little Conner’s inquisitive face at the soccer game. I think about Kevin playing soccer and Marianne’s hair smelling of chlorine from her morning swim practice. I think about how beautiful Cheryl had become since she had the children.

I look down at my daughter now, safe and with me. Tasha is still gazing up. It is indeed a present for her from her godfather. I remember the first time I met Abe, that strange day at the Airport Marriott. He told me that you shouldn’t do the wrong thing for the right reason. I thought about that a lot before deciding what to do about Lenny.

In the end, well, chalk it up as “too close to call.”

I mix it up sometimes. Is it the wrong thing for the right reason or the right thing for the wrong reason? Or are they same? Monica needed to feel love, so she deceived me and got pregnant. That was how it all started. But if she hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be staring down at the most wonderful creation I would ever know. Right reason? Wrong reason? Who’s to say?

Tasha tilts her head and twitches her nose at me. “Daddy?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” I say softly.

Tasha gives me a big, elaborate kid shrug. Rachel looks up. I see the concern on her face. I take the package and place it high up in the closet. Then I close that door and pick up my daughter.

acknowledgments

The author—man, I love referring to myself in the third person—would like to thank the following for their technical expertise: Steven Miller, M.D., Director of Pediatric Emergency Medicine, Children’s Hospital of New York Presbyterian, Columbia University; Christopher J. Christie, United States Attorney for the state of New Jersey; Anne Armstrong-Coben, M.D., Medical Director of Covenant House Newark; Lois Foster Hirt, R.D.H.; Jeffrey Bedford, FBI; Gene Riehl, FBI (retired); Andrew McDade, brother-in-law extraordinaire and renaissance man. Any mistakes are theirs and theirs alone. After all, they’re the experts, right? Why should I take the heat?

I also want to acknowledge Carole Baron, Mitch Hoffman, Lisa Johnson, and everyone at Dutton and Penguin Group (USA); Jon Wood, Susan Lamb, Malcolm Edwards, Anthony Cheetham, Juliet Ewers, Emily Furniss, and everyone at Orion; and the always reliable Aaron Priest, Lisa Erbach Vance, Maggie Griffin, and Linda Fairstein.

Oh, and of course, a big thanks to Katharine Foote and Rachel Cooke for freeing me up so I could get over that final hurdle.

about the author

Harlan Coben is the winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, the first writer to win all three. He is the author of nine previous novels, includingTell No One , an international bestseller, as well as the recent blockbusterGone for Good , a main selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club. He lives with his family in New Jersey.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Just One Look

A Dutton Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2004 by Harlan Coben

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://us.penguingroup.com

ISBN: 1-101-14664-8

A DUTTON BOOK®

Dutton Books first published by The Dutton Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

DUTTON and the “D” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: July, 2004

This book is for Jack Armstrong, because he’s one of the good guys

“Babe, give me your best memory,
But it don’t equal pale ink.”

—Chinese proverb adapted for lyrics in song
“Pale Ink” by the Jimmy X Band
(written by James Xavier Farmington. All rights reserved)

Contents
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
chapter 47
chapter 48
chapter 49
chapter 50
chapter 51
chapter 52
chapter 53
chapter 54

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Scott Duncan sat across from the killer.

The windowless room of thundercloud gray was awkward and still, stuck in that lull when the music first starts and neither stranger is sure how to begin the dance. Scott tried a noncommittal nod. The killer, decked out in prison-issue orange, simply stared. Scott folded his hands and put them on the metal table. The killer—his file said he was Monte Scanlon, but there was no way that was his real name—might have done likewise had his hands not been cuffed.

Why, Scott wondered yet again, am I here?

His specialty was prosecuting corrupt politicians—something of a vigorous cottage industry in his home state of New Jersey—but three hours ago, Monte Scanlon, a mass executioner by any standards, had finally broken his silence to make a demand.

That demand?

A private meeting with Assistant U.S. Attorney Scott Duncan.

This was strange for a large variety of reasons, but here were two: one, a killer should not be in a position to make demands; two, Scott had never met or even heard of Monte Scanlon.

Scott broke the silence. “You asked to see me?”

“Yes.”

Scott nodded, waited for him to say more. He didn’t. “So what can I do for you?”

Monte Scanlon maintained the stare. “Do you know why I’m here?”

Scott glanced around the room. Besides Scanlon and himself, four people were present. Linda Morgan, the United States attorney, leaned against the back wall trying to give off the ease of Sinatra against a lamppost. Standing behind the prisoner were two beefy, nearly identical prison guards with tree-stump arms and chests like antique armoires. Scott had met the two cocky agents before, had seen them go about their task with the sereneness of yoga instructors. But today, with this well-shackled prisoner, even these guys were on edge. Scanlon’s lawyer, a ferret reeking of checkout-counter cologne, rounded out the group. All eyes were on Scott.

“You killed people,” Scott answered. “Lots of them.”

“I was what is commonly called a hit man. I was”—Scanlon paused—“an assassin for hire.”

“On cases that don’t involve me.”

“True.”

Scott’s morning had started off normal enough. He’d been drafting a subpoena on a waste-disposal executive who was paying off a small-town mayor. Routine matter. Everyday graft in the Garden State of New Jersey. That had been, what, an hour, an hour and a half ago? Now he sat across the bolted-down table from a man who had murdered—according to Linda Morgan’s rough estimate—one hundred people.

“So why did you ask for me?”

Scanlon looked like an aging playboy who might have squired a Gabor sister in the fifties. He was small, wizened even. His graying hair was slicked back, his teeth cigarette-yellow, his skin leathery from midday sun and too many long nights in too many dark clubs. No one in the room knew his real name. When captured, his passport read Monte Scanlon, an Argentinean national, age fifty-one. The age seemed about right, but that would be about it. His fingerprints had not popped up in the NCIC computer banks. Facial recognition software had come up with a big goose egg.

“We need to speak alone.”

“This is not my case,” Scott said again. “There’s a U.S. attorney assigned to you.”

“This has nothing to do with her.”

“And it does with me?”

Scanlon leaned forward. “What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “will change your entire life.”

Part of Scott wanted to wiggle his fingers in Scanlon’s face and say, “Ooooo.” He was used to the captured criminal mindset—their serpentine maneuverings, their quest for an edge, their search for a way out, their overblown sense of importance. Linda Morgan, perhaps sensing his thoughts, shot a warning glare across his bow. Monte Scanlon, she’d told him, had worked for various connected families for the better part of thirty years. RICO hungered for his cooperation in a starving-man-near-a-buffet way. Since his capture, Scanlon had refused to talk. Until this morning.

So here Scott was.

“Your boss,” Scanlon said, gesturing with his chin at Linda Morgan, “she hopes for my cooperation.”

“You’re going to get the needle,” Morgan responded, still trying to give off the scent of nonchalance. “Nothing you say or do will change that.”

Scanlon smiled. “Please. You fear losing what I have to say much greater than I fear death.”

“Right. Another tough guy who doesn’t fear death.” She peeled herself off the wall. “Know what, Monte? The tough guys are always the ones who soil their pants when we strap them to the gurney.”

Again Scott fought off the desire to wiggle his fingers, this time at his boss. Scanlon kept smiling. His eyes never left Scott’s. Scott didn’t like what he saw. They were, as one would expect, black and shiny and cruel. But—and Scott might have been imagining things—maybe he saw something else there. Something beyond the standard vacancy. There seemed to be a pleading in the eyes; Scott couldn’t turn away from them. There was regret there maybe.

Remorse even.

Scott looked up at Linda and nodded. She frowned, but Scanlon had called her bluff. She touched one of the beefy guards on the shoulder and gestured for them to leave. Rising from his seat, Scanlon’s lawyer spoke for the first time. “Anything he says is off the record.”

“Stay with them,” Scanlon ordered. “I want you to make sure that they don’t listen in.”

The lawyer picked up his briefcase and followed Linda Morgan to the door. Soon Scott and Scanlon were alone. In the movies, killers are omnipotent. In real life, they are not. They don’t escape from handcuffs in the middle of a high-security federal penitentiary. The Beef Brothers, Scott knew, would be behind the one-way glass. The intercom, per Scanlon’s instructions, would be off. But they’d all be watching.

Scott shrugged a well? at him.

“I am not your typical assassin for hire.”

“Uh huh.”

“I have rules.”

Scott waited.

“For example, I only kill men.”

“Wow,” Scott said. “You’re a prince.”

Scanlon ignored the sarcasm. “That is my first rule. I kill only men. No women.”

“Right. Tell me, does rule two have anything to do with not putting out until the third date?”

“You think I’m a monster?”

Scott shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“You don’t respect my rules?”

“What rules? You kill people. You make up these so-called rules because you need the illusion of being human.”

Scanlon seemed to consider that. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but the men I’ve killed were scum. I was hired by scum to kill scum. I am no more than a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Scott repeated.

“Yes.”

“A weapon doesn’t care who it kills, Monte. Men, women, grannies, little kids. A weapon doesn’t differentiate.”

Scanlon smiled. “Touché.”

Scott rubbed his palms on his pant legs. “You didn’t call me here for an ethics class. What do you want?”

“You’re divorced, aren’t you, Scott?”

He said nothing.

“No children, amicable split, still friendly with the ex.”

“What do you want?”

“To explain.”

“To explain what?”

He lowered his eyes but only for a moment. “What I did to you.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“But I know you. I’ve known you for a long time.”

Scott let the silence in. He glanced at the mirror. Linda Morgan would be behind the glass, wondering what they were talking about. She wanted information. He wondered if they had the room bugged. Probably. Either way, it would pay to keep Scanlon talking.

“You are Scott Duncan. Thirty-nine years old. You graduated from Columbia Law School. You could be making a great deal more money in private practice, but that bores you. You’ve been with the U.S. attorney’s office six months. Your mother and father moved to Miami last year. You had a sister, but she died in college.”

Scott shifted in his seat. Scanlon studied him.

“You finished?”

“Do you know how my business operates?”

Change of subject. Scott waited a beat. Scanlon was playing a head game, trying to keep him off balance or some such nonsense. Scott was not about to fall for it. Nothing he had “revealed” about Scott’s family was surprising. A person could pick up most of that info with a few well-placed keystrokes and phone calls.

“Why don’t you tell me,” Scott said.

“Let’s pretend,” Scanlon began, “that you wanted someone dead.”

“Okay.”

“You would contact a friend, who knows a friend, who knows a friend, who can reach me.”

“And only that last friend would know you?”

“Something like that. I had only one go-between man, but I was careful even with him. We never met face to face. We used code names. The payments always went to offshore accounts. I would open a new account for every, shall we say, transaction, and I closed it as soon as the transaction was completed. You still with me?”

“It’s not that complicated,” Scott said.

“No, I guess not. But you see, nowadays we communicate by e-mail. I’ll set up a temporary e-mail account with Hotmail or Yahoo! or whatever, with fake names. Nothing that can be traced back. But even if it could, even if you could find out who sent it, where would it lead you? All e-mails were sent and read at libraries or public places. We were totally covered.”

Scott was about to mention that this total coverage had eventually landed Scanlon’s ass in jail, but he decided to save it. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I’m getting to that.” Scott could see that Scanlon was warming up to his own tale. “In the old days—when I say old days, I mean, eight, ten years ago—we did it mostly with pay phones. I’d never see the name written. The guy would just tell me over the phone.”

Scanlon stopped and made sure that he had Scott’s full attention. His tone softened a bit, became less matter-of-fact. “That’s the key, Scott. It was by phone. I’d only hear the name on the phone, not see it.”

He looked at Scott expectantly. Scott had no idea what he was trying to say, so he went, “Uh huh.”

“Do you understand why I’m stressing that it was done by phone?”

“No.”

“Because a person like me, a person with rules, could make a mistake with the phone.”

Scott thought about that. “I still don’t get it.”

“I never kill women. That was rule number one.”

“So you said.”

“So if you wanted to put a hit on someone named Billy Smith, I’d figure Billy was a man. You know, with a y. I’d never think Billy would be a woman. With an ie at the end. You understand?”

Scott went very still. Scanlon saw it. He dropped the smile. His voice was very soft.

“We talked before about your sister, didn’t we, Scott?”

Scott did not respond.

“Her name was Geri, am I right?”

Silence.

“You see the problem, Scott? Geri is one of those names. If you heard it on the phone, you’d assume it would be with a J in the front and a y at the end. So fifteen years ago, I got a phone call. From that go-between man I told you about. . . .”

Scott shook his head.

“I was given an address. I was told exactly what time ‘Jerry’ ”—Scanlon made quote marks with his fingers—“would be home.”

Scott’s own voice seemed to come from very far away. “It was ruled an accident.”

“Most arsons are, if you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

But Scott looked at the eyes again and felt his world teeter. The images flooded in: Geri’s contagious smile, the unruly hair, the braces, the way she stuck her tongue out at him during family gatherings. He remembered her first real boyfriend (a dork named Brad), her not getting a date to the junior prom, the gung-ho speech she made when she ran for student council treasurer, her first rock band (they were awful), her college acceptance letter.

Scott felt his eyes well up. “She was only twenty-one.”

No response.

“Why?”

“I don’t get into the whys, Scott. I’m just a hired hand—”

“No, not that.” Scott looked up. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Scanlon studied his reflection in the mirror. His voice was very quiet. “Maybe you were right.”

“Right about what?”

“What you said before.” He turned back toward Scott. “Maybe after all is said and done, I need the illusion of being human.”

three months later

chapter 1

There are sudden rips. There are tears in your life, deep knife wounds that slash through your flesh. Your life is one thing, then it is shredded into another. It comes apart as though gutted in a belly slit. And then there are those moments when your life simply unravels. A loose thread pulled. A seam gives way. The change is slow at first, nearly imperceptible.

For Grace Lawson, the unraveling began at the Photomat.

She was about to enter the photo developing shop when she heard a somewhat familiar voice. “Why don’t you get a digital camera, Grace?”

Grace turned toward the woman. “I’m not good with that techno stuff.”

“Oh, come now. Digital technology is a snap.” The woman raised her hand and actually snapped, just in case Grace didn’t know what the word meant. “And digital cameras are sooo much more convenient than conventional cameras. You just erase the photos you don’t want. Like computer files. For our Christmas card? Barry, well, he must have taken a zillion pictures of the kids, you know, snapping away because Blake blinked or Kyle was looking the wrong way, whatever, but when you shoot that many, well, like Barry says, you’re going to get one that’s pretty decent, am I right?”

Grace nodded. She was trying to unearth the woman’s name, but it wouldn’t surface. The woman’s daughter—Blake, was it?—was in Grace’s son’s class in first grade. Or maybe it was last year in kindergarten. Hard to keep track. Grace kept the smile frozen to her face. The woman was nice enough, but she blended in with the others. Grace wondered, not for the first time, if she was blending in too, if her once great individuality had joined the unpleasant swirl of suburban uniformity.

The thought was not a comforting one.

The woman kept describing the wonders of the digital age. Grace’s frozen smile began to ache. She glanced at her watch, hoping Tech Mom would pick up the hint. Two-forty-five. Almost time to pick up Max at school. Emma had swim team practice, but another mom was driving the carpool today. A carpool to the pool, as the too-jolly mother had reminded Grace with a little tee-hee. Yeah, funny stuff.

“We have to get together,” the woman said, winding down. “With Jack and Barry. I think they’d get along.”

“Definitely.”

Grace took advantage of the pause to wave good-bye, pull open the door, and disappear inside the Photomat. The glass door closed with a snap, ringing a little bell. The chemical smell, not unlike model glue, hit her first. She wondered about the long-term effects of working in such an environment and decided the short-term ones were annoying enough.

The kid working—Grace’s use of the term working being overly generous here—behind the counter had a white fuzz pellet under his chin, hair dyed a color that’d intimidate Crayola, and enough piercings to double as a wind instrument. One of those wrap-around-low headphones snaked around the back of his neck. The music was so loud that Grace could feel it in her chest. He had tattoos, lots of them. One read STONE. Another read KILLJOY. Grace thought that a third should read SLACKER.

“Excuse me?”

He did not look up.

“Excuse me?” she said a little louder.

Still nothing.

“Yah, like, dude?”

That got his attention. He snarled up, narrowed his eyes, offended by the interruption. He removed the headphones but grudgingly. “Stub.”

“Pardon me?”

“Stub.”

Ah. Grace handed him the receipt. Fuzz Pellet then asked her for her name. This reminded Grace of those damn customer service phones that ask you to dial in your home phone, and then as soon as you get a real live person, they ask you for the same phone number. Like the first request was just for practice.

Fuzz Pellet—Grace was warming up to this nickname—flipped through a file of photo packets before extracting one. He ripped off the tag and told her an exorbitant price. She handed him a Val-Pak coupon, one dug out of her purse in an excavation that rivaled the search for the Dead Sea Scrolls, and watched the price drop to something closer to reasonable.

He handed her the packet of photographs. Grace thanked him, but he already had the music plugged back into his cerebrum. She waved in his direction. “I come not for the pictures,” Grace said, “but for the sparkling repartee.”

Fuzz Pellet yawned and picked up his magazine. The latest issue of Modern Slacker.

Grace hit the sidewalk. The weather was brisk. Autumn had shoved summer aside with a patented gust. The leaves hadn’t really started turning yet, but the air had that apple-cider quality to it. The shop windows had started up with the Halloween decorations. Emma, her third grader, had convinced Jack to buy an eight-foot blowup Homer-Simpson-as-Frankenstein balloon. It looked, she had to admit, terrific. Her children liked The Simpsons, which meant that maybe, despite their best efforts, she and Jack were raising them right.

Grace wanted to slit open the envelope now. There was always an excitement with a newly developed roll of film, an opening-a-gift expectation, a hurry-to-the-mailbox-even-though-it’s-always-bills rush that digital photography, for all its conveniences, could never duplicate. But there wasn’t time before school let out.

As her Saab climbed up Heights Road, she took a small detour so that she could pass the town’s lookout. From here, the skyline of Manhattan, especially at night, lay spread out like diamonds on black velvet. The longing tugged at her. She loved New York City. Until four years ago, that wonderful island had been their home. They’d had a loft on Charles Street down in the Village. Jack worked on the medical research for a large pharmaceutical company. She painted in her home studio while scoffing at her suburban counterparts and their SUVs and corduroy pants and toddler-referenced dialogues. Now she was one of them.

Grace parked behind the school with the other mothers. She turned the engine off, picked up the Photomat envelope, and ripped it open. The roll was from last week’s annual trip to Chester for apple picking. Jack had snapped away. He liked being the family photographer. He considered it paternal manly work, taking the photos, as if this was a sacrifice a father was supposed to make for his family.

The first image was of Emma, their eight-year-old daughter, and Max, their six-year-old son, on the hayride, shoulders hunched, their cheeks reddened by wind. Grace stopped and stared for a moment. Feelings of, yes, maternal warmth, both primitive and evolutionary, rocked her back. That was the thing with kids. It was the little things that got to you. She’d remembered that it had been cold that day. The orchard, she knew, would be too crowded. She had not wanted to go. Now, looking at this photograph, she wondered about the idiocy of her priorities.

The other mothers were gathering by the school fence, making small talk and planning play-dates. It was, of course, the modern era, post-feminist America, and yet, of the roughly eighty parents waiting for their charges, only two were male. One, she knew, was a father who’d been laid off for more than a year. You could see it in his eyes, his slow shuffle, the missed spots when he shaved. The other guy was a stay-at-home journalist who always seemed a little too anxious to chat up the moms. Lonely maybe. Or something else.

Someone knocked on the car window. Grace looked up. Cora Lindley, her best friend in town, signaled for her to unlock the door. Grace did. Cora slid into the passenger seat next to her.

“So how did the date go last night?” Grace asked.

“Poorly.”

“Sorry.”

“Fifth-date syndrome.”

Cora was a divorcee, a little too sexy for the nervous, ever-protective “ladies who lunch.” Clad in a low-cut, leopard-print blouse with spandex pants and pink pumps, Cora most assuredly did not fit in with the stream of khakis and loose sweaters. The other mothers eyed her with suspicion. Adult suburbia can be a lot like high school.

“What’s fifth-date syndrome?” Grace asked.

“You’re not dating much, are you?”

“Well, no,” Grace said. “The husband and two kids have really cramped my style.”

“Pity. See—and don’t ask me why—but on the fifth date, the guys always raise the subject . . . how should I word this delicately? . . . of a ménage à trois.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I joke with you not. Fifth date. At the latest. The guy asks me, on a purely theoretical basis, what my opinion is on ménage à trois. Like it’s peace in the Middle East.”

“What do you say?”

“That I usually enjoy them, especially when the two men start French-kissing.”

Grace laughed and they both got out of the car. Grace’s bad leg ached. After more than a decade, she shouldn’t be self-conscious about it anymore, but Grace still hated for people to see the limp. She stayed by the car and watched Cora walk away. When the bell rang, the kids burst out as if they’d been fired from a cannon. Like every other parent, Grace only had eyes for her own. The rest of the pack, uncharitable as this might sound, was scenery.

Max emerged in the second exodus. When Grace saw her son—one sneaker lace untied, his Yu-Gi-Oh! backpack looking four sizes too big, his New York Rangers knit hat tilted to the side like a tourist’s beret—the warmth rushed over anew. Max made his way down the stairs, adjusting the backpack up his shoulders. She smiled. Max spotted her and smiled back.

He hopped in the back of the Saab. Grace strapped him into the booster seat and asked him how his day was. Max answered that he didn’t know. She asked him what he did in school that day. Max answered that he didn’t know. Did he learn math, English, science, arts and crafts? Answer: Shrug and dunno. Grace nodded. A classic case of the epidemic known as Elementary-School Alzheimer’s. Were the kids drugged to forget or sworn to secrecy? One of life’s mysteries.

It was not until after she got home and gave Max his Go-GURT snack—think yogurt in a toothpaste-like squeeze tube—that Grace had the chance to take a look at the rest of the photographs.

The message light on the answering machine was blinking. One message. She checked the Caller ID and saw that the number was blocked. She pressed play and was surprised. The voice belonged to an old . . . friend, she guessed. Acquaintance was too casual. Father-figure was probably more accurate, but only in the most bizarre sense.

“Hi, Grace. It’s Carl Vespa.”

He did not have to say his name. It had been years, but she’d always know the voice.

“Could you give me a call when you have the chance? I need to talk to you about something.”

The message beeped again. Grace did not move, but she felt an old fluttering in her belly. Vespa. Carl Vespa had called. This could not be good. Carl Vespa, for all his kindnesses to her, was not one for idle chitchat. She debated calling him back and decided for the time being against it.

Grace moved into the spare bedroom that had become her makeshift studio. When she was painting well—when she was, like any artist or athlete, “in the zone”—she saw the world as if preparing to put it on canvas. She would look at the streets, the trees, the people and imagine the type of brush she would use, the stroke, the mix of colors, the differing lights and casts of shadows. Her work should reflect what she wanted, not reality. That was how she looked at art. We all see the world through our own prism, of course. The best art tweaked reality to show the artist’s world, what she saw or, more precisely, what she wanted others to see. It was not always a more beautiful reality. It was often more provocative, uglier maybe, more gripping and magnetic. Grace wanted a reaction. You might enjoy a beautiful setting sun—but Grace wanted you immersed in her sunset, afraid to turn away from it, afraid not to.

Grace had spent the extra dollar and ordered a second set of prints. Her fingers dipped into the envelope and plucked out the photographs. The first two were the ones of Emma and Max on the hayride. Next came Max with his arm stretched up to pick a Gala apple. There was the compulsory blurry shot of flesh, the one where Jack’s hand had slipped too close to the lens. She smiled and shook her head. Her big doofus. There were several more shots of Grace and the children with a variety of apples, trees, baskets. Her eyes grew moist, the way they always did when she looked at photographs of her children.

Grace’s own parents had died young. Her mother was killed when a semi crossed the divide on Route 46 in Totowa. Grace, an only child, was eleven at the time. The police did not come to the door like in the movies. Her father had learned what happened from a phone call. Grace still remembered the way her father, wearing blue slacks and a gray sweater-vest, had answered the phone with his customary musical hello, how his face had drained of color, how he suddenly collapsed to the floor, his sobs first strangled and then silent, as if he could not gather enough air to express his anguish.

Grace’s father raised her until his heart, weakened from a childhood bout with rheumatic fever, gave out during Grace’s freshman year of college. An uncle out in Los Angeles volunteered to take her in, but Grace was of age by now. She decided to stay east and make her own way.

The deaths of her parents had been devastating, of course, but they had also given Grace’s life a strange sense of urgency. There is a left-behind poignancy for the living. Those deaths added amplification to the mundane. She wanted to jam in the memories, get her fill of the life moments and—morbid as it sounds—make sure her kids had plenty to remember her by when she too was no more.

It was at that moment—thinking about her own parents, thinking about how much older Emma and Max looked now than in last year’s apple-picking photo shoot—when she stumbled across the bizarre photograph.

Grace frowned.

The picture was near the middle of the pack. Closer to the back maybe. It was the same size, fitting neatly in with the others, though the backing sheet was somewhat flimsier. Cheaper stock, she thought. Like a high-end office-supply photocopy maybe.

Grace checked the next picture. No duplicate this time. That was strange. Only one copy of this photograph. She thought about that. The picture must have fallen in somehow, mixed up with another roll.

Because this photograph did not belong to her.

It was a mistake. That was the obvious explanation. Think for a moment about the quality workmanship of, say, Fuzz Pellet. He was more than capable of screwing up, right? Of putting the wrong photograph in the middle of her pack?

That was probably what was going on here.

Someone else’s photograph had gotten mixed in with hers.

Or maybe . . .

The photograph had an old look about it—not that it was black-and-white or antique sepia. Nothing like that. The print was in color, but the hues seemed . . . off somehow—saturated, sun-faded, lacking the vibrancy one would expect in this day and age. The people in it too. Their clothes, their hair, their makeup—all dated. From fifteen, maybe twenty years ago.

Grace put it down on the table to take a closer look.

The images in the photograph were all slightly blurred. There were four people—no, wait, one more in the corner—five people in the photograph. There were two men and three women, all in their late teens, early twenties maybe—at least, the ones she could see clearly enough appeared to be around that age.

College students, Grace thought.

They had the jeans, the sweatshirts, the unkempt hair, that attitude, the casual stance of budding independence. The picture looked as if it’d been snapped when the subjects were not quite ready, in mid-gather. Some of the heads were turned so you only saw a profile. One dark-haired girl, on the very right edge of the photo, you could only see the back of her head, really, and a denim jacket. Next to her there was another girl, this one with flaming-red hair and eyes spaced wide apart.

Near the middle, one girl, a blonde, had—God, what the hell was that about?—her face had a giant X across it. Like someone had crossed her out.

How had this picture . . . ?

As Grace kept staring, she felt a small ping in the center of her chest. The three women—she didn’t recognize them. The two men looked somewhat alike, same size, same hair, same attitude. The guy on the far left too was not someone she knew.

She was sure, however, that she recognized the other man. Or boy. He wasn’t really old enough to call a man. Old enough to join the army? Sure. Old enough to be called a man? He was standing in the middle, next to the blonde with the X through her face. . . .

But it couldn’t be. His head was in mid-turn for one thing. That adolescent-thin beard covered too much of his face. . . .

Was it her husband?

Grace bent closer. It was, at best, a profile shot. She hadn’t known Jack when he was this young. They had met thirteen years ago on a beach in the Côte d’Azur in southern France. After more than a year of surgery and physical therapy, Grace was still not all the way back. The headaches and memory loss remained. She had the limp—still has it now—but with all the publicity and attention from that tragic night still suffocating her, Grace had just wanted to get away for a while. She matriculated at the University of Paris, studying art in earnest. It was while on break, lying in the sun on the Côte d’Azur, that she met Jack for the first time.

Was she sure it was Jack?

He looked different here, no doubt about it. His hair was a lot longer. He had this beard, though he was still too young and baby-faced for it to come in full. He wore glasses. But there was something in the way he stood, the tilt of his head, the expression.

This was her husband.

She quickly sifted through the rest of the roll. There were more hayrides, more apples, more arms raised in mid-pick. She saw one that she’d taken of Jack, the one time he’d let her have the camera, control freak that he was. He was reaching so high, his shirt had moved up enough to show his belly. Emma had told him that it was eeuw, gross. That, of course, made Jack pull up the shirt more. Grace had laughed. “Work it, baby!” she’d said, snapping the next photo. Jack, much to Emma’s ultimate mortification, obliged and undulated.

“Mom?”

She turned. “What’s up, Max?”

“Can I have a granola bar?”

“Let’s grab one for the car,” she said, rising. “We need to take a ride.”

• • •

Fuzz Pellet was not at the Photomat.

Max checked out the various themed picture frames—“Happy Birthday,” “We Love You, Mom,” that kind of thing. The man behind the counter, resplendent in a polyester tie, pocket protector, and short-sleeve dress shirt flimsy enough to see the V-neck tee beneath it, wore a name tag that informed one and all that he, Bruce, was an assistant manager.

“May I help you?”

“I’m looking for the young man who was here a couple of hours ago,” Grace said.

“Josh is gone for the day. Something I can do for you?”

“I picked up a roll of film a little before three o’clock. . . .”

“Yes?”

Grace had no idea how to put this. “There was a photo in there that shouldn’t have been.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“One of the pictures. I didn’t take it.”

He gestured toward Max. “I see you have young children.”

“Excuse me?”

Assistant Manager Bruce pushed his glasses up off the end of his nose. “I was just pointing out that you have young children. Or at least, one young child.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sometimes a child picks up the camera. When the parent isn’t looking. They snap a picture or two. Then they put the camera back.”

“No, it’s not that. This picture had nothing to do with us.”

“I see. Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Did you get all the photos you took?”

“I think so.”

“None were missing?”

“I really didn’t check that closely, but I think we got them all.”

He opened a drawer. “Here. This is a coupon. Your next roll will be developed for free. Three by fives. If you want the four by sixes, there is a small surcharge.”

Grace ignored his outstretched hand. “The sign on the door says you develop all the pictures on site.”

“That’s right.” He petted the large machine behind him. “Old Betsy here does the job for us.”

“So my roll would have been developed here?”

“Of course.”

Grace handed him the Photomat envelope. “Could you tell me who developed this roll?”

“I’m sure it was just an honest error.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t. I just want to know who developed my roll.”

He took a look at the envelope. “May I ask why you want to know?”

“Was it Josh?”

“Yes, but—”

“Why did he leave?”

“Pardon me?”

“I picked up the photos a little before three o’clock. You close at six. It’s nearly five now.”

“So?”

“It seems strange that a shift would end between three and six for a store that closes at six.”

Assistant Manager Bruce straightened up a bit. “Josh had a family emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Look, Miss . . .”—he checked the envelope—“Lawson, I’m sorry for the error and inconvenience. I’m sure a photograph from another set fell into your packet. I can’t recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect. Oh, wait.”

“What?”

“May I see the photograph in question please?”

Grace was afraid he’d want to keep it. “I didn’t bring it,” she lied.

“What was it a picture of?”

“A group of people.”

He nodded. “I see. And were these people naked?”

“What? No. Why would you ask that?”

“You seem upset. I assumed that the photograph was in some way offensive.”

“No, nothing like that. I just need to speak to Josh. Could you tell me his last name or give me a home phone number?”

“Out of the question. But he’ll be in tomorrow first thing. You can talk to him then.”

Grace chose not to protest. She thanked the man and left. Might be better anyway, she thought. By driving here she had merely reacted. Check that. She had probably overreacted.

Jack would be home in a few hours. She would ask him about it then.

• • •

Grace had homebound carpool duties for the swim practice. Four girls, ages eight and nine, all delightfully energetic, piled two into the backseat and two into the “way, way” back of the minivan. There was a swirl of giggles, of “Hello, Ms. Lawson,” wet hair, the gentle perfume of both YMCA chlorine and bubble gum, the sound of backpacks being shucked off, of seat belts fastening. No child sat in the front—new safety rules—but despite the chauffeur feel, or maybe because of it, Grace liked doing carpool. It was time spent seeing her child interact with her friends. Children spoke freely during carpool; the driving adult might as well have been in another time zone. A parent could learn much. You could find out who was cool, who was not, who was in, who was out, what teacher was totally rad, what teacher was most assuredly not. You could, if you listened closely enough, decipher where on the pecking order your child was currently perched.

It was also entertaining as all get-out.

Jack was working late again, so when they got home, Grace quickly made Max and Emma dinner—veggie chicken nuggets (purportedly healthier and, once dipped in ketchup, the kids can never tell the difference), Tater Tots, and Jolly Green Giant frozen corn. Grace peeled two oranges for dessert. Emma did her homework—too big a load for an eight-year-old, Grace thought. When she had a free second, Grace headed down the hallway and flipped on the computer.

Grace might not be into digital photography, but she understood the necessity and even advantages of computer graphics and the World Wide Web. There was a site that featured her work, how to buy it, how to commission a portrait. At first, this had hit her as too much like shilling, but as Farley, her agent, reminded her, Michelangelo painted for money and on commission. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Who was she to be above it?

Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. That done, she started bathing the children. Emma went first. She was just getting out of the tub when Grace heard his keys jangle in the back door.

“Hey,” Jack called up in a whisper. “Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin?”

“Children,” she said. “Children are still awake.”

“Oh.”

“Care to join us?”

Jack bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house shook from the onslaught. He was a big man, six-two, two-ten. She loved the substance of him sleeping beside her, the rise and fall of his chest, the manly smell of him, the soft hairs on his body, the way his arm snaked around her during the night, the feeling of not only intimacy but safety. He made her feel small and protected, and maybe it was un-PC, but she liked that.

Emma said, “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hey, Kitten, how was school?”

“Good.”

“Still have a crush on that Tony boy?”

“Eeuw!”

Satisfied with the reaction, Jack kissed Grace on the cheek. Max came out of his room, stark naked.

“Ready for your bath, mah man?” Jack asked.

“Ready,” Max said.

They high-fived. Jack scooped Max up in a sea of giggles. Grace helped Emma get in her pajamas. Laughter spilled from the bath. Jack was singing a rhyming song with Max where some girl named Jenny Jenkins couldn’t decide what color to wear. Jack would start off with the color and Max filled in the rhyme line. Right now they were singing that Jenny Jenkins couldn’t wear “yellow” because she’d look like a “fellow.” Then they both cracked up anew. They did pretty much the same rhymes every night. And they laughed their asses off over them every night.

Jack toweled Max off, got him into his pajamas, and put him to bed. He read two chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Max listened to every word, totally riveted. Emma was old enough to read by herself. She lay in her bed, devouring the latest tale of the Baudelaire orphans from Lemony Snicket. Grace sat with her and sketched for half an hour. This was her favorite time of the day—working in silence in the same room as her eldest child.

When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page. Jack stayed firm. It was getting late, he said. Max grudgingly acquiesced. They talked for another moment or two about Charlie’s impending visit to Willy Wonka’s factory. Grace listened in.

Roald Dahl, both her men agreed, totally rocked.

Jack turned down the lights—they had a dimmer switch because Max didn’t like complete darkness—and then he entered into Emma’s room. He bent down to give Emma a kiss good night. Emma, a total Daddy’s Girl, reached up, grabbed his neck, and wouldn’t let him go. Jack melted at Emma’s nightly technique for both showing affection and stalling going to sleep.

“Anything new for the journal?” Jack asked.

Emma nodded. Her backpack was next to her bed. She dug through it and produced her school journal. She turned the pages and handed it to her father.

“We’re doing poetry,” Emma said. “I started one today.”

“Cool. Want to read it?”

Emma’s face was aglow. So was Jack’s. She cleared her throat and began:

“Basketball, basketball,

Why are you so round?

So perfectly bumpy,

So amazingly brown.

Tennis ball, tennis ball,

Why are you so fizzy,

When you’re hit with a racket,

Do you feel kind of dizzy?”

Grace watched the scene from the doorway. Jack’s hours had gotten bad lately. Most of the time Grace didn’t mind. Quiet moments were becoming scarce. She needed the solace. Loneliness, the precursor to boredom, is conducive to the creative process. That was what artistic meditation was all about—boring yourself to the point where inspiration must emerge if only to preserve your sanity. A writer friend once explained that the best cure for writer’s block was to read a phone book. Bore yourself enough and the Muse will be obligated to push through the most slog-filled of arteries.

When Emma was done, Jack fell back and said, “Whoa.”

Emma made the face she makes when she’s proud of herself but doesn’t want to show it. She tucks her lips over and back under her teeth.

“That was the most brilliant poem I’ve ever heard ever ever,” Jack said.

Emma gave a head-down shrug. “It’s only the first two verses.”

“That was the most brilliant first two verses I’ve ever heard ever ever.”

“I’m going to write a hockey one tomorrow.”

“Speaking of which . . .”

Emma sat up. “What?”

Jack smiled. “I got tickets for the Rangers at the Garden on Saturday.”

Emma, part of the “jock” group as opposed to the group who worshipped the latest boy band, gave a yippee and reached up for another hug. Jack rolled his eyes and accepted it. They discussed the team’s recent performance and set odds on their chances of beating the Minnesota Wild. A few minutes later, Jack disentangled himself. He told his daughter that he loved her. She told him that she loved him too. Jack started for the door.

“Gotta grab something to eat,” he whispered to Grace.

“There’s leftover chicken in the fridge.”

“Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?”

“Hope springs eternal.”

Jack arched an eyebrow. “Still afraid you’re not enough woman for me?”

“Oh, that reminds me.”

“What?”

“Something about Cora’s date last night.”

“Hot?”

“I’ll be down in a second.”

He arched the other eyebrow and hustled downstairs with a whistle. Grace waited until she heard Emma’s breathing deepen before following. She turned off the light and watched for a moment. This was Jack’s bit. He paced the corridors at night, unable to sleep, guarding them in their beds. There were nights she’d wake up and find the spot next to her empty. Jack would be standing in one of their doorways, his eyes glassy. She’d approach and he’d say, “You love them so much . . .” He didn’t need to say more. He didn’t even have need to say that.

Jack didn’t hear her approach, and for some reason, a reason Grace wouldn’t want to articulate, she tried to stay quiet. Jack stood stiffly, his back to her, his head down. This was unusual. Jack was usually hyper, constant motion. Like Max, Jack could not stay still. He fidgeted. His leg shook whenever he sat. He was high energy.

But right now he was staring down at the kitchen counter—more specifically, at the strange photograph—still as a stone.

“Jack?”

He startled upright. “What the hell is this?”

His hair, she noticed, was a shade longer than it should be. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He didn’t say anything.

“That’s you, right? With the beard?”

“What? No.”

She looked at him. He blinked and looked away.

“I picked up this roll of film today,” she said. “At the Photomat.”

He said nothing. She stepped closer.

“That photograph was in the middle of the pack.”

“Wait.” He looked up sharply. “It was in with our roll of film?”

“Yes.”

“Which roll?”

“The one we took at the apple orchard.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

She shrugged. “Who are the other people in the photo?”

“How should I know?”

“The blonde standing next to you,” Grace said. “With the X through her. Who is she?”

Jack’s cell phone rang. He snapped it up like a gunfighter on a draw. He mumbled a hello, listened, put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “It’s Dan.” His research partner at Pentocol Pharmaceuticals. He lowered his head and headed into the den.

Grace headed upstairs. She started getting ready for bed. What had started as a gentle nagging was growing stronger, more persistent. She flashed back to their years living in France. He would never talk about his past. He had a wealthy family and a trust fund, she knew—and he wanted nothing to do with either. There was a sister, a lawyer out in Los Angeles or San Diego. His father was still alive but very old. Grace had wanted to know more, but Jack refused to elaborate, and sensing something foreboding, she had not pushed him.

They fell in love. She painted. He worked in a vineyard in Saint-Emilion in Bordeaux. They lived in Saint-Emilion until Grace had gotten pregnant with Emma. Something called her home then—a yearning, corny as it might sound, to raise her children in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Jack wanted to stay, but Grace had insisted. Now Grace wondered why.

Half an hour passed. Grace slipped under the covers and waited. Ten minutes later, she heard a car engine start up. Grace looked out the window.

Jack’s minivan was pulling out.

He liked to shop at night, she knew—hit the grocery store when it wasn’t crowded. So going out like this was not unusual for him. Except, of course, he hadn’t called up to tell her he was going or to ask if they needed anything in particular.

Grace tried his cell phone but the voice mail picked up. She sat back and waited. Nothing. She tried to read. The words swam by in a meaningless haze. Two hours later, Grace tried Jack’s cell phone again. Still voice mail. She checked on the children. They slept soundly, appropriately oblivious.

When she could stand it no longer Grace headed downstairs. She looked through the packet of film.

The strange photograph was gone.

chapter 2

Most people check out the online personals to find a date. Eric Wu found victims.

He had seven different accounts using seven different made-up personas—some male and some female. He tried to stay in e-mail contact with an average of six “potential dates” per account. Three of the accounts were on standard any-age straight personals. Two were for singles over the age of fifty. One was for gay men. The final site hooked up lesbians looking for serious commitment.

At any one time Wu would be conducting online flirtations with as many as forty or even fifty of the forlorn. He would slowly get to know them. Most were cautious, but that was okay. Eric Wu was a patient man. Eventually they would give him enough tidbits to find out if he should pursue the relationship or cut them loose.

He only dealt with women at first. The theory was that they would be the easiest victims. But Eric Wu, who received no sexual gratification from his work, realized that he was leaving untapped an entire market that would be less likely to worry about online safety. A man does not, for example, fear rape. He does not fear stalkers. A man is less cautious, and that makes him more vulnerable.

Wu was seeking singles with few ties. If they had children, they were no good to him. If they had family living close by, they were no good to him. If they had roommates, important jobs, too many close friends, well, ditto. Wu wanted them lonely, yes, but also secluded and shut off from the many ties and bonds that connect the rest of us to something greater than the individual. Right now, he also required one with geographical proximity to the Lawson household.

He found such a victim in Freddy Sykes.

Freddy Sykes worked for a storefront tax-filing company in Waldwick, New Jersey. He was forty-eight years old. His parents were both deceased. He had no siblings. According to his online flirtations at BiMen.com, Freddy had taken care of his mother and never had the time for a relationship. When she passed away two years ago, Freddy inherited the house in Ho-Ho-Kus, a scant three miles from the Lawson residence. His online photograph, a headshot, hinted that Freddy was probably on the plump side. His hair was shoe-polish black, thin, styled in a classic comb-over. His smile seemed forced, unnatural, as if he were wincing before a blow.

Freddy had spent the past three weeks flirting online with one Al Singer, a fifty-six-year-old retired Exxon executive who’d been married twenty-two years before admitting that he was interested in “experimenting.” The Al Singer persona still loved his wife, but she didn’t understand his need to be with both men and women. Al was interested in European travel, fine dining, and watching sports on TV. For his Singer persona, Wu used a photograph he’d grabbed off a YMCA online catalogue. His Al Singer looked athletic but not too handsome. Someone too attractive might raise Freddy’s suspicion. Wu wanted him to buy the fantasy. That was the key thing.

Freddy Sykes’s neighbors were mostly young families who paid him no attention. His house looked like every other on the block. Wu watched now as Sykes’s garage door opened electronically. The garage was attached. You could enter and exit your car without being seen. That was excellent.

Wu waited ten minutes and then rang his doorbell.

“Who is it?”

“Delivery for Mr. Sykes.”

“From whom?”

Freddy Sykes had not opened the door. That was strange. Men usually did. Again that was part of their vulnerability, part of the reason that they were easier prey than their female counterparts. Overconfidence. Wu spotted the peephole. Sykes would no doubt be peering at the twenty-six-year-old Korean man with baggy pants and a squat, compact build. He might notice Wu’s earring and bemoan how today’s youth mutilated their bodies. Or maybe the build and earring would turn Sykes on. Who knew?

“From Topfit Chocolate,” Wu said.

“No, I mean, who sent them?”

Wu pretended to read the note again. “A Mr. Singer.”

That did it. The deadbolt slid open. Wu glanced about him. No one. Freddy Sykes opened the door with a smile. Wu did not hesitate. His fingers formed a spear and then darted for Sykes’s throat like a bird going for food. Freddy went down. Wu moved with a speed that defied his bulk. He slid inside and closed the door behind him.

Freddy Sykes lay on his back, his hands wrapped around his own neck. He was trying to scream, but all he could make were small squawking noises. Wu bent down and flipped him onto his stomach. Freddy struggled. Wu pulled up his victim’s shirt. Freddy kicked at him. Wu’s expert fingers traced up his spine until he found the right spot between the fourth and fifth vertebrae. Freddy kicked some more. Using his index finger and thumb like bayonets, Wu dug into the bone, nearly breaking skin.

Freddy stiffened.

Wu applied a bit more pressure, forcing the facet joints to sublux. Still burrowing deeper between the two vertebrae, he took hold and plucked. Something in Freddy’s spine snapped like a guitar string.

The kicking stopped.

All movement stopped.

But Freddy Sykes was alive. That was good. That was what Wu wanted. He used to kill them right away, but now he knew better. Alive, Freddy could call his boss and tell him that he was taking time off. Alive, he could offer up his PIN if Wu wanted money from the ATM. Alive, he could answer messages in case someone did indeed call.

And alive, Wu would not have to worry about the smell.

• • •

Wu jammed a gag in Freddy’s mouth and left him naked in the bathtub. The pressure on the spine had made the facet joints jump out of position. This dislocation of the vertebrae would contuse rather than completely sever the spinal column. Wu tested the results of his handiwork. Freddy could not move his legs at all. His deltoids might work, but the hands and lower arms would not function. Most important, he could still breathe on his own.

For all practical purposes, Freddy Sykes was paralyzed.

Keeping Sykes in the tub would make it easier to rinse off any mess. Freddy’s eyes were open a little too widely. Wu had seen this look before: somewhere past terror but not yet death, a hollowness that fell in that awful cusp between the two.

There was obviously no need to tie Freddy up.

Wu sat in the dark and waited for night to fall. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back. There were prisons in Rangoon where they studied spinal fractures during hangings. They learned where to place the knot, where to apply force, what effects different placement would have. In North Korea, in the political prison Wu had called home from the age of thirteen to eighteen, they had taken the experiments one step further. Enemies of the state were killed creatively. Wu had done many with his bare hands. He had hardened his hands by punching boulders. He had studied the anatomy of the human body in a way most medical students would envy. He had practiced on human beings, perfecting his techniques.

The exact spot between the fourth and fifth vertebrae. That was key. Any higher and you could paralyze them completely. That would lead to death fairly quickly. Forget their arms and legs—their internal organs would stop working. Any lower and you would only get the legs. The arms would still work. If the pressure applied was too great, you’d snap the entire spinal column. It was all about precision. Having the right touch. Practice.

Wu turned on Freddy’s computer. He wanted to keep up with the other singles on his list because he never knew when he would need a new place to live. When he was finished, Wu allowed himself to sleep. Three hours later he awoke and looked in on Freddy. His eyes were glassier now, staring straight up, blinking without focus.

When his contact called Wu’s cell phone, it was nearly 10 P.M.

“Are you settled in?” the contact asked.

“Yes.”

“We have a situation.”

Wu waited.

“We need to move things up a bit. Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“He needs to be taken now.”

“You have a place?”

Wu listened, memorizing the location.

“Any questions?”

“No,” Wu said.

“Eric?”

Wu waited.

“Thanks, man.”

Wu hung up. He found the car keys and took off in Freddy’s Honda.

chapter 3

Grace couldn’t call the police yet. She couldn’t sleep either. The computer was still on. Their screen saver was a family photo taken last year at Disney World. The four of them posed with Goofy at Epcot Center. Jack was wearing mouse ears. His grin was ear to ear. Hers was more reserved. She’d felt silly, which just encouraged Jack. She touched the mouse—the other mouse, the computer mouse—and her family disappeared.

Grace clicked the new icon and the strange photograph of the five college-aged kids appeared. The image came up with Adobe Photo-shop. For several minutes Grace just stared at the young faces, searching for—she didn’t know—a clue maybe. Nothing came to her. She cropped each face, blowing them up into something approaching four inches by four inches. Any bigger and the already-blurred image became undecipherable. The good paper was in the color inkjet, so she hit the print button. She grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.

Soon she had five separate headshots, one for each person in the picture. She studied them again, this time taking extra care with the young blonde next to Jack. She was pretty with that girl-next-door complexion and long flaxen hair. The young woman’s eyes were on Jack, and the look was more than casual. Grace felt a pang of, what, jealousy? How bizarre. Who was this woman? Obviously an old girlfriend—one Jack had never mentioned. But so what? Grace had a past. So did Jack. Why would the look in that photograph bother her?

So what now?

She would have to wait for Jack. When he came home, she would demand answers.

But answers about what?

Back up here a second. What was really going on? An old photograph, probably of Jack, had popped up in her packet of pictures. It was weird, sure. It was even a little creepy, what with the blonde crossed out like that. And Jack had stayed out late before without calling. So really, what was the big deal here? Something in the photo had probably upset him. He turned off his phone and was probably in a bar. Or at Dan’s house. This whole thing was probably just a bizarre joke.

Yeah, Grace, sure. A joke. Like the one about the carpool to the pool.

Sitting alone, the room dark except for the glow from the computer monitor, Grace tried a few more ways to rationalize away what was going on. She stopped when she realized that this was only scaring her more.

Grace clicked onto the face of the young woman, the one who stared at her husband with longing, zooming in for a better view. She stared at the face, really stared, and a tingle of dread began to travel across her scalp. Grace did not move. She just kept looking at the woman’s face. She didn’t know the wheres or whens or hows, but she now realized something with thudding certainty.

Grace had seen this young woman before.

chapter 4

Rocky Conwell took up post by the Lawson residence.

He tried to get comfortable in his 1989 Toyota Celica, but that was impossible. Rocky was too big for this piece-of-crap car. He pulled harder on that damned seat lever, nearly ripping it out, but the seat would go back no farther. It would have to do. He settled in and let his eyes start to close.

Man, was Rocky tired. He was working two jobs. The first, his steady gig to impress his parole officer, was a ten-hour shift on the Budweiser assembly line in Newark. The second, sitting in this damn car and staring at a house, was strictly off the books.

Rocky jerked up when he heard a noise. He picked up his binoculars. Damn, someone had started up the minivan. He focused in. Jack Lawson was on the move. He lowered the binoculars, shifted into drive, and prepared to follow.

Rocky needed two jobs because he needed cash in a big, bad way. Lorraine, his ex, was making overtures about a possible reconciliation. But she was still skittish about it. Cash, Rocky knew, could tip the balance in his favor. He loved Lorraine. He wanted her back in a big, bad way. He owed her some good times, didn’t he? And if that meant he had to work his butt off, well, he’d been the one to screw up. It was a price he was willing to pay.

It hadn’t always been like this for Rocky Conwell. He’d been an All-State defensive end at Westfield High. Penn State—Joe Paterno himself—had recruited him and transformed him into a hard-hitting inside linebacker. Six-four, two-sixty, and blessed with a naturally aggressive nature, Rocky had been a standout for four years. He’d been All Big-Ten for two years. The St. Louis Rams drafted him in the seventh round.

For a while, it was like God Himself had perfectly planned out his life from the get-go. His real name was Rocky, his parents naming him that when his mother went into labor as they watched the movie Rocky in the summer of 1976. You gonna have a name like Rocky, you better be big and strong. You better be ready to rumble. Here he was, a pro football draft pick itching to get to camp. He and Lorraine—a knockout who could not only stop traffic but make it go backward—hooked up during his junior year. They fell for each other pretty hard. Life was good.

Until, well, it wasn’t.

Rocky was a great college player, but there is a big difference between Division IA and the pros. At the Rams rookie camp, they loved his hustle. They loved his work ethic. They loved the way he would sacrifice his body to make a play. But they didn’t love his speed—and in today’s game, what with the emphasis on passing and coverage, Rocky was simply not good enough. Or so they said. Rocky would not surrender. He started taking more steroids. He got bigger but still not big enough for the front line. He managed to hang around one season playing special teams for the Rams. The next year he was cut.

The dream wouldn’t die. Rocky wouldn’t let it. He pumped iron nonstop. He began ’roiding big time. He had always taken some kind of anabolic supplement. Every athlete does. But desperation had made him less cautious. He didn’t worry about cycling or overdoing it. He just wanted mass. His mood darkened from either the drugs or the disappointment—or more likely, the potent blend of the two.

To make ends meet, Rocky took up work with the Ultimate Fighting Federation. You may remember their octagon grudge matches. For a while, they were all the rage on pay-per-view—real, bloody, no-holds-barred brawls. Rocky was good at it. He was big and strong and a natural fighter. He had great endurance and knew how to wear down an opponent.

Eventually the violence in the ring got to be too much for people’s sensibilities. States began to outlaw ultimate fighting. Some of the guys started battling in Japan where it was still legal—Rocky guessed that they had different sensibilities over there—but he didn’t go. Rocky still believed that the NFL was within his grasp. He just had to work harder. Get a little bigger, a little stronger, a little faster.

Jack Lawson’s minivan pulled onto Route 17. Rocky’s instructions were clear. Follow Lawson. Write down where he went, who he talked to, every detail of his trip, but do not—repeat not—engage him. He was to observe. Nothing more.

Right, easy cash.

Two years ago, Rocky got into a bar fight. It was typical stuff. Some guy stared at Lorraine too long. Rocky had asked him what he was looking at, and the guy responded, “Not much.” You know the drill. Except Rocky was juiced up from the ’roids. He pulverized the guy—put him in traction—and got nailed on an assault beef. He spent three months in jail and was now on probation. That had been the final straw for Lorraine. She called him a loser and moved out.

So now he was trying to make it up to her.

Rocky had quit the junk. Dreams die hard, but he now realized that the NFL was not going to be. But Rocky had talents. He could be a good coach. He knew how to motivate. A friend of his had an in at his old alma mater, Westfield High. If Rocky could get his record cleared, he’d be made varsity defensive coordinator. Lorraine could get a job there as a guidance counselor. They’d be on their way.

They just needed a little set-up cash.

Rocky kept the Celica a decent distance back of the minivan. He was not too worried about being spotted. Jack Lawson was an amateur. He wouldn’t be looking for a tail. That was what his boss had told him.

Lawson crossed the New York border and took the thruway north. The time was ten P.M. Rocky wondered if he should call it in, but no, not yet. There was nothing here to report. The man was taking a ride. Rocky was following him. That was his job.

Rocky felt his calf start cramping. Man, he wished this piece of junk had more legroom.

Half an hour later Lawson pulled off by the Woodbury Commons, one of those massive outdoor malls where all the stores were purportedly “outlets” for their more expensive counterparts. The Commons was closed. The minivan pulled down a quiet stretch of road on the side. Rocky hung back. If he followed now, he’d be spotted for sure.

Rocky found a position on the right, shifted into park, turned off his headlights, and picked up his binoculars.

Jack Lawson stopped the minivan, and Rocky watched him step out. There was another car not too far away. Must be Lawson’s girlfriend. Strange place for a romantic rendezvous, but there you go. Jack looked both ways and then headed toward the wooded area. Damn. Rocky would have to follow on foot.

He put down the binoculars and slid out. He was still seventy, eighty yards away from Lawson. Rocky didn’t want to get any closer. He squatted down and peered through the binoculars again. Lawson stopped walking. He turned around and . . .

What’s this?

Rocky swung the binoculars to the right. A man was standing to Lawson’s left. Rocky took a closer look. The man wore fatigues. He was short and squat, built like a perfect square. Looked like he worked out, Rocky thought. The guy—he looked Chinese or something—stood perfectly still, stonelike.

At least for a few seconds.

Gently, almost like a lover’s touch, the Chinese guy reached up and put his hand on Lawson’s shoulder. For a fleeting moment Rocky thought that maybe he had stumbled across a gay tryst. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

Jack Lawson dropped to the ground like a puppet with his strings cut.

Rocky stifled a gasp. The Chinese guy looked down at the crumpled form. He bent down and picked Lawson up by . . . hell, it looked like the neck. Like you’d pick up a puppy or something. By the scruff of his neck.

Oh damn, Rocky thought. I better call this in.

Without breaking a sweat, the Chinese guy started carrying Lawson toward his car. With one hand. Like the guy was a briefcase or something. Rocky reached for his cell phone.

Crap, he’d left it in the car.

Okay, think, Rocky. The car the Chinese guy was driving. It was a Honda Accord. New Jersey plates. Rocky tried to memorize the number. He watched while the Chinese guy opened the trunk. He dumped Lawson in as if he were a load of laundry.

Oh man, now what?

Rocky’s orders were firm. Do not engage. How many times had he heard that? Whatever you do, just observe. Do not engage.

He didn’t know what to do.

Should he just follow?

Uh-uh, no way. Jack Lawson was in the trunk. Look, Rocky did not know the man. He didn’t know why he was supposed to follow him. He’d figured that they’d been hired to follow Lawson for the usual reason—his wife suspected him of having an affair. That was one thing. Follow and prove infidelity. But this . . . ?

Lawson had been assaulted. For crying out loud, he’d been locked in the trunk by this muscle-headed Jackie Chan. Could Rocky just sit back and let that happen?

No.

Whatever Rocky had done, whatever he had become, he was not about to let that stand. Suppose he lost the Chinese guy? Suppose there wasn’t enough air in the trunk? Suppose Lawson had been seriously injured already and was dying?

Rocky had to do something.

Should he call the police?

The Chinese guy slammed the trunk closed. He started for the front seat.

Too late to call anyone. He had to make his move now.

Rocky remained six-four, two-sixty, and rock solid. He was a professional fighter. Not a show boxer. Not a phony, staged wrestler. A real fighter. He didn’t have a gun, but he knew how to take care of himself.

Rocky started running toward the car.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, you! Stop right there!”

The Chinese guy—as he got closer, Rocky could see he was more like a kid—looked up. His expression did not change. He just stared as Rocky ran toward him. He did not move. He did not try to get in the car and drive away. He waited patiently.

“Hey!”

The Chinese kid stayed still.

Rocky stopped a yard in front of him. Their eyes met. Rocky did not like what he saw. He had played football against some true headcases. He’d fought pain-happy crazies in the Ultimate Fighting ring. He had stared into the eyes of pure psychos—guys who got off on hurting people. This was not like this. This was like staring into the eyes of . . . something not alive. A rock maybe. An inanimate object of some kind. There was no fear, no mercy, no reason.

“May I help you?” the Chinese kid said.

“I saw . . . Let that man out of the trunk.”

The kid nodded. “Of course.”

The kid glanced toward the trunk. So did Rocky. And that was when Eric Wu struck.

Rocky never saw the blow. Wu ducked down, twisted his hips for power, and smashed his fist into Rocky’s kidney. Rocky had taken shots before. He had been punched in the kidney by men twice this size. But nothing had ever hit him like this. The blow landed like a sledgehammer.

Rocky gasped but stayed on his feet. Wu moved in and jabbed something hard into Rocky’s liver. It felt like a barbecue skewer. The pain exploded through him.

Rocky’s mouth opened, but the scream wouldn’t come out. He fell to the ground. Wu dropped down next to him. The last thing Rocky saw—the last thing he would ever see—was Eric Wu’s face, calm and serene, as he placed his hands under Rocky’s rib cage.

Lorraine, Rocky thought. And then nothing more.

chapter 5

Grace caught herself mid-scream. She jerked upright. The light was still on in the hallway. A silhouette stood in her doorway. But it wasn’t Jack.

She awoke, still gasping. A dream. She knew that. On some elusive level, she had known that midway through. She’d had this dream before, plenty of times, though not in a long time. Must be the upcoming anniversary, she thought.

She tried to settle back. It wouldn’t happen. The dream always started and ended the same. The variations occurred in the middle.

In the dream Grace was back at the old Boston Garden. The stage was directly in front of her. There was a steel blockade, short, maybe waist-high, like something you might use to lock your bike. She leaned against it.

The loudspeaker played “Pale Ink,” but that was impossible because the concert hadn’t even started yet. “Pale Ink” was the big hit from the Jimmy X Band, the best-selling single of the year. You still hear it on the radio all the time. It would be played live, not on some waiting-time recording. But if this dream was like some movie, “Pale Ink” was, if you will, the soundtrack.

Was Todd Woodcroft, her boyfriend at the time, standing next to her? She sometimes imagined holding his hand—though they were never the hand-holding kind of couple—and then, when it went wrong, the stomach-dropping feel of his hand slipping away from hers. In reality, Todd was probably right next to her. In the dream, only sometimes. This time, no, he was not there. Todd had escaped that night unscathed. She never blamed him for what happened to her. There was nothing he could have done. Todd had never even visited her in the hospital. She didn’t blame him for that either. Theirs was a college romance already on the skids, not a soul-mate situation. Who needed a scene at this stage of the game? Who’d want to break up with a girl in the hospital? Better for both, she thought, to let it just sort of drift away.

In the dream, Grace knows that tragedy is about to strike, but she does nothing about it. Her dream self does not call out a warning or try to make for the exit. She often wondered why, but wasn’t that how dreams worked? You are powerless even with foreknowledge, a slave to some advanced hardwiring in your subconscious. Or perhaps the answer is simpler: There was no time. In the dream, the tragedy begins in seconds. In reality, according to witnesses, Grace and the others had stood in front of that stage for more than four hours.

The crowd’s mood had slid from excited to antsy to restless before stopping at hostile. Jimmy X, real name James Xavier Farmington, the gorgeous rocker with the glorious hair, was supposed to take the stage at 8:30 P.M., though no one really expected him before nine. Now it was closing in on midnight. At first the crowd had been chanting Jimmy’s name. Now a chorus of boos had started up. Sixteen thousand people, including those, like Grace, who had been lucky enough to get standing seats in the pit, rose as one, demanding their performance. Ten minutes passed before the loudspeaker finally offered up some feedback. The crowd, having reverted to their earlier state of fevered excitement, went wild.

But the voice that came over the loudspeaker did not introduce the band. In a straight monotone, it announced that tonight’s performance had been delayed again for at least an hour. No explanation. For a moment nobody moved. Silence filled the arena.

This was where the dream began, during that lull before the devastation. Grace was there again. How old was she? She had been twenty-one, but in the dream she seemed to be older. It was a different, parallel Grace, one who was married to Jack and mother to Emma and Max and yet was still at that concert during her senior year of college. Again that was how it worked in dreams, a dual reality, your parallel self overlapping with your actual one.

Was all this, these dream moments, coming from her subconscious or from what she had read about the tragedy after the fact? Grace did not know. It was, she’d long surmised, probably a combination of both. Dreams open up memories, don’t they? When she was awake, she couldn’t recall that night at all—or for that matter, the few days before. The last thing she remembered was studying for a political science final she’d taken five days earlier. That was normal, the doctors assured, with her type of head trauma. But the subconscious was a strange terrain. Perhaps the dreams were actual memories. Perhaps imagination. Most likely, as with most dreams or even memories, both.

Either way, be it from memory or press reports, it was at this very moment when someone fired a shot. Then another. And another.

This was before the days of metal detector sweeps when you entered an arena. Anyone could carry in a gun. For a while, there had been much debate over the origins of those shots. Conspiracy nuts still argued over the point, as if the arena had a grassy knoll in the upper tier. Either way, the young crowd, already in a frenzy, snapped. They screamed. They broke. They rushed for exits.

They rushed toward the stage.

Grace was in the wrong spot. Her waist was crushed against the top of the steel girder. It dug into her belly. She could not pry herself free. The crowd cried out and surged as one. The boy next to her—she would later learn that he was nineteen years old and named Ryan Vespa—didn’t get his hands up in time. He smacked the girder at a bad angle.

Grace saw—again was it just in the dream or in reality too?—the blood shoot from Ryan Vespa’s mouth. The girder finally gave way. It tilted over. She fell to the floor. Grace tried to get her footing, tried to stand, but the current of screaming humans drove her back down.

This part, she knew, was real. This part, being buried under a mass of people, haunted more than just her dreams.

The stampede continued. People stomped on her. Trampled her arms and legs. Tripped and fell, slamming down on her like stone tablets. The weight grew. Crushing her. Dozens of desperate, struggling, slithering bodies rushed over her.

Screams filled the air. Grace was underneath it now. Buried. There was no light anymore. Too many bodies on top of her. It was impossible to move. Impossible to breathe. She was suffocating. Like someone had buried her in concrete. Like she was being dragged underwater.

There was too much weight on her. It felt as if a giant hand was pressing down on her head, squashing her skull like it was a Styro-foam cup.

There was no escape.

And that, mercifully, was when the dream ended. Grace woke up, still gulping for air.

In reality, Grace had woken up four days later and remembered almost nothing. At first she thought it was the morning of her political science final. The doctors took their time explaining the situation. She had been seriously injured. She had, for one, a skull fracture. That, the doctors surmised, explained the headaches and memory loss. This was not a case of amnesia or repressed memory or even anything psychological. The brain was damaged, which is not infrequent with this kind of severe head trauma and loss of consciousness. Losing hours, even days, was not unusual. Grace also shattered her femur, her tibia, and three ribs. Her knee had split in two. Her hip had been ripped out of its joint.

Through a haze of painkillers, she eventually learned that she had been “lucky.” Eighteen people, ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-six, had been killed in the stampede that the media dubbed the Boston Massacre.

The silhouette in the doorway said, “Mom?”

It was Emma. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“You were screaming.”

“I’m okay. Even moms have bad dreams sometimes.”

Emma stayed in the shadows. “Where’s Daddy?”

Grace checked the bedside clock. It was nearly 4:45 A.M. How long had she been asleep? No more than ten, fifteen minutes. “He’ll be home soon.”

Emma did not move.

“You okay?” Grace asked.

“Can I sleep with you?”

Plenty of bad dreams tonight, Grace thought. She pulled back the blanket. “Sure, honey.”

Emma crawled onto Jack’s side of the bed. Grace threw the blanket back over her and held tight. She kept her eyes on the bedside clock. At exactly 7 A.M.—she watched the digital clock switch from 6:59 A.M.—she let panic in.

Jack had never done anything like this before. If it had been a normal night, if he had come up and told her that he was going grocery shopping, if he had made some clumsy double entendre before leaving, something about melons or bananas, something funny and stupid like that, she’d have been on the phone with the police already.

But last night had not been normal. There had been that photograph. There had been his reaction. And there had been no kiss good-bye.

Emma stirred beside her. Max entered in mid–eye rub a few minutes later. Jack was usually the one who made breakfast. He was more the early riser. Grace managed to whip up the morning meal—Cap’n Crunch with sliced banana—and deflected their questions about their father’s absence. While they were busy wolfing down breakfast, she slid into the den and tried Jack’s office, but nobody picked up the line. Still too early.

She threw on a pair of Jack’s Adidas sweats and walked them to the bus stop. Emma used to hug her before she boarded, but she was too old for that. She hurried aboard, before Grace could mumble something idiotically parental about Emma being too old for hugs but not too old to visit Mom when she was scared at night. Max still gave her a hug but it was quick and with a serious lack of enthusiasm. They both stepped inside, the bus door swooshing to a close as though swallowing them whole.

Grace blocked the sun with her hand and, as always, watched the bus until it turned down Bryden Road. Even now, even after all this time, she still longed to hop in her car and follow just to be sure that that seemingly fragile box of yellow tin made it safely to school.

What had happened to Jack?

She started back toward the house, but then, thinking better of it, she sprinted toward her car and took off. Grace caught up to the bus on Heights Road and followed it the rest of the way to Willard School. She shifted into park and watched the children disembark. When Emma and Max appeared, weighed down by their backpacks, she felt the familiar flutter. She sat and waited until they both headed up the path, up the stairs, and disappeared through the school doors.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Grace cried.

• • •

Grace expected cops in plainclothes. And she expected two of them. That was how it always worked on television. One would be the gruff veteran. The other would be young and handsome. So much for TV. The town police had sent one officer in the regulation stop-you-for-speeding uniform and matching car.

He had introduced himself as Officer Daley. He was indeed young, very young, with a smattering of acne on his shiny baby face. He was gym muscular. His short sleeves worked like tourniquets on his bloated biceps. Officer Daley spoke with annoying patience, a suburban-cop monotone, as if addressing a class of first graders on bike safety.

He had arrived ten minutes after her call on the non-emergency police line. Normally, the dispatcher told her, they would ask her to come in and fill out a report on her own. But it just so happened that Officer Daley was in the area, so he’d be able to swing by. Lucky her.

Daley took a letter-size sheet of paper and placed it out on the coffee table. He clicked his pen and started asking questions.

“The missing person’s name?”

“John Lawson. But he goes by Jack.”

He started down the list.

“Address and phone number?”

She gave them.

“Place of birth?”

“Los Angeles, California.”

He asked his height, weight, eye and hair color, sex (yes, he actually asked). He asked if Jack had any scars, marks, or tattoos. He asked for a possible destination.

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “That’s why I called you.”

Officer Daley nodded. “I assume that your husband is over the age of emancipation?”

“Pardon?”

“He is over eighteen years old.”

“Yes.”

“That makes this harder.”

“Why?”

“We got new regulations on filling out a missing person report. It was just updated a couple weeks back.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

He gave a theatrical sigh. “See, in order to put someone in the computer, he needs to meet the criteria.” Daley pulled out another sheet of paper. “Is your husband disabled?”

“No.”

“Endangered?”

“What do you mean?”

Daley read from the sheet. “ ‘A person of age who is missing and in the company of another person under circumstances indicating that his/her physical safety is in danger.’ ”

“I don’t know. I told you. He left here last night . . .”

“Then that would be a no,” Daley said. He scanned down the sheet. “Number three. Involuntary. Like a kidnapping or abduction.”

“I don’t know.”

“Right. Number four. Catastrophe victim. Like in a fire or airplane crash.”

“No.”

“And the last category. Is he a juvenile? Well, we covered that already.” He put the sheet down. “That’s it. You can’t put the person into the system unless he fits in one of those categories.”

“So if someone goes missing like this, you do nothing?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, ma’am.”

“How would you put it?”

“We have no evidence that there was any foul play. If we receive any, we will immediately upgrade the investigation.”

“So for now you do nothing?”

Daley put down the pen. He leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. His breathing was heavy. “May I speak frankly, Mrs. Lawson?”

“Please.”

“Most of these cases—no, more than that, I’d say ninety-nine out of a hundred—the husband is just running around. There are marital problems. There is a mistress. The husband doesn’t want to be found.”

“That’s not the case here.”

He nodded. “And in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, that’s what we hear from the wife.”

The patronizing tone was starting to piss her off. Grace hadn’t felt comfortable confiding in this youth. She’d held back, as if she feared telling the entire truth would be a betrayal. Plus, when you really thought about it, how would it sound?

Well, see, I found this weird photo from the Photomat in the middle of my pack from Apple Orchard, in Chester, right, and my husband said it wasn’t him and really, it’s hard to tell because the picture is old and then Jack left the house . . .

“Mrs. Lawson?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I think so. That I’m hysterical. My husband ran off. I’m trying to use the police to drag him back. That sound about right?”

He remained unruffled. “You have to understand. We can’t fully investigate until we have some evidence that a crime has been committed. Those are the rules set up by the NCIC.” He pointed to the sheet of paper again and said in his gravest tone: “That’s the National Crime Information Center.”

She almost rolled her eyes.

“Even if we find your husband, we wouldn’t tell you where he was. This is a free country. He is of age. We can’t force him to come back.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“We could make a few calls, maybe make a few discreet inquiries.”

“Great.”

“I’ll need the vehicle make and license plate number.”

“It’s a Ford Windstar.”

“Color?”

“Dark blue.”

“Year?”

She didn’t remember.

“License plate?”

“It begins with an M.”

Officer Daley looked up. Grace felt like a moron.

“I have a copy of the registration upstairs,” she said. “I can check.”

“Do you use E-ZPass at tollbooths?”

“Yes.”

Officer Daley nodded and wrote that down. Grace headed upstairs and found the file. She made a copy with her scanner and gave it to Officer Daley. He wrote something down. He asked a few questions. She stuck with the facts: Jack had come home from work, helped put the children to bed, gone out, probably for groceries . . . and that was it.

After about five minutes, Daley seemed satisfied. He smiled and told her not to worry. She stared at him.

“We’ll check back with you in a few hours. If we hear nothing by then, let’s talk some more.”

He left. Grace tried Jack’s office again. Still no answer. She checked the clock. It was nearly 10 A.M. The Photomat would be opening now. Good.

She had some questions for Josh the Fuzz Pellet.

chapter 6

Charlaine Swain slipped on her new online lingerie purchase—a Regal Lace babydoll with matching G-string—and pulled up her bedroom shade.

Something was wrong.

The day was Tuesday. The time was 10:30 A.M. Charlaine’s children were at school. Her husband Mike would be at his desk in the city, the phone wedged between shoulder and ear, his fingers busy rolling and unrolling his shirtsleeves, his collar tighter by the day but his ego too proud to admit the need for a bigger size.

Her neighbor, the scuzzy creepazoid named Freddy Sykes, should be home by now.

Charlaine glanced toward the mirror. She didn’t do that often. There was no need to remind herself that she was over forty. The image that stared back was still shapely, she guessed, helped no doubt by the babydoll’s underwired support—but what had once been considered buxom and curvaceous had weakened and loosened. Oh, Charlaine worked out. There was yoga class—yoga being this year’s Tae Bo or Step—three mornings a week. She stayed fit, battling against the obvious and unbeatable, holding tight even as it slipped away.

What had happened to her?

Forget the physical for a second. The young Charlaine Swain had been a bundle of energy. She had zest for life. She was ambitious and a go-getter. Everyone said it. There was always a spark with Charlaine, a crackle in the air, and somewhere, somehow, life—just plain living—had extinguished it.

Were the children to blame? Was it Mike? There was a time when he couldn’t get enough of her, when an outfit like this would make his eyes widen and his mouth water. Now when she strutted by, he would barely look up.

When had that started?

She couldn’t put her finger on it. She knew the process had been gradual, the change so slow as to be almost indiscernible, until, alas, it was a fait accompli. It hadn’t all been his fault. She knew that. Her drive had waned, especially during the years of pregnancies, post-natal nursing, the ensuing exhaustion of infants. That was natural, she supposed. Everyone went through that. Still she wished that she had made more of an effort before the temporary changes hardened into something apathetic and enduring.

The memories, however, were still there. Mike used to romance her. He used to surprise her. He used to lust after her. He used to—and yes, this might sound crude—jump her bones. Now what he wanted was efficiency, something mechanical and precise—the dark, a grunt, a release, sleep.

When they talked, it was about the kids—the class schedules, the pickups, the homework, the dentist appointments, the Little League games, the Biddy Basketball program, the play-dates. But that wasn’t just Mike’s fault either. When Charlaine had coffee with the women in the neighborhood—the Mommy and Me meetings at Starbucks—the conversations were so cloying, so boring, so stuffed with all things children, that she wanted to scream.

Charlaine Swain was being smothered.

Her mother—the idle queen of the country-club lunch—told her that this was life, that Charlaine had everything a woman could want, that her expectations were simply unrealistic. The saddest part was, Charlaine feared that her mother was right.

She checked her makeup. She applied more lipstick and rouge and then sat back and appraised herself. Yep, she looked like a whore. She grabbed a Percodan, the mommy equivalent of the lunchtime cocktail, and swallowed it. Then she took a closer look in the mirror, squinting even.

Was the old Charlaine still there somewhere?

There was this woman who lived two blocks down, a nice mother of two like Charlaine. Two months ago, this nice mother of two walked up to the Glen Rock train tracks and committed suicide by stepping in front of the 11:10 A.M. Bergen line heading south. Horrible story. Everyone talked about it for weeks. How could this woman, this nice mother of two, just abandon her children like that? How could she be so selfish? And yet, as Charlaine tsk-tsked with her fellow suburbanites, she felt a small pang of jealousy. For this nice mother, it was over. There had to be relief in that.

Where was Freddy?

Charlaine actually looked forward to this, her Tuesdays at ten, and perhaps that was the saddest thing of all. Her initial reaction to Freddy’s peeping had been revulsion and rage. When and how had that slid into acceptance and even, God forgive her, arousal? No, she thought. It wasn’t arousal. It was . . . something. That was all. It was a spark. It was something to feel.

She waited for his shade to come up.

It didn’t.

Strange. Come to think of it, Freddy Sykes never pulled down his shades. Their properties backed up to each other’s, so that only they could see in each other’s window. Freddy never pulled down the shade in the back. Why would he?

Her eyes roamed toward the other windows. All the shades were pulled down. Curious. The curtains in what she assumed was the den—she had never, of course, stepped foot in his house—were drawn closed.

Was Freddy traveling? Had he perhaps gone away?

Charlaine Swain caught her reflection in the window and felt a fresh wave of shame. She grabbed a robe—her husband’s ratty terrycloth—and slipped into it. She wondered if Mike was having an affair, if another woman had drained that once insatiable sex drive, or was he just not interested in her? She wondered which was worse.

Where was Freddy?

And how degrading, how truly scraping-the-bottom pitiful it was, that this meant so much to her. She stared at the house.

There was movement.

It was slight. A shadow had crossed the side of a shade. But movement nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, Freddy was truly peeping again, upping, if you will, his excitement level. That could be it, right? Most peepers got off on the stealth, I Spy aspects of the act. Maybe he simply didn’t want her to see him. Maybe he was watching her right now, surreptitiously.

Could that be it?

She loosened the robe and let it slide down her shoulders. The terrycloth reeked of man sweat and the aging remnants of cologne she’d bought Mike, what, eight, nine years ago. Charlaine felt the tears sting her eyes. But she didn’t turn away.

Something else suddenly appeared between the window shades. Something . . . blue?

She squinted. What was it?

The binoculars. Where were they? Mike kept a box of crap like that in his closet. She found it, dug through the many power cords and adapters, and unearthed the Leicas. She remembered when they bought them. They were on a cruise in the Caribbean. The stop was one of the Virgin Islands—she didn’t remember which one—and the purchase had been spontaneous. That was why she remembered it, the buying of the binoculars, because of the spontaneity of such a mundane act.

Charlaine put the binoculars up to her eyes. They were auto-focus, so there was nothing to adjust. It took her a moment or two to find the space between the window and the shade. But the blue spot was there. She saw the flicker and her eyes closed. She should have known.

The television. Freddy had turned on the television.

He was home.

Charlaine stood without moving. She didn’t know how she felt anymore. The numb was back. Her son Clay liked to play a song from the Shrek movie about a guy forming an L with his fingers on his forehead. Loser. That was Freddy Sykes. And now Freddy, this scuzzy creepazoid, this Loser with a finger-capital L, would rather watch television than her lingerie-clad body.

Something was still strange.

All those shades pulled down. Why? She had lived next to the Sykes house for eight years. Even when Freddy’s mother was alive, the shades were never pulled down, the curtains never closed. Charlaine took another look through her binoculars.

The television flicked off.

She stopped, waiting for something to happen. Freddy had lost track of the time, she thought. The shade would open now. They would begin their perverted ritual.

But that’s not what happened.

Charlaine heard the slight whir and knew immediately what it was. Freddy’s electric garage door had been activated.

She moved closer to the window. There was the sound of a car starting up, and then Freddy’s hunk-of-junk Honda pulled out. Sunlight reflected off the windshield. The glare made her squint. She blocked it by cupping her hand above her eyes.

The car moved and the glare cleared. She could now see who was driving.

It wasn’t Freddy.

Something, something base and primitive, commanded Charlaine to duck out of sight. She did. She dropped down and crawled for the robe. She pressed the terrycloth against herself. The smell—that combination of Mike and stale cologne—now seemed oddly comforting.

Charlaine moved toward the side of the window. She pressed her back against the wall and peaked out.

The Honda Accord had stopped. The driver—the Asian man behind the wheel—was staring at her window.

Charlaine quickly flattened herself back against the wall. She stayed still, holding her breath. She stayed that way until she heard the car start moving again. And then, just to be on the safe side, she stayed down another ten minutes.

When she looked again, the car was gone.

The house next door was still.

chapter 7

At exactly 10:15 A.M., Grace arrived at the Photomat.

Josh the Fuzz Pellet was not there. As a matter of fact, nobody was there. The sign in the store window, probably left from the night before, read CLOSED.

She checked the printed hours. Opens at 10 A.M. She waited. At ten-twenty, the first customer, a harried woman in her mid-thirties, spotted the CLOSED sign, read the hours, tried the door. She sighed in high drama. Grace gave her a commiserating shrug. The woman huffed off. Grace waited.

When the store had still not opened at 10:30 A.M., Grace knew that it was bad. She decided to try Jack’s office again. His line kept going into voice mail—eerie hearing Jack’s too-formal recorded voice—so she tried Dan’s line this time. The two men had, after all, spoken last night. Maybe Dan could offer a clue.

She dialed his work number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dan, it’s Grace.”

“Hey!” he said with a tad too much enthusiasm. “I was just about to call you.”

“Oh?”

“Where’s Jack?”

“I don’t know.”

He hesitated. “When you say you don’t know—”

“You called him last night, right?”

“Yes.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“We’re supposed to be making a presentation this afternoon. On the Phenomytol studies.”

“Anything else?”

“What do you mean, anything else? Like what?”

“Like what else did you talk about?”

“Nothing. I wanted to ask him about a PowerPoint slide. Why? What’s going on, Grace?”

“He went out after that.”

“Right, so?”

“I haven’t seen him since.”

“Wait, when you say you haven’t seen him . . . ?”

“I mean, he hasn’t come home, he hasn’t called, I have no idea where he is.”

“Jesus, did you call the police?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“My God. Look, let me get out of here. I’ll be right over.”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I have some things to do,” she said lamely. She moved the phone to the other ear, unsure how to put this. “Has Jack been okay?”

“You mean, at work?”

“I mean anywhere.”

“Yeah, sure, he’s Jack. You know.”

“You haven’t noticed any change?”

“We’ve both been stressed about these drug trials, if that’s what you mean. But nothing unusual. Grace, are you sure I shouldn’t come up?”

There was a beep on her phone. Call Waiting. “I need to go, Dan. That’s the other line.”

“Probably Jack. Call me if you need anything.”

She clicked him off and checked the Caller ID. Not Jack. At least, not his cell. The number was blocked.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Lawson, this is Officer Daley. Has there been any word from your husband?”

“No.”

“We tried you at home.”

“Right, I’m out.”

There was a pause. “Where are you?”

“In town.”

“Where in town?”

“I’m at the Photomat store.”

A longer pause. “I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but isn’t that a strange place to be when you’re concerned about your husband?”

“Officer Daley?”

“Yes?”

“There’s this new invention. It’s called the cell phone. In fact, you’re calling me on it right now.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Have you learned anything about my husband?”

“That’s why I’m calling, actually. My captain is in now. He’d like to do a follow-up interview.”

“A follow-up?”

“Yes.”

“Is that standard?”

“Sure.” He sounded like it was anything but.

“Have you found something?”

“No, I mean, nothing to be alarmed about.”

“What does that mean?”

“Captain Perlmutter and I just need more information, Mrs. Lawson.”

Another Photomat customer, a recently streaked quasi-blonde about Grace’s own age, approached the empty store. She cupped her hands around her eyes and peered inside. She too frowned and scoffed away.

“You’re both at the station now?” Grace asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in three minutes.”

• • •

Captain Perlmutter asked, “How long have you and your husband lived in town?”

They were jammed into an office more fitting for the school custodian than the police captain of a town. The Kasselton cops had moved their station house to the former town library, a building with history and tradition but very little comfort. Captain Stu Perlmutter sat behind his desk. He leaned back at the first question, hands resting on a tidy paunch. Officer Daley leaned against the door frame, trying to look comfortable.

Grace said, “Four years.”

“Like it here?”

“Well enough.”

“Great.” Perlmutter smiled at her, a teacher approving of the answer. “And you have kids, right?”

“Yes.”

“How old?”

“Eight and six.”

“Eight and six,” he repeated with a wistful smile. “Man, those are great ages. Not babies, and not teens yet.”

Grace decided to wait him out.

“Mrs. Lawson, has your husband ever disappeared before?”

“No.”

“Are there any problems with the marriage?”

“None.”

Perlmutter gave her a skeptical look. He didn’t wink, but he came close. “Everything is perfect, eh?”

Grace said nothing.

“How did you and your husband meet?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked—”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just trying to get a feel here.”

“A feel for what? Have you found something or not?”

“Please.” Perlmutter tried on what he must have believed was a disarming smile. “I just need to get some stuff down. For background, okay? Where did you and Jack Lawson meet?”

“In France.”

He wrote it down. “You’re an artist, aren’t you, Mrs. Lawson?”

“Yes.”

“So you were overseas studying your art?”

“Captain Perlmutter?”

“Yes.”

“No offense, but this line of questioning is bizarre.”

Perlmutter glanced at Daley. He shrugged to signal that he meant no harm. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Have you learned something or not?”

“I believe Officer Daley explained to you that your husband is of age, that we really aren’t obligated to tell you anything?”

“He did.”

“Right, well, we don’t think he’s met up with foul play, if that’s your concern.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No evidence of such.”

“Meaning,” she said, “that you haven’t found bloodstains or anything like that?”

“That’s correct. But more than that”—Perlmutter looked over at Daley again—“we did find something that, well, we probably shouldn’t share with you.”

Grace adjusted herself in the seat. She tried very hard to meet his eye, but he wouldn’t face her. “I’d very much appreciate knowing what you found.”

“It’s not much,” Perlmutter said.

She waited.

“Officer Daley called your husband’s office. He’s not there, of course. I’m sure you know that already. He also didn’t call in sick. So we decided to investigate a little more. Unofficially, you understand.”

“Right.”

“You were helpful enough to give us your car’s E-ZPass number. We ran it through the computer. What time did you say your husband went out last night?”

“Around ten o’clock.”

“And you thought that maybe he went to the grocery store?”

“I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

“He just upped and left?”

“Right.”

“And you never asked him where he was going?”

“I was upstairs. I heard the car start up.”

“Okay, here’s what I need to know.” Perlmutter let go of the paunch. His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “You called him on the cell phone. Pretty much right away. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, see, that’s the problem. Why didn’t he answer you? I mean, if he wanted to talk to you?”

Grace saw where he was going with this.

“Do you think your husband—what?—got in an accident right away? Or maybe someone grabbed him within minutes of leaving your house?”

Grace hadn’t really thought about that. “I don’t know.”

“Do you ever drive up the New York Thruway?”

The change of subject threw her. “Not often, but sure, I’ve taken it.”

“Ever go to Woodbury Commons?”

“The outlet mall?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been, yes.”

“How long do you figure it takes to get there?”

“Half an hour. Is that where he went?”

“I doubt it, not at that hour. The stores are all closed. But he used his E-ZPass at the tollbooth on that exit at precisely 10:26 P.M. It leads to Route 17, and heck, that’s how I go to the Poconos. Give or take ten minutes either way, that would fit a scenario where your husband left your house and drove straight in that direction. From there, well, who knows where he went? It’s fifteen miles to Interstate 80. From there you can go straight to California if you’d like.”

She sat there.

“So add it up, Mrs. Lawson. Your husband leaves the house. You call him immediately. He doesn’t answer. Within a half hour or so, we know he’s driving in New York. If someone had attacked him or if he got in an accident, well, there’s no way he could have been snatched and then his E-ZPass used up there in that short a time frame. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Grace met his eye. “That I’m a hysterical bimbo whose husband ran out on her.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. It’s just . . . Well, we really can’t investigate any further at this point. Unless . . .” He leaned a little closer. “Mrs. Lawson, is there anything else you can think of that could help us here?”

Grace tried not to squirm. She glanced behind her. Officer Daley had not moved. She had a copy of the strange photograph in her purse. She thought about Fuzz Pellet Josh and the store not opening. It was time to tell them. In hindsight she should have told Daley about it when it first showed up.

“I’m not sure it’s relevant,” she began, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a copy of the photograph and passed it to Perlmutter. Perlmutter took out a pair of reading glasses, cleaned them with his shirttail, and pushed them into place. Daley walked around and bent down over the captain’s shoulder. She told them about finding the photograph mixed in with her others. The two officers stared at her as if she’d taken out a razor and started shaving her head.

When Grace was done, Captain Perlmutter pointed to the picture and said, “And you’re sure that’s your husband?”

“I think so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

He nodded in that way people do when they think you’re a lunatic. “And the other people in the photo? The young lady somebody crossed out?”

“I don’t know them.”

“But your husband. He said it wasn’t him, right?”

“Right.”

“So if it isn’t him, well, this is irrelevant. And if it is him”—Perlmutter took off the glasses—“he lied to you. Isn’t that correct, Mrs. Lawson?”

Her cell phone rang. Grace grabbed it fast and checked the number.

It was Jack.

For a moment she went very still. Grace wanted to excuse herself, but Perlmutter and Daley were both looking at her. Asking for privacy was not really an option here. She hit the answer button and brought the phone to her ear.

“Jack?”

“Hey.”

The sound of his voice should have filled her with relief. It didn’t.

Jack said, “I tried you at home. Where are you?”

“Where am I?”

“Listen, I can’t talk long. I’m sorry about running out on you like that.”

His tone was aiming for casual, but it wasn’t hitting the mark.

“I need a few days,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where are you, Grace?”

“I’m at the police station.”

“You called the police?”

Her eyes met Perlmutter’s. He wiggled his fingers, as if to say, Give me the phone, little lady. I’ll handle it.

“Look, Grace, just give me a few days. I . . .” Jack stopped. And then he said something that made the dread grow tenfold. “I need some space.”

“Space,” she repeated.

“Yes. A little space. That’s all. Please tell the police that I apologize. I have to go now. Okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“Jack?”

He didn’t reply.

“I love you,” Grace said.

But the phone was dead.

chapter 8

Space. Jack said he needed space. And that was all wrong. Never mind that “needing space” was one of those lame, cloying, namby-pamby, New Age we-are-the-world terms that was worse than meaningless—“needing space”—a terrible euphemism for “I’m soooo outta here.” That would have been a clue perhaps, but this went much deeper.

Grace was home now. She had mumbled an apology to Perlmutter and Daley. Both men looked at her with pity and told her that it was all part of the job. They said that they were sorry. Grace offered up a solemn nod and headed for the door.

She had learned something crucial from the phone call.

Jack was in trouble.

She had not been overreacting. His disappearance had nothing to do with running away from her or fear of commitment. It was no accident. It had not been expected or planned. She had picked up the photograph from the store. Jack had seen it and run out.

And now he was in serious danger.

She could never explain this to the police. First off, they wouldn’t believe her. They would claim that she was either delusional or naïve to the point of a learning disability. Maybe not to her face. Maybe they would humor her, which would be both a tremendous irritant and waste of time. They’d been convinced that Jack was on the run before the call. Her explanation would not change their minds.

And maybe that was best.

Grace was trying to read between the lines here. Jack had been concerned about police involvement. That was obvious. When she said that she was at the police station, the regret in his voice was real. That was no act.

Space.

That was the main clue. If he had just told her that he was leaving for a few days, blowing off steam, running off with a stripper he’d met at the Satin Dolls, okay, she might not believe him, but it would be in the realm of possibility. But Jack hadn’t done that. He had been specific about his reasons for disappearing. He even repeated himself.

Jack needed space.

Marital codes. All couples have them. Most were pretty stupid. For example, there was a scene in the Billy Crystal movie Mr. Saturday Night when the comic Crystal played—Grace couldn’t remember the name, barely remembered the movie—pointed at an old man with a terrible toupee and said, “Is that a toupee? I, for one, was fooled.” So now, whenever she and Jack saw a man with a possible toupee, one would turn to the other and say, “I for one?” and the spouse would either agree or disagree. Grace and Jack started using “I for one” for other vanity enhancements too—nose jobs, breast implants, whatever.

The origin of “Need space” was a bit more risqué.

Despite her current predicament, Grace’s cheeks couldn’t help but flush from the memory. Sex had always been very good with Jack, but in any long-term relationship, there are ebbs and flows. This was two years ago, during a time of, uh, great flow. A stage of more corporeal creativity, if you will. Public creativity, to be more specific.

There had been the quick nooky in the changing room at one of those upscale hair salons. There had been under-the-coat manipulation in a private balcony at a lush Broadway musical. But it was midway through a particularly daring encounter in a British-style red phone booth located, in of all places, a quiet street in Allendale, New Jersey, when Jack suddenly panted, “I need space.”

Grace had looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, literally. Back up! The phone receiver is pressing into my neck!”

They’d both laughed. Grace closed her eyes now, a faint smile on her lips. “Need space” had thus joined the ranks of their private marital language. Jack would not use that phrase haphazardly. He was sending her a message, warning her, letting her know that he was saying something he didn’t mean.

Okay, so what did he mean then?

Jack couldn’t speak freely for one thing. Someone was listening. Who? Was someone with him—or was he afraid because she was with the cops? She hoped the latter, that he was alone and simply didn’t want police involvement.

But when she considered all the facts, that possibility seemed unlikely.

If Jack had been free to talk, why hadn’t he called her back? He’d have to realize that she’d be out of the police station by now. If he were okay, if he was alone, Jack would have called again, just to let her know what was going on. He hadn’t done that.

Conclusion: Jack was with somebody and in serious trouble.

Did he want her to react or sit tight? In the same way she knew Jack—in the same way she knew that he’d been sending her a signal—Jack would know that Grace’s reaction would not be to go quietly into that good night. That was not her personality. Jack understood that. She would try to find him.

He had probably counted on that.

Of course, this was all no more than conjecture. She knew her husband well—or maybe she didn’t?—so her conjectures were more than mere fancy. But how much more? Maybe she was just justifying her decision to take action.

Didn’t matter. Either way, she was involved.

Grace thought about what she’d already learned. Jack had taken the Windstar up the New York Thruway. Who did they know up there? Why would he have gone that way so late at night?

She had no idea.

Hold up.

Roll it back to the start: Jack comes home. Jack sees the photograph. That was what set it off. The photograph. He sees it on the kitchen counter. She starts asking him about it. He gets a call from Dan. And then he goes into his study . . .

Stop. His study.

Grace hurried down the hall. Study was a rather ornate word for this converted screened-in porch. The plaster was cracking in spots. There was always a draft in the winter and a stifling lack of anything approaching air in the summer. There were photographs of the kids in cheap frames and two of her paintings in expensive ones. The study felt strangely impersonal to her. Nothing in here told you about the past of the room’s main occupant—no mementos, no softball signed by friends, no photo of a golf foursome taking to the links. Other than some pharmaceutical freebies—pens, pads, a paperclip holder—there were no clues as to who Jack really was other than a husband, father, and researcher.

But maybe that was all there was.

Grace felt weird, snooping. There had been strength, she thought, in respecting one another’s privacy. They each had a room closed off to the other. Grace had always been okay with that. She’d even convinced herself it was healthy. Now she wondered about looking away. She wondered if it’d derived from a desire to give Jack privacy—needing space?!—or because she feared poking a beehive.

His computer was up and online. Jack’s default page was the “official” Grace Lawson Web site. Grace stared at the chair for a moment, the ergonomic gray from the local Staples store, imagining Jack there, turning on the computer every morning, having her face greet him. The site’s home page had a glam shot of Grace along with several examples of her work. Farley, her agent, had recently insisted that she include the photograph in all sales material because, as he put it, “You a babe.” She reluctantly acquiesced. Looks had always been used by the arts to promote the work. On stage and in movies, well, the importance of looks was obvious. Even writers, with their glossy touched-up portraits, the smoldering dark eyes of the next literati wunderkind, marketed appearances. But Grace’s world—painting—had been fairly immune to this pressure, ignoring the creator’s physical beauty, perhaps because the form itself was all about the physical.

But not anymore.

An artist appreciates the importance of the aesthetical, of course. Aesthetics do more than alter perception. They altered reality. Prime example: If Grace had been fat or homely, the TV crews would not have been monitoring her vital signs after she’d been pulled from the Boston Massacre. If she’d been physically unappealing, she would have never been adopted as the “people’s survivor,” the innocent, the “Crushed Angel,” as one tabloid headline dubbed her. The media always broadcasted her image while giving medical updates. The press—nay, the country—demanded constant updates on her condition. The families of victims visited her room, spent time with her, searched her face for ghostly wisps of their own lost children.

Would they have done the same had she been unattractive?

Grace didn’t want to speculate. But as one too-honest art critic had told her: “We have little interest in a painting that has little aesthetic appeal—why should it be different with a human being?”

Even before the Boston Massacre Grace had wanted to be an artist. But something—something elusive and impossible to explain—had been missing. The whole experience had helped take her artistic sensibilities to the next level. Yes, she knew how pretentious that sounded. She had disdained that art-school clatter: You have to suffer for your art; you need tragedy to give your work texture. It had always rung hollow before, but now she understood that there was indeed something to it.

Without changing her conscious viewpoint, her work developed that vague intangible. There was more emotion, more life, more . . . swirl. Her work was darker, angrier, more vivid. People often wondered if she’d ever painted any scenes from that horrible day. The simple answer was only one portrait—a young face so full of hope that you knew it would soon be crushed—but the truer answer was that the Boston Massacre shaded and colored everything she touched.

Grace sat down at Jack’s desk. The phone was to her right. She reached for it, deciding to try the simplest thing first: Hit redial on Jack’s phone.

The phone—a new Panasonic model she’d picked up at Radio Shack—had an LCD screen so she could see the redialed number come up. The 212 area code. New York City. She waited. On the third ring a woman answered and said, “Burton and Crimstein, law office.”

Grace wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“Hello?”

“This is Grace Lawson calling.”

“How may I transfer your call?”

Good question. “How many attorneys work at the firm?”

“I really couldn’t say. Would you like me to connect you with one?”

“Yes, please.”

There was a pause. The voice had a shade of that trying-to-be-helpful impatience now. “Is there one in particular?”

Grace checked the Caller ID. There were too many numbers. She saw that now. Usually long distance calls had eleven numbers. But here there were fifteen, including an asterisk. She mulled that over. If Jack had made the call, it would have been late last night. The receptionists would not have been on duty. Jack probably hit the asterisk button and plugged in an extension.

“Ma’am?”

“Extension four-six-three,” she said, reading off the screen.

“I’ll connect you.”

The phone rang three times.

“Sandra Koval’s line.”

“Ms. Koval please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“My name is Grace Lawson.”

“And what is this in reference to?”

“My husband, Jack.”

“Please hold.”

Grace gripped the phone. Thirty seconds later, the voice came back on.

“I’m sorry. Ms. Koval is in a meeting.”

“It’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I just need a second of her time. Tell her it’s very important.”

The sigh was intentionally audible. “Please hold.”

The hold music was a Muzak version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was strangely calming.

“Can I help you?”

The voice was all clipped professionalism. “Ms. Koval?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Grace Lawson.”

“What do you want?”

“My husband Jack Lawson called your office yesterday.”

She did not reply.

“He’s missing.”

“Pardon?”

“My husband is missing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t see—”

“Do you know where he is, Ms. Koval?”

“Why on earth would I know?”

“He made a phone call last night. Before he disappeared.”

“So?”

“I hit the redial button. This number came up.”

“Ms. Lawson, this firm employs more than two hundred attorneys. He could have been calling any of them.”

“No. Your extension is here, on the redial display. He called you.”

No reply.

“Ms. Koval?”

“I’m here.”

“Why did my husband call you?”

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Ms. Lawson, are you familiar with attorney-client privilege?”

“Of course.”

More silence.

“Are you saying my husband called you for legal advice?”

“I cannot discuss the situation with you. Good-bye.”

chapter 9

It didn’t take Grace long to put it together.

The Internet could be a wonderful tool when used properly. Grace had Googled the words “Sandra Koval,” for Web hits, for newsgroups, for images. She checked the Burton and Crimstein Web site. There were bios of all their lawyers. Sandra Koval had graduated from Northwestern. She had gotten her law degree at UCLA. Based on the years of graduation, Sandra Koval would be forty-two or so. She was married, according to the site, to one Harold Koval. They had three children.

They lived in Los Angeles.

That had been the giveaway.

Grace had done a little more research, some the old-fashioned way: with a telephone. The pieces started to come together. The problem was, the picture made no sense.

The drive into Manhattan had taken less than an hour. Burton and Crimstein’s reception desk was on the fifth floor. The receptionist/ security guard gave her a closed-mouth smile. “Yes?”

“Grace Lawson to see Sandra Koval.”

The receptionist made a call, speaking in a voice below a whisper. A moment later, she said, “Ms. Koval will be right out.”

That was something of surprise. Grace had been prepared to launch threats or accept a long wait. She knew what Koval looked like—there had been a photograph of her on the Burton and Crimstein Web site—so she’d even accepted the fact that she might have to confront her as she left.

In the end Grace had decided to take the chance and drive into Manhattan without calling first. Not only did she feel she’d need the element of surprise, but she very much wanted to confront Sandra Koval face to face. Call it necessity. Call it curiosity. Grace had to see this woman for herself.

It was still early enough. Emma had a play-date after school. Max attended an “enrichment program” today. She wouldn’t need to pick either of them up for several hours yet.

The reception area of Burton and Crimstein was part old-world attorney—rich mahogany, lush carpeting, tapestry-clad seating, the décor that foreshadows the billing—and part Sardi’s celebrity wall. Photographs, mostly of Hester Crimstein, the famed TV attorney, adorned the walls. Crimstein had a show on Court TV cleverly dubbed Crimstein on Crime. The photos included Ms. Crimstein with a bevy of actors, politicos, clients, and, well, combinations of all three.

Grace was studying a photograph of Hester Crimstein standing alongside an attractive olive-skinned woman when a voice behind her said, “That’s Esperanza Diaz. A professional wrestler falsely accused of murder.”

Grace turned. “Little Pocahontas,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

Grace pointed at the photograph. “Her wrestling name. It was Little Pocahontas.”

“How do you know that?”

Grace shrugged. “I’m a swarm of useless facts.”

For a moment Grace openly stared at Sandra Koval. Koval cleared her throat and made a big production of looking at her watch. “I don’t have much time. Please come this way.”

Neither woman spoke as they headed down the corridor and into a conference room. There was a long table, maybe twenty chairs, one of those gray speakerphones in the middle that looks suspiciously like a dropped octopus. There were a variety of soft drinks and bottled water on a counter in the corner.

Sandra Koval kept her distance. She crossed her arms and made a gesture that said, Well?

“I did some research on you,” Grace said.

“Care to sit?”

“No.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Suit yourself.”

“How about a drink?”

“No.”

Sandra Koval poured herself a Diet Coke. She was what you’d call a handsome woman rather than pretty or beautiful. Her hair was going a gray that worked for her. Her figure was slim, her lips full. She had one of those lick-the-world postures that let your adversaries know that you were comfortable with yourself and more than ready to do battle.

“Why aren’t we in your office?” Grace asked.

“You don’t care for this room?”

“It’s a tad large.”

Sandra Koval shrugged.

“You don’t have an office here, do you?”

“You tell me.”

“When I called, the woman answered ‘Sandra Koval’s line.’ ”

“Uh huh.”

“Line, she said. Line. Not office.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?”

“On its own, no,” Grace said. “But I looked up the law firm on the Web. You live in Los Angeles. Near the Burton and Crimstein West Coast office.”

“True enough.”

“That’s your home base. You’re visiting here. Why?”

“A criminal case,” she said. “An innocent man wrongly accused.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“No,” Sandra Koval said slowly. “Not all.”

Grace moved closer to her. “You’re not Jack’s lawyer,” she said. “You’re his sister.”

Sandra Koval stared at her drink.

“I called your law school. They confirmed what I suspected. Sandra Koval was the married name. The woman who graduated was named Sandra Lawson. I double-checked it through LawMar Securities. Your grandfather’s firm. Sandra Koval is listed as a member of the board.”

She smiled without humor. “My, aren’t we the little Sherlock.”

“So where is he?” Grace asked.

“How long have you two been married?”

“Ten years.”

“And in all that time, how many times has Jack talked about me?”

“Pretty much never.”

Sandra Koval spread her hands. “Precisely. So why would I know where he is?”

“Because he called you.”

“So you say.”

“I hit the redial button.”

“Right, you told me that on the phone.”

“Are you saying he didn’t call you?”

“When did this call purportedly take place?”

“Purportedly?”

Sandra Koval shrugged. “Always the lawyer.”

“Last night. Around ten o’clock.”

“Well, there’s your answer then. I wasn’t here.”

“Where were you?”

“At my hotel.”

“But Jack called your line.”

“If he did, nobody would have answered. Not at that hour. It would have gone into voice mail.”

“You checked the messages today?”

“Of course. And no, none from Jack.”

Grace tried to digest that. “When was the last time you spoke to Jack?”

“A long time ago.”

“How long?”

Her gaze flicked away. “We haven’t spoken since he went overseas.”

“That was fifteen years ago.”

Sandra Koval took another sip.

“How would he still know your phone number?” Grace asked.

She didn’t reply.

“Sandra?”

“You live at 221 North End Ave in Kasselton. You have two phone lines, one the phone, one the fax.” Sandra repeated the two numbers from memory.

The two women looked at each other. “But you’ve never called?”

Her voice was soft. “Never.”

The speakerphone squawked. “Sandra?”

“Yes.”

“Hester wants to see you in her office.”

“On my way.” Sandra Koval broke the eye contact. “I have to go now.”

“Why would Jack try to call you?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s in trouble.”

“So you say.”

“He’s disappeared.”

“Not for the first time, Grace.”

The room felt smaller now. “What happened between you and Jack?”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

Sandra shifted in her seat. “You said he disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“And Jack hasn’t called?”

“Actually, he has.”

That puzzled her. “And when he called, what did he say?”

“That he needed space. But he didn’t mean it. It was code.”

Sandra made a face. Grace took out the photograph and placed it on the table. The air rushed out of the room. Sandra Koval looked down and Grace could see her body jolt.

“What the hell is this?”

“Funny,” Grace said.

“What?”

“Those are the exact words Jack used when he saw it.”

Sandra was still staring at the picture.

“That’s him, right? In the middle with the beard?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. Who’s the blonde next to him?”

Grace dropped the blowup of the young woman onto the table. Sandra Koval looked up. “Where did you get these?”

“The Photomat.” Grace quickly explained. Sandra Koval’s face clouded over. She wasn’t buying it. “Is it Jack, yes or no?”

“I really can’t say. I’ve never seen him with a beard.”

“Why would he call you immediately after seeing this picture?”

“I don’t know, Grace.”

“You’re lying.”

Sandra Koval pushed herself to a stand. “I have a meeting.”

“What happened to Jack?”

“What makes you so sure he didn’t just run away?”

“We’re married. We have two kids. You, Sandra, have a niece and nephew.”

“And I had a brother,” she countered. “Maybe neither one of us knows him that well.”

“Do you love him?”

Sandra stood there, shoulders slumped. “Leave it alone, Grace.”

“I can’t.”

Shaking her head, Sandra turned toward the door.

“I’m going to find him,” Grace said.

“Don’t count on it.”

And then she was gone.

chapter 10

Okay, Charlaine thought, mind your own business.

She drew the curtains and changed back into her jeans and sweater. She put the babydoll back in the bottom of her drawer, taking her time, folding it very carefully for some reason. As if Freddy would notice if it was wrinkled. Right.

She took a bottle of seltzer water and mixed in a little of her son’s fruit punch Twister. Charlaine sat on a stool at the marble kitchen block. She stared at the glass. Her finger traced loops in the condensation. She glanced at the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the new 690 model with the stainless steel front. There was nothing on it—no kid pictures, no family photographs, no finger smears, not even magnets. When they had the old yellow Westinghouse, the front had been blanketed with that stuff. There had been vitality and color. The remodeled kitchen, the one she had wanted so much, was sterile, lifeless.

Who was the Asian man driving Freddy’s car?

Not that she kept tabs on him, but Freddy had very few visitors. She could, in fact, recall none. That didn’t mean he didn’t have any, of course. She did not spend her entire day watching his house. Still a neighborhood has a routine of its own. A vibe, if you will. A neighborhood is an entity, a body, and you can feel when something is out of place.

The ice in her drink was melting. Charlaine had not yet taken a sip. There was food shopping to be done. Mike’s shirts would be ready at the cleaner. She was having lunch with her friend Myrna at Baumgart’s on Franklin Avenue. Clay had karate with Master Kim after school.

She mentally ran through the rest of her to-do list and tried to come up with an order. Mindless stuff. Would there be time before lunch to do the food shopping and get back to the house? Probably not. The frozen goods would melt in the car. That errand would have to wait.

She stopped. To hell with this.

Freddy should be at work now.

That was how it’d always worked. Their perverted little dance lasted from around ten to ten-thirty. By ten-forty-five, Charlaine always heard that garage door open. She’d watch his Honda Accord pull out. Freddy worked, she knew, for H&R Block. It was in the same strip mall as the Blockbuster where she rented the DVDs. His desk was near the window. She avoided walking past it, but some days, when she parked, she would look over and see Freddy staring out the window, pencil resting against his lips, lost.

Charlaine found the yellow pages and looked up the number. A man identifying himself as a supervisor said that Mr. Sykes was not in but was expected at any moment. She pretended to be put out. “He told me he’d be in by now. Doesn’t he normally get in at eleven?”

The supervisor admitted that he did.

“So where is he? I really need those figures.”

The supervisor apologized and assured her that Mr. Sykes would call the moment he arrived at his desk. She hung up.

Now what?

Something still felt very wrong here.

But so what? Who was Freddy Sykes to her anyway? Nothing. In a way, less than nothing. He was a reminder of her failures. He was a symptom of how pathetic she had become. She owed him nothing. More than that, imagine, just imagine, if poking around got her caught. Imagine if somehow the truth came out.

Charlaine looked over at Freddy’s place. The truth coming out.

Somehow that no longer bothered her all that much.

She grabbed her coat and headed toward Freddy’s house.

chapter 11

Eric Wu had seen the lingerie-clad woman in the window. The previous night had been a long one for Wu. He had not anticipated any interference, and while the large man—his wallet said his name was Rocky Conwell—had presented no threat, Wu now had to get rid of a body and another car. That meant an extra trip back up to Central Valley, New York.

First things first. He packed Rocky Conwell into the trunk of his Toyota Celica. He moved Jack Lawson, whom he had originally jammed into the Honda Accord’s trunk, to the back of the Ford Windstar. Once the bodies were out of sight, Wu changed license plates, got rid of the E-ZPass, and drove the Ford Windstar back to Ho-Ho-Kus. He parked the minivan in Freddy Sykes’s garage. There was still enough time to catch a bus back up to Central Valley. Wu searched Conwell’s car. Satisfied that it was cleared out, he took it to the Park-n-Ride on Route 17. He found a remote spot near the fence. A car being left there for days, even weeks, was not unusual. The smell would eventually bring attention, but that would not be anytime soon.

The Park-n-Ride was only three miles from Sykes’s house in Ho-Ho-Kus. Wu walked. Early the next morning, he rose and caught the bus back to Central Valley. He picked up Sykes’s Honda Accord. On the way back, he took a brief detour past the Lawson residence.

A patrol car was in the driveway.

Wu considered that. It did not cause him great concern, but perhaps he should nip any police involvement in the bud. He knew just how.

Wu drove back to Freddy’s residence and turned on the television. Wu liked daytime TV. He enjoyed watching shows like Springer and Ricki Lake. Most people poo-pooed them. Wu did not. Only a truly great society, a free one, could allow such nonsense to air. But more than that, stupidity made Wu happy. People were sheep. The weaker they are, the stronger you are. What could be more comforting or entertaining?

During a commercial—the theme of the show, according to a graphic on the bottom: “Mommy Won’t Let Me Get a Nipple Ring!”—Wu rose. It was time to take care of the potential police problem.

Wu didn’t need to touch Jack Lawson. All he had to say was one sentence: “I know that you have two children.”

Lawson cooperated. He made the call to his wife’s cell phone and told her he needed space.

At ten-forty-five—with Wu watching a mother and daughter wrestle across a stage while a crowd chanted “Jerry!”—a call came in from a prison acquaintance.

“All okay?”

Wu said yes.

He pulled the Honda Accord out of the garage. As he did, he noticed the woman who lived next door standing in the window. She was wearing lingerie. Wu might not have thought much about the scene—a woman still in her unmentionables after ten in the morning—but something about the way she suddenly ducked away. . . .

That might have been a natural reaction. You parade around in lingerie, forgetting to pull down your shade, and then you spot a stranger. Many people, perhaps most people, would move away or cover up. So it could be nothing.

But the woman had moved very fast, as if in a panic. More than that, she had not moved when the car first pulled out—only when she’d spotted Wu. If she had been afraid of being seen, wouldn’t she have pulled the shade or ducked down when she first heard or saw the car?

Wu pondered that. He had, in fact, been pondering it all day.

He picked up his cell phone and hit the button to dial the last incoming number.

A voice said, “Problem?”

“I don’t think so.” Wu turned the car around and started back toward the Sykes house. “But I may be late.”

chapter 12

Grace didn’t want to make the phone call.

She was still in New York City. There was a law against using a cell phone while driving unless it was hands-free, though that had nothing to do with her hesitation. With one hand on the steering wheel, she felt around on the floor of the car. She located the ear attachment, managed to untangle the cord, and jammed the earpiece deep into the canal.

This was supposed to be safer than using a handheld?

She turned on the cell phone. Though Grace hadn’t called the number in years, she still had it programmed into the cell. For emergencies, she supposed. Like this one.

The phone was answered on the first ring.

“Yes?”

No name. No hello. No company greeting.

“This is Grace Lawson.”

“Hold.”

The wait was not long. First Grace heard the static and then, “Grace?”

“Hello, Mr. Vespa.”

“Please call me Carl.”

“Carl, right.”

“You got my message?” he asked.

“Yes.” She did not tell Carl Vespa that it had nothing to do with why she was calling now. There was feedback on the line. “Where are you?” she asked.

“My jet. We’re about an hour outside of Stewart.”

Stewart was an air force base and airport about an hour and a half from her house.

Silence.

“Is something wrong, Grace?”

“You said to call if I ever needed anything.”

“And now, fifteen years later, you do?”

“I think so.”

“Good. And your timing couldn’t be better. There’s something I want to show you.”

“What’s that?”

“Listen, are you home?”

“I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll pick you up in two, two and a half, hours. We can talk then, okay? Do you have someone to watch the kids?”

“I should be able to find someone.”

“If you can’t, I’ll leave my assistant at your house. See you then.”

Carl Vespa hung up. Grace kept driving. She wondered what he wanted from her now. She wondered about the wisdom of calling him in the first place. She hit the first number on her speed-dial again—Jack’s cell phone—but there was still no answer.

Grace had another idea. She called her friend of the no-ménage, Cora.

“Didn’t you used to date a guy who worked in e-mail spam?” Grace asked.

“Yep,” Cora said. “Obsessive creep named—get this—Gus. Hard to get rid of. I had to use my own version of a bunker buster on him.”

“What did you do?”

“I told Gus he had a small wee-wee.”

“Ouch.”

“Like I said, the bunker buster. Works every time, but there’s often, uh, collateral damage.”

“I might need his help.”

“How?”

Grace was not sure how to put this. She decided to concentrate on the blonde with the X across her face, the one she was sure she’d seen before. “I found this photograph . . . ,” she began.

“Right.”

“And there’s this woman in it. She’s probably late teens, early twenties.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s an old picture. I’d say fifteen, twenty years old. Anyway, I need to find out who the girl is. I was thinking maybe I could send it out via spam mail. It could ask if anyone can identify the girl for a research project, something like that. I know most people erase those e-mails, but if a few looked, I don’t know, maybe I could get a response.”

“Long shot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And wow, talk about creeps coming out of the woodwork. Imagine the replies.”

“Got a better idea?”

“Not really, no. It could work, I guess. By the way, you notice I’m not asking you why you need to find the identity of a woman in a picture from fifteen, twenty years ago?”

“I do.”

“I just wanted it noted for the record.”

“So noted. It’s a long story.”

“You need someone to tell?”

“I might. I might also need someone to watch the kids for a few hours.”

“I’m available and alone.” Pause. “Sheesh, I have to stop saying that.”

“Where’s Vickie?” Vickie was Cora’s daughter.

“She’s spending the night at the McMansion with my ex and his horse-faced wife. Or as I prefer to put it, she’s spending the night in the bunker with Adolf and Eva.”

Grace managed a smile.

“My car is in the shop,” Cora said. “Can you pick me up on the way?”

“I’ll be there right after I grab Max.”

Grace swung by the Montessori Enrichment program and grabbed her son. Max had that near-tears thing going on, having lost several of his Yu-Gi-Oh! cards to a classmate in some dumb game. Grace tried to humor him, but he wasn’t in the mood. She gave up. She helped him get his jacket on. His hat was missing. So was one of his gloves. Another mother smiled and whistled while bundling up her little bundle in color-coordinated knit (hand-knit, no doubt) hat, scarf, and yes, matching gloves. She looked over at Grace and faked a sympathetic smile. Grace did not know this woman, but she disliked her intensely.

Being a mother, Grace thought, was a lot like being an artist—you are always insecure, you always feel like a phony, you know that everybody else is better at it than you. The mothers who doted obsessively on their offspring, the ones who performed their numbing tasks with that Stepford-ready smile and supernatural patience—you know, those mothers who always, always, have the right supplies for the ideal after-school craft . . . Grace suspected that these women were profoundly disturbed.

Cora was waiting in the driveway of her bubble-gum-pink house. Everybody on the block hated the color. For a while, one neighbor, a prissy thing properly named Missy, had started up a petition demanding that Cora repaint it. Grace had seen Prissy Missy passing around the petition at a first-grade soccer game. Grace had asked to see it, ripped it up, and walked away.

The color was hardly to Grace’s taste, but memo to the Missys of the world: Get over yourselves.

Cora teetered toward them in her stiletto heels. She was dressed slightly more demurely—a sweatshirt over the leotard—but it really didn’t matter. Some women oozed sex, even if dressed in a burlap sack. Cora was one of them. When she moved, new curves were formed even as old ones disappeared. Every line from her husky voice, no matter how innocuous, came out as a double entendre. Every tilt of the head was a come-on.

Cora slid in and looked back at Max. “Hey, handsome.”

Max grunted and didn’t look up.

“Just like my ex.” Cora spun back around. “You got that photo?”

“I do.”

“I called Gus. He’ll do it.”

“Did you promise anything in return?”

“Remember what I said about fifth-date syndrome? Well, are you free Saturday night?”

Grace looked at her.

“Kidding.”

“I knew that.”

“Good. Anyway, Gus said to scan the photo and e-mail it to him. He can set up an anonymous e-mail address for you to receive replies. No one will know who you are. We’ll keep the text to a minimum, just say that a journalist is doing a story and needs to know the origin of the photograph. That sound okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They arrived at the house. Max stomped upstairs and then shouted down, “Can I watch SpongeBob?”

Grace acquiesced. Like every parent, Grace had strict rules about no TV during the day. Like every parent, she knew that rules were made to be broken. Cora headed straight for the cupboard and made coffee. Grace thought about which photograph to send and decided to use a blowup of the right side, the blonde with the X on her face and the redhead on her left. She left Jack’s image—again, assuming that was Jack—out. She didn’t yet want him involved. She decided that having two people increased chances of getting an identity hit and made the solicitation look less like the work of a crazed stalker.

Cora looked at the original photograph. “May I make an observation?”

“Yes.”

“This is pretty weird.”

“The guy over here”—Grace pointed—“the one with the beard. Who does that look like to you?”

Cora squinted. “I guess it could be Jack.”

“Could be or is?”

“You tell me.”

“Jack’s missing.”

“Come again?”

She told Cora the story. Cora listened, tapping a too-long fingernail painted up in Chanel’s Rouge Noir, a color not unlike blood, on the tabletop. When Grace finished, Cora said, “You know, of course, that I have a low opinion of men.”

“I know.”

“I believe that, for the most part, they are two floors below dog turd.”

“I know that too.”

“So the obvious answer is that, yes, this is a picture of Jack. That, yes, this little blondie, the one gazing up at him like he’s the messiah, is an old flame. That yes, Jack and Mary Magdalene here are having an affair. That someone, maybe her current husband, wanted you to find out about it, so he sent you that picture. That everything came to a head when Jack realized that you were onto him.”

“And that’s why he ran away?”

“Correct.”

“That doesn’t add up, Cora.”

“You have a better theory?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Good,” Cora said, “because I don’t buy it either. I’m just talking. The rule is thus: Men are scum. Jack, however, has always hit me as the exception that proves the rule.”

“I love you, you know.”

Cora nodded. “Everybody does.”

Grace heard a sound and glanced out the window. A stretch limousine of glistening black slid up the driveway with the smoothness of a Motown background singer. The chauffeur, a rat-faced man with the build of a whippet, hurried to open the car’s back door.

Carl Vespa had arrived.

Despite his rumored vocation, Carl Vespa did not dress in Sopranos-style velour or shiny, sealant-coated suits. He preferred khakis, Joseph Abboud sports coats, and loafers sans socks. He was mid-sixties but looked a solid decade younger. His hair was tickling-the-shoulders long, the color a distinguished shade of blond-gone-to-gray. His face was tanned and had the sort of waxy smoothness that suggests Botox. His teeth were aggressively capped, as if the front cuspids had taken growth hormones.

He nodded an order at the whippetlike driver and approached the house on his own. Grace opened the door to greet him. Carl Vespa gave her the toothy dazzler. She smiled back, glad to see him. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. No words were exchanged. They didn’t need them. He held both her hands and looked at her. She could see his eyes start to well up.

Max moved to his mother’s right. Vespa let go and took a step back.

“Max,” Grace began, “this is Mr. Vespa.”

“Hello, Max.”

“That your car?” Max asked.

“Yes.”

Max looked at the car, then at Vespa. “Got a TV inside?”

“It does.”

“Whoa.”

Cora cleared her throat.

“Oh, and this is my friend, Cora.”

“Charmed,” Vespa said.

Cora looked at the car, then at Vespa. “You single?”

“I am.”

“Whoa.”

Grace repeated the baby-sitting instructions for the sixth time. Cora pretended to listen. Grace gave her twenty dollars to order pizza and that cheesy bread Max had become enamored with of late. A classmate’s mom would bring Emma home in an hour.

Grace and Vespa headed toward the limousine. The rat-faced driver had the door opened and at the ready. Vespa said, “This is Cram,” gesturing to the driver. When Cram shook her hand, Grace had to bite back a scream.

“A pleasure,” Cram said. His smile brought on visions of a Discovery Channel documentary on sea predators. She slid in first and Carl Vespa followed.

There were Waterford glasses and a matching decanter half-filled with a liquid that appeared both caramel and luxurious. There was, as noted, a television set. Above her seat was a DVD player, multiple CD player, climate controls, and enough buttons to confuse an airline pilot. The whole thing—the crystal, the decanter, the electronics—was overstated, but maybe that was what you wanted in a stretch limousine.

“Where are we going?” Grace asked.

“It’s a little hard to explain.” They were sitting next to each other, both facing forward. “I’d rather just show it to you, if that’s okay.”

Carl Vespa had been the first lost parent to loom over her hospital bed. When Grace first came out of the coma, his was the first face she saw. She had no idea who he was, where she was, what day it was. More than a week was gone from her memory banks. Carl Vespa ended up sitting in her hospital room for days on end, sleeping in the chair next to her. He made sure that plenty of flowers surrounded her. He made sure that she had a good view, soothing music, enough pain medication, private nursing. He made sure that once Grace was able to eat, the hospital staff didn’t give her the standard slop.

He never asked her for details of that night because, in truth, she really could not provide any. Over the next few months they talked for countless hours. He told her stories, mostly about his failures as a father. He had used his connections to get into her hospital room that first night. He had paid off security—interestingly enough, the security firm at the hospital was actually controlled by organized crime—and then he had simply sat with her.

Eventually other parents followed his lead. It was weird. They wanted to be around her. That was all. They found comfort in it. Their child had died in Grace’s presence and it was as if maybe a small part of their souls, their forever-lost son or daughter, somehow still lived inside of her. It made no sense and yet Grace thought that maybe she understood.

These heartbroken parents came to talk about their dead children, and Grace listened. She figured that she owed them at least that much. She knew that these relationships were probably unhealthy, but there was no way she could turn them away. The truth was, Grace had no family of her own. She’d thrived, for a little while at least, on the attention. They needed a child; she needed a parent. It wasn’t that simple—this malaise of cross-projection—but Grace wasn’t sure she could explain it any better.

The limo headed south on the Garden State Parkway now. Cram flipped on the radio. Classical music, a violin concerto from the sound of it, came through the speakers.

Vespa said, “You know, of course, that the anniversary is coming up.”

“I do,” she said, though she had done her best to ignore it all. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since that awful night at the Boston Garden. The papers had run all the expected “Where Are They Now?” commemorative pieces. The parents and survivors all handled it differently. Most participated because they felt it was one way to keep the memory of what happened alive. There had been heart-wrenching articles on the Garrisons and the Reeds and the Weiders. The security guard, Gordon MacKenzie, who was credited with saving many by forcing open locked emergency exits, now worked as a police captain in Brookline, a Boston suburb. Even Carl Vespa had allowed a picture of him and his wife, Sharon, sitting in their yard, both still looking as if someone had just hollowed out their insides.

Grace had gone the other way. With her art career in full swing, she did not want even the appearance of capitalizing on the tragedy. She had been injured, that was all, and to make more of it than that reminded her of those washed-up actors who come out of the woodwork to shed crocodile tears when a hated costar suddenly died. She wanted no part of it. The attention should be given to the dead and those they left behind.

“He’s up for parole again,” Vespa said. “Wade Larue, I mean.”

She knew, of course.

The stampede that night had been blamed on Wade Larue, currently a resident of Walden Prison outside Albany, New York. He was the one who fired the shots creating the panic. The defense’s claim was interesting. They argued that Wade Larue didn’t do it—forget the gun residue found on his hands, the gun belonging to him, the bullet match to the gun, the witnesses who saw him fire—but if he did do it, he was too stoned to remember. Oh, and if neither of those rationales floated your boat, Wade Larue couldn’t have known that firing a gun would cause the death of eighteen people and the injury of dozens more.

The case proved to be controversial. The prosecutors went for eighteen counts of murder, but the jury didn’t see it that way. Larue’s lawyer ended up cutting a deal for eighteen counts of manslaughter. Nobody really worried too much about sentencing. Carl Vespa’s only son had died that night. Remember what happened when Gotti’s son was killed in a car accident? The man driving the car, a family man, has never been heard from again. A similar fate, most agreed, would befall Wade Larue, except this time, the general public would probably applaud the outcome.

For a while, Larue was kept isolated in Walden Prison. Grace didn’t follow the story closely, but the parents—parents like Carl Vespa—still called and wrote all the time. They needed to see her every once in a while. As a survivor, she had become a vessel of some sort, carrying the dead. Putting aside the physical recuperation, this emotional pressure—this awesome, impossible responsibility—was a big part of the reason for Grace’s going overseas.

Eventually Larue had been put in general population. Rumor had it he was beaten and abused by his fellow inmates, but for whatever reason, he lived. Carl Vespa had decided to forgo the hit. Maybe it was a sign of mercy. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Grace didn’t know.

Vespa said, “He finally stopped claiming total innocence. Did you hear that? He admits he fired his gun, but that he just freaked out when the lights went out.”

Which made sense. For her part, Grace had seen Wade Larue only once. She had been called to testify, though her testimony had nothing to do with guilt and innocence—she had almost no memory of the stampede, never mind who fired the gun—and everything to do with inflaming the passion of the jury. But Grace didn’t need revenge. To her Wade Larue was stoned out of his mind, a souped-up punk more worthy of pity than hate.

“Do you think he’ll get out?” she asked.

“He has a new lawyer. She’s damn good.”

“And if she gets him released?”

Vespa smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read about me.” Then he added, “Besides, Wade Larue isn’t the only one to blame for that night.”

“What do you mean?”

He opened his mouth and then fell silent. Then: “It’s like I said. I’d rather show you.”

Something about his tone told her to change subjects. “You said you were single,” Grace said.

“Pardon?”

“You told my friend you were single.”

He waved his finger. No ring. “Sharon and I divorced two years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It hasn’t been right for a long time.” He shrugged, looking off. “How is your family?”

“Okay.”

“I sense some hesitation.”

She may have shrugged.

“On the phone, you said you needed my help.”

“I think so.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“My husband . . .” She stopped. “I think my husband is in trouble.”

She told him the story. His eyes stayed straight ahead, avoiding her gaze. He nodded every once in a while, but the nods seemed strangely out of context. His expression didn’t change, which was strange. Carl Vespa was usually more animated. After she stopped talking, he didn’t say anything for a long time.

“This photograph,” Vespa said. “Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.” She handed it to him. His hand, she noticed, had a small quake. Vespa stared at the picture for a very long time.

“Can I keep this?” he asked.

“I have copies.”

Vespa’s eyes were still on the images. “Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions?” he asked.

“I guess not.”

“Do you love your husband?”

“Very much.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

Carl Vespa had only met Jack once. He had sent a wedding gift when they got married. He sent gifts on Emma’s and Max’s birthday too. Grace wrote him thank-you notes and gave the gifts to charity. She didn’t mind being connected to him, she guessed, but she didn’t want her children . . . what was the phrase? . . . tainted by the association.

“You two met in Paris, right?”

“Southern France, actually. Why?”

“And how did you meet again?”

“What’s the difference?”

He hesitated a second too long. “I guess I’m trying to learn how well you know your husband.”

“We’ve been married ten years.”

“I understand that.” He shifted in his seat. “You were there on vacation when you met?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a vacation exactly.”

“You were studying. You were painting.”

“Yes.”

“And, well, mostly you were running away.”

She said nothing.

“And Jack?” Vespa continued. “Why was he there?”

“Same reason, I guess.”

“He was running away?”

“Yes.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know.”

“May I state the obvious then?”

She waited.

“Whatever he was running from”—Vespa gestured toward the photograph—“it caught up to him.”

The thought had occurred to Grace too. “That was a long time ago.”

“So was the Boston Massacre. Your running away. Did it make it go away?”

In the rearview mirror she saw Cram glance at her, waiting for an answer. She kept still.

“Nothing stays in the past, Grace. You know that.”

“I love my husband.”

He nodded.

“Will you help me?”

“You know I will.”

The car veered off the Garden State Parkway. Up ahead, Grace saw an enormous bland structure with a cross on it. It looked like an airplane hangar. A neon sign stated that tickets were still available for the “Concerts with the Lord.” A band called Rapture would be playing. Cram pulled the limo into a parking lot big enough to declare statehood.

“What are we doing here?”

“Finding God,” Carl Vespa said. “Or maybe His opposite. Let’s go inside, I want to show you something.”

chapter 13

This was nuts, Charlaine thought.

Her feet moved steadily toward Freddy Sykes’s yard without thought or emotion. It had crossed her mind that she could be raising the danger stakes out of desperation, hungry as she was for any kind of drama in her life. But okay, again, so what? Really, when she thought about it, what was the worst that could happen? Suppose Mike did find out. Would he leave her? Would that be so bad?

Did she want to get caught?

Oh, enough with the amateur self-analysis. It wouldn’t hurt to knock on Freddy’s door, pretend to be neighborly. Two years ago, Mike had put up a four-foot-high stockade fence in the backyard. He had wanted one higher, but the town ordinance wouldn’t allow it unless you owned a swimming pool.

Charlaine opened the gate separating her backyard from Freddy’s. Odd. This was a first. She had never opened the gate before.

As she got closer to Freddy’s back door, she realized how weathered his house was. The paint was peeling. The garden was overgrown. Weeds sprouted up through the cracks in the walk. There were patches of dead grass everywhere. She turned and glanced at her own house. She had never seen it from this angle. It too looked tired.

She was at Freddy’s back door.

Okay, now what?

Knock on it, stupid.

She did. She started with a soft rap. No answer. She pounded louder. Nothing. She pressed her ear against the door. Like that would do any good. Like she’d hear a muffled cry or something.

There was no sound.

The shades were still down, but there were wedges that the shades couldn’t quite cover. She put an eye up to an opening and peered in. The living room had a lime-green couch so worn it looked like it was melting. There was a vinyl recliner of maroon in the corner. The television looked new. The wall had old paintings of clowns. The piano was loaded with old black-and-white photographs. There was one of a wedding. Freddy’s parents, Charlaine figured. There was another of the groom looking painfully handsome in an army uniform. There was one more photograph of the same man holding a baby, a smile spread across his face. Then the man—the soldier, the groom—was gone. The rest of the photographs were of either Freddy alone or with his mother.

The room was immaculate—no, preserved. Stuck in a time warp, unused, untouched. There was a collection of small figurines on a side table. More photographs too. A life, Charlaine thought. Freddy Sykes had a life. It was a strange thought, but there you have it.

Charlaine circled toward the garage. There was one window in the back. A flimsy curtain of pretend lace hung across it. She stood on her tiptoes. Her fingers gripped the window ledge. The wood was so old it almost broke away. Peeling paint flaked off like dandruff.

She looked into the garage.

There was another car.

Not a car actually. A minivan. A Ford Windstar. When you live in a town like this, you know all the models.

Freddy Sykes did not own a Ford Windstar.

Maybe his young Asian guest did. That would make sense, right?

She was not convinced.

So what next?

Charlaine stared down at the ground and wondered. She had been wondering since she first decided to approach the house. She had known before leaving the safety of her own kitchen that there would be no answer to her knocks. She also knew that peeking in the windows—peeping on the peeper?—would do no good.

The rock.

It was there, in what had once been a vegetable garden. She had seen Freddy use it once. It wasn’t a real rock. It was one of those hide-a-keys. They were so common now that criminals probably looked for them before checking under the mat.

Charlaine bent down, picked up the rock, and turned it over. All she had to do was slide the little panel back and take the key out. She did so. The key rested in her palm, glistening in the sunlight.

Here was the line. The no-going-back line.

She moved toward the back door.

chapter 14

Still wearing the sea-predator smile, Cram opened the door and Grace stepped out of the limousine. Carl Vespa slid out on his own. The huge neon sign listed a church affiliation that Grace had never heard of. The motto, according to several signs around the edifice, seemed to indicate that this was “God’s House.” If that were true, God could use a more creative architect. The structure held all the splendor and warmth of a highway mega-store.

The interior was even worse—tacky enough to make Graceland look understated. The wall-to-wall carpeting was a shiny shade of red usually reserved for a mall girl’s lipstick. The wallpaper was darker, more blood-colored, a velvet affair adorned with hundreds of stars and crosses. The effect made Grace dizzy. The main chapel or house of worship—or, most suitably, arena—held pews rather than seats. They looked uncomfortable, but then again wasn’t standing encouraged? The cynical side of Grace suspected that the reason all religious services had you sporadically stand had nothing to do with devotion and everything to do with keeping congregants from falling asleep.

As soon as she entered the arena, Grace felt a flutter in her heart.

The altar, done up in the green and gold of a cheerleader’s uniform, was being wheeled offstage. Grace looked for preachers with bad toupees, but none were to be found. The band—Grace assumed this was Rapture—was setting up. Carl Vespa stopped in front of her, his eyes on the stage.

“Is this your church?” she asked him.

A small smile came to his lips. “No.”

“Is it safe to assume that you’re not a fan of, uh, Rapture?”

Vespa didn’t answer the question. “Let’s move down closer to the stage.”

Cram took the lead. There were security guards, but they swept aside as if Cram were toxic.

“What’s going on here?” Grace asked.

Vespa kept moving down the steps. When they reached what a theater would call the orchestra—what do you call the good seats in a church?—she looked up and got a whole new feel for the size of the place. It was a huge theater-in-the-round. The stage was in the center, surrounded on all sides. Grace felt the constriction in her throat.

Dress it up in a religious cloak, but there was no mistake.

This felt like a rock concert.

Vespa took her hand. “It’ll be okay.”

But it wouldn’t be. She knew that. She had not been to a concert or sporting event in any “arena venue” in fifteen years. She used to love going to concerts. She remembered seeing Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band at Asbury Park Convention Center during her high school days. What was strange to her, what she had realized even back then, was that the line between rock concert and intense religious service was not all that thick. There was a moment when Bruce played “Meeting Across the River” followed by “Jungleland”—two of Grace’s favorites—when she was on her feet, her eyes closed, sheen of sweat on her face, when she was simply gone, lost, shaking with bliss, the same bliss she’d witness on TV when a televangelist got the crowd on its feet, hands raised and shaking.

She loved that feeling. And she knew that she never wanted to experience it again.

Grace pulled her hand away from Carl Vespa’s. He nodded as if he understood. “Come on,” he said gently. Grace limped behind him. The limp, it seemed to her, was getting more pronounced. Her leg throbbed. Psychological. She knew that. Tight spaces did not terrify her; huge auditoriums, especially jammed with people, did. The place was fairly empty now, thank He Who Lives Here, but her imagination entered the fray and provided the absent commotion.

Shrill feedback from the amplifier made her pull up. Someone was doing a sound test.

“What’s this all about?” she asked Vespa.

His face was set. He veered to the left. Grace followed. There was a scoreboard-type sign above the stage announcing that Rapture was in the middle of a three-week gig and that they, Rapture, were: “What God Has on His MP3.”

The band came onstage now for sound check. They gathered at center stage, had a brief discussion, and then started playing. Grace was surprised. They sounded pretty good. The lyrics were syrupy, full of stuff about skies and spread wings and ascensions and being lifted up. Eminem told a potential girlfriend to “sit your drunk ass on that f***ing runway, ho.” These lyrics, in their own way, were equally jarring.

The lead singer was female. She had platinum blond hair, cut with bangs, and sang with her eyes cast toward the heavens. She looked about fourteen years old. A guitarist stood to her right. He was more heavy-metal rock, what with the medusa-black locks and a tattoo of a giant cross on his right bicep. He played hard, slashing at the strings as if they had pissed him off.

When there was a lull, Carl Vespa said, “The song was written by Doug Bondy and Madison Seelinger.”

She shrugged.

“Doug Bondy wrote the music. Madison Seelinger—that’s the singer up there—wrote the lyrics.”

“And I care because?”

“Doug Bondy is playing the drums.”

They moved to the side of the stage for a better look. The music started again. They stood by a speaker. Grace’s ears took the pounding, but under normal conditions, she would actually have been enjoying the sound. Doug Bondy, the drummer, was pretty much hidden by the array of cymbals and snares surrounding him. She moved a little more to the side. She could see him better now. He was banging the skins, as they say, his eyes closed, his face at peace. He looked older than the other members of the band. He had a crewcut. His face was clean-shaven. He wore those black Elvis Costello glasses.

Grace felt that flutter in her chest expand. “I want to go home,” she said.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“I want to go home.”

The drummer was still smacking the skins, lost in the music, when he turned and saw her. Their eyes met. And she knew. So did he.

It was Jimmy X.

She didn’t wait. She started limping toward the exit. The music chased her down.

“Grace?”

It was Vespa. She ignored him. She pushed through the emergency exit door. The air felt cool in her lungs. She sucked it down, tried to let the dizziness fade. Cram was outside now, as if he knew that she’d take this exit. He smiled at her.

Carl Vespa came up behind her. “It’s him, right?”

“And what if it is?”

“What if . . .” Vespa repeated, surprised. “He’s not innocent here. He’s as much to blame—”

“I want to go home.”

Vespa stopped short as if she’d slapped him.

Calling him had been a mistake. She knew that now. She had lived. She had recovered. Sure, there was the limp. There was some pain. There was the occasional nightmare. But she was okay. She had gotten over it. They, the parents, never would. She saw it that first day—the shatter in their eyes—and while progress had been made, lives had been lived, pieces had been picked up, the shatter had never left. She looked now at Carl Vespa—at the eyes—and saw it all over again.

“Please,” she said to him. “I just want to go home.”

chapter 15

Wu spotted the empty hide-a-key.

The rock was on the path by the back door, turned over like a dying crab. The cover had been slid open. Wu could see the key was gone. He remembered the first time he had approached a house that had been violated. He was six years old. The hut—it was one room, no plumbing—had been his own. The Kim government had not bothered with the niceties of keys. They had knocked the door down and dragged his mother away. Wu found her two days later. They had hung her from a tree. No one was allowed to cut her down, under penalty of death. A day later the birds found her.

His mother had been wrongly accused of being a traitor to the Great Leader, but guilt or innocence was irrelevant. An example was made of her anyway. This is what happens to those who defy us. Check that: This is what happens to anyone we think may be defying us.

No one took in the six-year-old Eric. No orphanage picked him up. He did not become a ward of the state. Eric Wu ran away. He slept in the woods. He ate out of garbage cans. He survived. At thirteen, he was arrested for stealing and thrown in jail. The chief guard, a man more crooked than anyone he housed, saw Wu’s potential. And so it began.

Wu stared down at the empty hide-a-key.

Someone was in the house.

He glanced at the house next door. His best guess would be that it was the woman who lived there. She liked to watch out the window. She would know where Freddy Sykes hid a key.

He considered his options. There were two.

One, he could simply leave.

Jack Lawson was in the trunk. Wu had a vehicle. He could take off, steal another car, begin his journey, set up residence elsewhere.

Problem: Wu’s fingerprints were inside the house, along with the severely wounded, perhaps dead, Freddy Sykes. The lingerie-clad woman, if it was the woman, would be able to identify him too. Wu was fresh out of prison and on parole. The DA had suspected him of terrible crimes, but they could not prove them. So they cut a deal in exchange for his testimony. Wu had spent time in a maximum security penitentiary in Walden, New York. Next to what he had experienced in his homeland, the prison might as well have been a Four Seasons.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to go back.

No, option one was no good. So that left option two.

Wu silently opened the door and slid inside.

• • •

Back in the limousine, Grace and Carl Vespa fell into silence.

Grace kept flashing back to the last time she’d seen Jimmy X’s face—fifteen years ago in her hospital. He’d been forced to visit, a photo op arranged by his promoter, but he couldn’t even look at her, never mind speak. He just stood by her bed, flowers clutched in his hand, his head down like a little boy’s waiting for the teacher to scold him. She never said a word. Eventually he handed her the flowers and walked out.

Jimmy X quit the business and ran off. Rumor had it he moved to a private island near Fiji. Now, fifteen years later, here he was in New Jersey, playing drums for a Christian rock band.

When they pulled onto her street, Vespa said, “It hasn’t gotten any better, you know.”

Grace looked out the window. “Jimmy X didn’t fire the gun.”

“I know that.”

“So what do you want from him?”

“He’s never said he’s sorry.”

“And that would be enough?”

He thought about that, and then said, “There was a boy who survived. David Reed. You remember him?”

“Yes.”

“He was standing next to Ryan. They were body to body. But when the crush began, this Reed kid somehow got lifted up on someone’s shoulder. He got on the stage.”

“I know.”

“You remember what his parents said?”

She did but she said nothing.

“Jesus lifted up their son. It was God’s will.” Vespa’s voice had not changed, but Grace could feel the hidden rage like a blast furnace. “You see, Mr. and Mrs. Reed prayed and God responded. It was a miracle, they said. God looked out for their son, that’s what they kept repeating. As if God didn’t have the desire or inclination to save mine.”

They fell into silence. Grace wanted to tell him that many good people died that day, many people with good parents who prayed, that God does not discriminate. But Vespa knew all that. It would not comfort.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, night was falling. Grace could see the silhouettes of Cora and the kids in the kitchen window. Vespa said, “I want to help you find your husband.”

“I’m not even sure what you can do.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “You have my number. No matter what you need, call me. No matter what time it is, I don’t care. I’ll be there.”

Cram opened the door. Vespa walked her to the door.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m also going to assign Cram here to watch your house.”

She looked at Cram. Cram sort of smiled back.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Humor me,” he said.

“No, really, I don’t want that. Please.”

Vespa thought about it. “If you change your mind . . . ?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He turned to leave then. She watched him walk back to the car and wondered about the wisdom of making deals with the devil. Cram opened the door. The limo seemed to swallow Vespa whole. Cram nodded at her. Grace did not move. She considered herself pretty good at reading people, but Carl Vespa had changed her view. She never saw or even sensed a hint of evil in him. Yet she knew it was there.

Evil—real evil—was like that.

• • •

Cora put on boiling water for the Ronzoni penne. She threw a jar of Prego into a saucepan and then leaned close to Grace’s ear.

“I’m going to check the e-mail to see if we got any replies,” Cora whispered.

Grace nodded. She was helping Emma do her homework and trying like hell to care. Her daughter was dressed in a Jason Kidd Nets basketball jersey. She called herself Bob. She wanted to be a jock. Grace didn’t know how she felt about it, but she guessed it was better than buying Teen Beat magazine and lusting after nonthreatening boy bands.

Mrs. Lamb, Emma’s young-but-quickly-aging teacher, had the kids working on the multiplication tables. They were doing the sixes. Grace tested Emma. At six times seven, Emma paused for a long time.

“You should know it by heart,” Grace said.

“Why? I can figure it out.”

“That’s not the point. You learn it by heart so you can build off that when you start multiplying numbers with multiple digits.”

“Mrs. Lamb didn’t say to memorize them.”

“You should.”

“But Mrs. Lamb—”

“Six times seven.”

And so it went.

Max had to find an item to put in the “Secret Box.” You put something in the box—in this case, a hockey puck—and you made up three clues so that your fellow kindergartners could guess what it was. Clue one: The item is black. Clue two: It’s used in a sport. Clue three: Ice. Fair enough.

Cora came back from the computer shaking her head. Nothing yet. She grabbed a bottle of Lindemans, a decent-yet-cheap Chardonnay from Australia, and popped the cork. Grace put the kids to bed.

“Where’s Daddy?” Max asked.

Emma echoed the sentiment. “I wrote the hockey verse for my poem.”

Grace said something vague about Jack having to work. The kids looked wary.

“I’d love to hear the poem,” Grace said.

Grudgingly Emma produced her journal.

“Hockey stick, hockey stick,

Do you love to score?

When you are used to shoot,

Do you feel like you want more?”

Emma looked up. Grace said, “Wow” and clapped, but she was simply not as good at the enthusiasm game as Jack. She kissed them both good night and headed back downstairs. The wine bottle was open. She and Cora began to drink. She missed Jack. He’d been gone less than twenty-four hours—he’d been gone longer on business trips plenty of times—and yet the house seemed to sag somehow. Something felt lost, irretrievably so. The missing of him had already become a physical ache.

Grace and Cora drank some more. Grace thought about her children. She thought about a life, a whole life, without Jack. We do anything to shield our children from pain. Losing Jack would, no doubt, crush Grace. But that was okay. She could take it. Her pain, however, would be nothing next to what it would do to the two children upstairs who, she knew, lay awake, sensing something was amiss.

Grace looked at the photographs lining the walls.

Cora moved next to her. “He’s a good man.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Too much wine,” Grace said.

“Not enough, you ask me. Where did Mr. Mobster take you?”

“To see a Christian rock band.”

“Quite the first date.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m all ears.”

But Grace shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Jimmy X. An idea came to her. She mulled it over, let it settle.

“What?” Cora said.

“Maybe Jack made more than one call.”

“You mean, besides the call to his sister?”

“Yes.”

Cora nodded. “Have you set up an online account?”

“We have AOL.”

“No, I mean for your phone bill.”

“Not yet.”

“No time like the present then.” Cora stood up. There was a teeter to her step now. The wine was making them both warm. “Who do you use for long distance?”

“Cascade.”

They were back by Jack’s computer. Cora sat at the desk, cracked her knuckles, and went to work. She brought up Cascade’s Web site. Grace gave her the necessary information—address, social security number, credit card. They came up with a password. Cascade sent an e-mail to Jack’s account verifying that he’d just signed up for online billing.

“We’re in,” Cora said.

“I don’t get it.”

“An online billing account. I just set it up. You can now view and pay your phone bill over the Internet.”

Grace looked over Cora’s shoulder. “That’s last month’s bill.”

“Yep.”

“But it won’t have the calls from last night.”

“Hmm. Let me e-mail a request. We can also call Cascade and ask.”

“They’re not open twenty-four-seven. Part of the discount service.” Grace leaned closer to the monitor. “Let me see if he called his sister before last night.”

Her eyes skimmed down the list. Nothing. No unfamiliar numbers either. She no longer felt weird doing this, spying on the husband she loved and trusted, which of course felt weird in and of itself.

“Who pays the bills?” Cora asked.

“Jack does most of them.”

“The phone bill comes to the house?”

“Yes.”

“You look at it?”

“Sure.”

Cora nodded. “Jack has a cell phone, right?”

“Right.”

“What about that bill?”

“What about it?”

“Do you look at it?”

“No, it’s his.”

Cora smiled.

“What?”

“When my ex was cheating on me, he used the cell because I never looked at those bills.”

“Jack isn’t cheating.”

“But he may be keeping secrets, right?”

“Could be,” Grace allowed. “Okay, yeah, probably.”

“So where would he keep the phone bills for his mobile?”

Grace checked the file cabinet. He saved the bills from Cascade. She checked under the Vs for Verizon Wireless. Nothing. “They’re not here.”

Cora rubbed her hands together. “Ooo, suspicious.” She was into it now. “So let’s do that voodoo that they do that we do.”

“And what exactly do we do?”

“Let’s say Jack is keeping something from you. He would probably destroy the bills the minute he gets them, right?”

Grace shook her head. “This is so bizarre.”

“But am I right?”

“Yeah, okay, if Jack is keeping secrets from me—”

“Everyone has secrets, Grace. C’mon, you know that. Are you telling me that this all comes as a total surprise?”

This truth would normally have made Grace pause, but there was no time for such indulgences. “Okay, so let’s say Jack did destroy the cell phone bills—how are we going to get them?”

“Same way I just did. We set up another online account, this time under Verizon Wireless.” Cora started typing.

“Cora?”

“Yep.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“How do you know how to do all this?”

“Practical experience.” She stopped typing and looked back at Grace. “How do you think I found out about Adolf and Eva?”

“You spied on them?”

“Yup. I bought a book called Spying for Dodos or something like that. It’s all in there. I wanted to make sure I had all the facts before I confronted his sorry ass.”

“What did he say when you showed it to him?”

“That he was sorry. That he’d never do it again. That he’d give up Ivana of the Implant and never see her again.”

Grace watched her friend type. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“More than life itself.” Still typing, Cora added, “How about opening another bottle of wine?”

“Only if we’re not driving tonight.”

“You want me to sleep here?”

“We shouldn’t drive, Cora.”

“Okay, deal.”

Grace stood and felt her head reel from the drink. She headed back into the kitchen. Cora often drank too much, but tonight Grace was happy to join her. She opened another bottle of the Lindemans. The wine was warm so she put an ice cube in both. Gauche, but they liked it cold.

When Grace got back into the office, the printer was whirring. She handed Cora a glass and sat. Grace stared at the wine. She started shaking her head.

“What?” Cora said.

“I finally met Jack’s sister.”

“So?”

“I mean, think about it. Sandra Koval. I didn’t even know her name before now.”

“You never asked Jack about her?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

Grace took a sip. “I can’t really explain it.”

“Try.”

She looked up and wondered how to put it. “I thought it was healthy. You know, keeping parts of yourself private. I was running away from something. He never pushed me on it.”

“So you never pushed him either?”

“It was more than that.”

“What?”

Grace thought about it. “I never bought into that ‘we have no secrets’ stuff. Jack had a wealthy family and he wanted no part of it. There had been a falling out. I knew that much.”

“Wealthy from what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What business are they in?”

“Some kind of securities firm. Jack’s grandfather started it. They have trust funds and options and voting shares, stuff like that. Nothing Onassis-like, but enough, I guess. Jack won’t have anything to do with it. He won’t vote. He won’t touch the money. He set it up so the trust skips a generation.”

“So Emma and Max will get it?”

“Yep.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Grace shrugged. “You know what I’m realizing?”

“I’m all ears.”

“The reason I never pushed Jack? It had nothing to do with respecting privacy.”

“Then what?”

“I loved him. I loved him more than any man I’d ever met . . .”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming here.”

Grace felt the tears press against her eyes. “But it all felt so fragile. Does that make sense? When I was with him—this is going to sound so stupid—but when I was with Jack, it was the first time I was happy since, I don’t know, since my father died.”

“You’ve had a lot of pain in your life,” Cora said.

Grace did not reply.

“You were scared it would go away. You didn’t want to open yourself up to more.”

“So I chose ignorance?”

“Hey, ignorance is supposed to be bliss, right?”

“You buy that?”

Cora shrugged. “If I never checked up on Adolf, he probably would have had his fling and gotten over it. Maybe I’d be living with the man I love.”

“You could still take him back.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Cora thought about it. “I need the ignorance, I guess.” She picked up her glass and took a long sip.

The printer finished whirring. Grace picked up the sheets and started examining them. Most of the phone numbers she knew. Point of fact, she knew almost all of them.

But one immediately jumped out at her.

“Where’s six-oh-three area code?” Grace asked.

“Beats me. Which call?”

Grace showed her on the monitor. Cora moved the cursor over it.

“What are you doing?” Grace asked.

“You click the number, they tell you who called.”

“For real?”

“Man, what century do you live in? They have talkies now.”

“So all you have to do is click the link?”

“And it’ll tell all. Unless the number is unlisted.”

Cora clicked the left mouse button. A box appeared saying:

NO RECORD OF THAT NUMBER.

“There you go. Unlisted.”

Grace checked her watch. “It’s only nine-thirty,” she said. “Not too late to call.”

“Under the missing-husband rule, no, not too late at all.”

Grace picked up the phone and inputted the number. A piercing feedback, not unlike the one at the Rapture concert, slapped her eardrum. Then: “The number you have called”—the robotic voice stated the number—“has been disconnected. No further information is available.”

Grace frowned.

“What?”

“When was the last time Jack called it?”

Cora checked. “Three weeks ago. He talked for eighteen minutes.”

“It’s disconnected.”

“Hmm, six-oh-three area code,” Cora said, moving to another Web site. She typed in “603 area code” and hit the enter button. The answer came right up. “It’s in New Hampshire. Hold on, let’s Google it.”

“Google what? New Hampshire?”

“The phone number.”

“What will that do?”

“Your number is unlisted, right?”

“Right.”

“Hold on, let me show you something. This doesn’t work every time, but watch.” Cora typed Grace’s phone number into the search engine. “What it will do is search the entire Web for those numbers in a row. Not just phone directories. That won’t do it because, like you said, your number is unlisted. But . . .”

Cora hit return. There was one search hit. The site was for an art prize offered at Brandeis University, her alma mater. Cora clicked the link. Grace’s name and number came up. “You were judging some painting award?”

Grace nodded. “They were giving out an art scholarship.”

“Yep, there you are. Your name, address, and phone number with other judges. You must have given it to them.”

Grace shook her head.

“Throw away your eight-tracks and welcome to the Information Age,” Cora said. “And now that I know your name, I can do a million different searches. Your gallery Web page will come up. Where you went to college. Whatever. Now let’s try with this six-oh-three number. . . .”

Cora’s fingers flew again. She hit return. “Hold on. We got something.” She squinted at the screen. “Bob Dodd.”

“Bob?”

“Yes. Not Robert. Bob.” Cora looked back at Grace. “Is the name familiar?”

“No.”

“The address is a PO box in Fitzwilliam, New Hampshire. You ever been?”

“No.”

“How about Jack?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, he went to college in Vermont, so he might have visited New Hampshire, but we’ve never been there together.”

There was a sound from upstairs. Max cried out in his sleep.

“Go,” Cora said. “I’ll see what I can dig up on our friend Mr. Dodd.”

As Grace headed up toward her son’s bedroom, another pang struck deep in her chest: Jack was the house’s night sentinel. He handled nightmares and nocturnal requests for water. He was the one who held the kid’s foreheads at 3 A.M. when they woke up to, er, throw up. During the day, Grace took care of the sniffles, the taking of the temperatures, the heating of chicken soup, the forcing down of Robitussin. The night shift was Jack’s.

Max was sobbing when she reached his room. His cries were soft now, more a whimper, and somehow that was more pitiful than the loudest of screams. Grace wrapped her arms around him. His little body was shaking. She rocked back and forth and gently shushed him. She whispered that Mommy was here, that everything was okay, that he was safe.

It took Max a while to settle. Grace brought him to the bathroom. Even though Max was barely six, he peed like a man—that is to say, he missed the bowl entirely. He swayed, falling back asleep as he stood. When he finished, she helped him pull up his Finding Nemo pajamas. She tucked him back in and asked if he wanted to tell her about his dream. He shook his head and fell back asleep.

Grace watched his little chest rise and fall. He looked very much like his father.

After a while she headed back downstairs. There was no sound. Cora was no longer clacking the keyboard. Grace entered the office. The chair was empty. Cora stood in the corner. She gripped the wineglass.

“Cora?”

“I know why Bob Dodd’s phone was disconnected.”

There was a tightness in Cora’s voice, one Grace had never heard. She waited for her friend to continue, but she seemed to be shrinking into the corner.

“What happened?” Grace asked.

Cora downed a quick sip. “According to an article in the New Hampshire Post, Bob Dodd is dead. He was murdered two weeks ago.”

chapter 16

Eric Wu stepped inside the Sykes house.

The house was dark. Wu had left all the lights out. The intruder—whoever had taken the key out of the rock—had not turned them on. Wu wondered about that.

He had assumed the intruder was the nosey woman in the lingerie. Would she be smart enough to know not to turn the lights on?

He stopped. More than that: If you have the forethought not to turn on the lights, wouldn’t you have the foresight not to leave the hide-a-key in plain sight?

Something did not add up.

Wu lowered himself and moved behind the recliner. He stopped and listened. Nothing. If someone was in the house, he would hear them move. He waited some more.

Still nothing.

Wu mulled it over. Could the intruder have come and gone?

He doubted it. A person who would take the risk of entering with a hidden key would look around. They would probably find Freddy Sykes in the upstairs bathroom. They would call for help. Or if they left, if they found nothing amiss, they would have put the key back in the rock. None of that had happened.

What then was the most logical conclusion?

The intruder was still in the house. Not moving. Hiding.

Wu treaded gently. There were three exits. He made sure all the doors were locked. Two doors had bolt locks. He carefully slid them into place. He took the dining room chairs and placed them in front of all three exits. He wanted something, anything, to block or at least slow down an easy escape.

Trap his adversary.

The stairway was carpeted. That made it easier to pad up in silence. Wu wanted to check the bathroom, to see if Freddy Sykes was still in the tub. He thought again about the hide-a-key in plain sight. Nothing about this setup made sense. The more he thought about it, the slower his step.

Wu tried to think it through. Start from the beginning: A person who knows where Sykes keeps a hide-a-key opens the door. He or she comes inside. Now what? If he finds Sykes, panic would ensue. He would call the police. If he doesn’t find Sykes, well, he leaves. He puts the key back in the rock and puts the rock away.

But neither one of those things had happened.

So again, what could Wu conclude?

The only other possibility that came to mind—unless he was missing something—was that the intruder had indeed found Sykes, just as Wu entered the house. There had been no time to call for help. There had only been time to hide.

But that scenario had problems too. Wouldn’t the intruder have turned on a light? Perhaps she had. Perhaps she had turned on the light, but then she saw Wu approach. She might have turned off the lights and hidden where she was.

In the bathroom with Sykes.

Wu was in the master bedroom now. He could see the crack under the bathroom door. The light was still off. Do not underestimate your foe, he reminded himself. He had made mistakes recently. Too many of them. First, Rocky Conwell. Wu had been sloppy enough to allow him to follow. That had been mistake one. Second, Wu had been spotted by the woman next door. Sloppy.

And now this.

It was tough to look at yourself critically, but Wu tried to step away and do just that. He was not infallible. Only fools believe that. Perhaps his time in prison had rusted him somehow. Didn’t matter. Wu needed to focus now. He needed to concentrate.

There were more photographs in Sykes’s bedroom. This had been Freddy’s mother’s room for fifty years. Wu knew that from his online encounters. Sykes’s father had died during the Korean War. Sykes had been an infant. The mother had never gotten over it. People react differently to the death of a loved one. Mrs. Sykes had decided to dwell with her ghost instead of the living. She spent the rest of her life in this same bedroom—in the same bed even—that she’d shared with her soldier husband. She slept on her side, Freddy said. She never let anyone, not even when young Freddy had a nightmare, touch the side of the bed where her beloved had once lain.

Wu’s hand was on the doorknob now.

The bathroom, he knew, was small. He tried to picture an angle someone might use to attack. There really was none. Wu had a gun in his duffel bag. He wondered if he should take it out. If the intruder was armed, then it could be a problem.

Overconfident? Maybe. But Wu didn’t think he’d need a weapon.

He turned the knob and pushed hard.

Freddy Sykes was still in the tub. The gag was in his mouth. His eyes were closed. Wu wondered if Freddy was dead. Probably. No one else was here. There was no place to hide. Nobody had come to Freddy’s rescue.

Wu moved toward the window. He looked out at the house now, at the house next door.

The woman—the one who’d been in the lingerie—was there.

In her house. Standing by the window.

She stared back at him.

That was when Wu heard the car door slam. There was no siren, but now, as he turned toward the driveway, he could see the red cruiser lights.

The police were here.

• • •

Charlaine Swain was not crazy.

She watched movies. She read books. Lots of them. Escapism, she had thought. Entertainment. A way to numb the boredom every day. But maybe these movies and books were oddly educational. How many times had she shouted at the plucky heroine—the oh-so-guileless, witch-skinny, raven-haired beauty—not to go into that damned house?

Too many. So now, when it had been her turn . . . uh-uh, no way. Charlaine Swain was not about to make that mistake.

She had stood in front of Freddy’s back door staring at that hide-a-key. She couldn’t go inside per her movie and book training, but she couldn’t just leave it alone either. Something was wrong. A man was in trouble. You can’t just walk away from that.

So she came up with an idea.

It was simple really. She took the key out of the rock. It was in her pocket now. She left the hide-a-key in plain view, not because she wanted the Asian guy to see it, but because that would be her excuse for calling the police.

The moment the Asian guy entered Freddy’s house, she dialed 911. “Someone is in the neighbor’s house,” she told them. The clincher: The hide-a-key was strewn on the walkway.

Now the police were here.

One cruiser had made the turn onto her block. The siren was silent. The car was not speeding bat-out-of-hell style, just moving at a clip solidly above the speed limit. Charlaine risked a look back at Freddy’s house.

The Asian man was watching her.

chapter 17

Grace stared at the headline. “He was murdered?” Cora nodded.

“How?”

“Bob Dodd was shot in the head in front of his wife. Gangland style, they called it, whatever that means.”

“They catch who did it?”

“Nope.”

“When?”

“When was he murdered?”

“Yeah, when?”

“Four days after Jack called him.”

Cora moved back toward the computer. Grace considered the date.

“It couldn’t have been Jack.”

“Uh huh.”

“It would be impossible. Jack hasn’t traveled out of the state in more than a month.”

“You say so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Grace. I’m on your side, okay? I don’t think Jack killed anybody either, but c’mon, let’s get a grip here.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning stop with the ‘hasn’t traveled out of state’ nonsense. New Hampshire is hardly California. You can drive up in four hours. You can fly up in one.”

Grace rubbed her eyes.

“Something else,” Cora went on. “I know why he’s listed as Bob, not Robert.”

“Why?”

“He’s a reporter. That’s his byline. Bob Dodd. Google listed one hundred and twenty-six hits on his name over the past three years for the New Hampshire Post. The obituary called him—where’s the line?—‘a hard-nosed investigative reporter, famous for his controversial exposés’—like the New Hampshire mob rubbed him out to keep him quiet.”

“And you don’t think that’s the case?”

“Who knows? But skimming through his articles, I’d say Bob Dodd was more like an ‘On Your Side’ reporter, you know—he finds dishwasher repairmen scamming old ladies, wedding photographers who bail out with the deposit, that sorta thing.”

“He could have pissed someone off.”

Cora’s tone was flat. “Yup, could have. And, what, you think it’s a coincidence—Jack calling the guy before he died?”

“No, there’s no coincidence here.” Grace tried to process what she was hearing. “Hold up.”

“What?”

“That photograph. There were five people in it. Two women, three men. This is a long shot. . . .”

Cora was already typing. “But maybe Bob Dodd is one of them?”

“There are image search engines, right?”

“Already there.”

Her fingers flew, her cursor pointed, her mouse slid. There were two pages, a total of twelve picture hits for Bob Dodd. The first page featured a hunter with the same name living out in Wisconsin. On the second page—the eleventh hit—they found a table photograph taken at a charity function in Bristol, New Hampshire.

Bob Dodd, a reporter for the New Hampshire Post, was the first face on the left.

They didn’t need to study it closely. Bob Dodd was African-American. Everyone in the mystery photograph was white.

Grace frowned. “There still has to be a connection.”

“Let me see if I can dig up a bio on him. Maybe they went to college together or something.”

There was a gentle rapping at the front door. Grace and Cora looked at each other. “Late,” Cora said.

The knocking came again, still soft. There was a doorbell. Whoever was there had chosen not to use it. Must know she had kids. Grace rose and Cora followed. At the door she flicked on the outside light and peered out the window on the side of the door. She should have been more surprised, but Grace guessed that maybe she was beyond that.

“Who’s that?” Cora asked.

“The man who changed my life,” Grace said softly.

She opened the door. Jimmy X stood on the stoop looking down.

• • •

Wu had to smile.

That woman. As soon as he saw those siren lights, he put it together. Her ingenuity was both admirable and grating.

No time for that.

What to do . . . ?

Jack Lawson was tied up in the trunk. Wu realized now that he should have fled the moment he saw that hide-a-key. Another mistake. How many more could he afford?

Minimize the damage. That was the key here. There was no way to prevent it all—the damage, that is. He would be hurt here. It would cost him. His fingerprints were in the house. The woman next door had probably already given the police a description. Sykes, alive or dead, would be found. There was nothing he could do about that either.

Conclusion: If he was caught, he would go to jail for a very long time.

The police cruiser pulled into the driveway.

Wu snapped into survival mode. He hurried downstairs. Through the window he saw the cruiser glide to a stop. It was dark out now, but the street was well lit. A tall black man in full uniform came out. He put on his police cap. His gun remained in his holster.

That was good.

The black police officer was barely on the walk when Wu opened the front door and smiled widely. “Something I can do for you, Officer?”

He did not draw his weapon. Wu had counted on that. This was a family neighborhood in the great American expanse known as the suburbs. A Ho-Ho-Kus police officer probably responds to several hundred possible burglaries during his career. Most, if not all, were false alarms.

“We got a call about a possible break-in,” the officer said.

Wu frowned, feigning confusion. He took a step outside but kept his distance. Not yet, he thought. Be nonthreatening. Wu’s moves were intentionally laconic, setting a slow pace. “Wait, I know. I forgot my key. Someone probably saw me going in through the back.”

“You live here, Mr. . . . ?”

“Chang,” Wu said. “Yes, I do. Oh, but it’s not my house, if that’s what you mean. It belongs to my partner, Frederick Sykes.”

Now Wu risked another step.

“I see,” the officer said. “And Mr. Sykes is . . . ?”

“Upstairs.”

“May I see him please?”

“Sure, come on in.” Wu turned his back to the officer and yelled up the stairs. “Freddy? Freddy, throw something on. The police are here.”

Wu did not have to turn around. He knew the tall black man was moving up behind him. He was only five yards away now. Wu stepped back into the house. He held the door open and gave the officer what he thought was an effeminate smile. The officer—his name tag read Richardson—moved toward the door.

When he was only a yard away, Wu uncoiled.

Office Richardson had hesitated, perhaps sensing something, but it was too late. The blow, aimed for the center of his gut, was a palm strike. Richardson folded in half like a deck chair. Wu moved closer. He wanted to disable. He did not want to kill.

An injured policeman produces heat. A dead policeman raises the temperature tenfold.

The cop was doubled over. Wu hit him behind the legs. Richardson dropped to his knees. Wu used a pressure point technique. He dug the knuckles of his index fingers into both sides of Richardson’s head, up and into the ear cavity under the cartilage, an area known as Triple Warmer 17. You need to get the right angle. Go full strength and you could kill someone. You needed precision here.

Richardson’s eyes went white. Wu released the hold. Richardson dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

The knockout would not last long. Wu took the handcuffs from the man’s belt and cuffed his wrist to the stairwell. He ripped the radio from his shoulder.

Wu considered the woman next door. She’d be watching.

She would surely call the police again. He wondered about that, but there was no time. If he tried to attack, she would see him and lock the door. It would take too long. His best bet was to use time and surprise here. He hurried to the garage and got into Jack Lawson’s minivan. He checked the cargo area in the back.

Jack Lawson was there.

Wu moved to the driver’s seat now. He had a plan.

• • •

Charlaine had a bad feeling the moment she saw the policeman step out of the car.

For one thing, he was alone. She had assumed that there would be two of them, partners, again from TV—Starsky and Hutch, Adam-12, Briscoe and Green. She realized now that she had made a mistake. Her call had been too casual. She should have claimed to see something menacing, something frightening, so that they would have arrived more wary and prepared. Instead she had simply come across as a nosey neighbor, a dotty woman who had nothing better to do but call the cops for any little thing.

The policeman’s body language too was all wrong. He sauntered toward the door, slack and casual, not a care in the world. Charlaine couldn’t see the front door from where she was, only the driveway. When the officer disappeared from view, Charlaine felt her stomach drop.

She considered shouting out a warning. The problem was—and this might sound strange—the new Pella windows they had installed last year. They opened vertically, with a hand crank. By the time she slid open both locks and cranked the handle, well, the officer would already be out of sight. And really, what could she yell? What kind of warning? What in the end did she really know?

So she waited.

Mike was in the house. He was downstairs in the den, watching the Yankees on the YES Network. The divided night. They never watched TV together anymore. The way he flipped the remote was maddening. They liked different shows. But really, she didn’t think that was it. She could watch anything. Still Mike took the den; she had the bedroom. They both watched alone, in the dark. Again she didn’t know when that had started. The children weren’t home tonight—Mike’s brother had taken them to the movies—but when they were, they stayed in their own rooms. Charlaine tried to limit the Web surf time, but it was impossible. In her youth, friends talked on the phone for hours. Now they instant-messaged and lord-knew-what over the Internet.

This was what her family became—four separate entities in the dark, interacting with one another only when necessary.

She saw the light go on in the Sykes garage. Through the window, the one covered with flimsy lace, Charlaine could see a shadow. Movement. In the garage. Why? There would be no need for the police officer to be in there. She reached for the phone and dialed 911, even as she began to head for the stairs.

“I called you a little while ago,” she told the 911 operator.

“Yes?”

“About a break-in at my neighbor’s house.”

“An officer is responding.”

“Yeah, I know that. I saw him pull up.”

Silence. She felt like a dope.

“I think something might have happened.”

“What did you see?”

“I think he may have been attacked. Your officer. Please send someone quickly.”

She hung up. The more she’d explain, the stupider it would sound.

The familiar churning noise started up. Charlaine knew what it was. Freddy’s electric garage door. The man had done something to the cop. He was going to escape.

And that was when Charlaine decided to do something truly stupid.

She thought back to those wicked-witch-thin heroines, the ones with the mind-scooped stupidity, and wondered if any of them, even the most brain dead, had ever done something so colossally stupid. She doubted it. She knew that when she looked back on the choice she was about to make—assuming she survived it—she would laugh and maybe, just maybe, have a little more respect for the protagonists who enter dark homes in just their bra and panties.

Here was the thing: The Asian guy was about to escape. He had hurt Freddy. He had hurt a cop; she was sure of it. By the time the cops responded, he would be gone. They wouldn’t find him. It would be too late.

And if he got away, then what?

He had seen her. She knew that. At the window. He had probably already figured out that she was the one who called the police. Freddy could be dead. So too the cop. Who was the only witness left?

Charlaine.

He would come back for her, wouldn’t he? And even if he didn’t, even he decided to let her be, well, at best, she would live in fear. She’d be jumpy in the night. She’d look for him in crowds during the days. Maybe he would simply want revenge. Maybe he would go after Mike or the kids. . . .

She could not let that happen. She had to stop him now.

How?

Wanting to prevent his escape was all fine and good, but let’s stay real here. What could she do? They didn’t own a gun. She couldn’t just run outside and jump on his back and try to claw his eyes. No, she had to be cleverer than that.

She had to follow him.

On the surface it sounded ridiculous, but add it up. If he got away, the result would be fear. Pure, unadulterated, probably unending terror until he was captured, which might be never. Charlaine had seen the man’s face. She had seen his eyes. She couldn’t live with that.

Following him—running a tail, as they say on TV—made sense, when you considered the alternatives. She would follow him in her car. She would keep her distance. She would have the cell phone. She would be able to tell the police where he was. The plan did not involve following him long, just until the police could take over. Right now, if she didn’t act, she knew what would happen: The police would arrive; the Asian man would be gone.

There was no alternative.

The more she thought about it, the less nutsy it sounded. She’d be in a moving car. She’d stay comfortably behind him. She’d be on her cell phone with a 911 operator.

Wasn’t that safer than letting him go?

She ran downstairs.

“Charlaine?”

It was Mike. He stood there, in the kitchen, standing over the sink eating peanut-butter crackers. She stopped for a second. His eyes probed her face in a way only he could, in a way only he ever had. She fell back to her days at Vanderbilt, when they first fell in love. The way he looked at her then, the way he looked at her now. He was skinnier back then and so handsome. But the look, the eyes, they were the same.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I need”—she stopped, caught her breath—“I need to go somewhere.”

His eyes. Probing. She remembered the first time she ever saw him, that sunny day at Centennial Park in Nashville. How far had they come? Mike still saw. He still saw her in a way that no one else ever had. For a moment Charlaine could not move. She thought that she might cry. Mike dropped the crackers into the sink and started toward her.

“I’ll drive,” Mike said.

chapter 18

Grace and the famous rocker known as Jimmy X were alone in the den-cum-playroom. Max’s Game Boy was lying on its back. The battery case had broken, so now the two double As were held in place by Scotch tape. The game cartridge, lying next to it as if it’d been spit out, was called Super Mario Five, which, according to Grace’s less than sophisticated eye, appeared to be exactly the same as Super Mario One through Four.

Cora had left them alone and returned to her role as cybersleuth. Jimmy had still not spoken. He sat with his forearms against his thighs, his head hanging, reminding Grace of the first time she’d seen him, in her hospital room not long after she regained consciousness.

He wanted her to talk first. She could see that. But she had nothing to say to him.

“I’m sorry to stop by so late,” he said.

“I thought you had a gig tonight.”

“Already over.”

“Early,” she said.

“The concerts usually end by nine. It’s how the promoters like it.”

“How did you know where I lived?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I guess I’ve always known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer and she didn’t push it. For several seconds the room was dead silent.

“I’m not sure how to begin,” Jimmy said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “You still limp.”

“Good opening,” she said.

He tried to smile.

“Yes, I limp.”

“From . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I got off easy.”

The shadow crossed his face. His head, the one he’d finally worked up the nerve to lift, dropped back down as if it had learned its lesson.

Jimmy still had the cheekbones. The famed blond locks were gone, from either genetics or a razor’s edge, she couldn’t tell which. He was older, of course. His youth was over and she wondered if that was true for her too.

“I lost everything that night,” he began. Then he stopped and shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. I’m not here for pity.”

She said nothing.

“Do you remember when I came to see you at the hospital?”

She nodded.

“I’d read every newspaper story. Every magazine story. I watched all the news reports. I can tell you about every kid that died that night. Every one of them. I know their faces. I close my eyes, I still see them.”

“Jimmy?”

He looked up again.

“You shouldn’t be telling me this. Those kids had families.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not the one to give you absolution.”

“You think that’s what I came here for?”

Grace did not reply.

“It’s just . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I came, okay? I saw you tonight. At the church. And I could see you knew who I was.” He tilted his head. “How did you find me anyway?”

“I didn’t.”

“The man you were with?”

“Carl Vespa.”

“Oh Christ.” He closed his eyes. “Father of Ryan.”

“Yes.”

“He brought you?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want?”

Grace thought about that. “I don’t think he knows.”

Now it was Jimmy’s turn to stay silent.

“He thinks he wants an apology.”

“Thinks?”

“What he really wants is his son back.”

The air felt heavy. She shifted in her chair. Jimmy’s face had no color.

“I tried, you know. To apologize, I mean. He’s right about that. I owe them that. At the very least. And I’m not talking about that stupid photo op with you at the hospital. My manager wanted that. I was so stoned I just went along. I could barely stand.” He stared at her. He had those same intense eyes that had made him an instant MTV darling. “Do you remember Tommy Garrison?”

She did. He had died in the stampede. His parents were Ed and Selma.

“His picture touched me. I mean, they all did, you know. These lives, they were all just starting out. . . .” He stopped again, took a deep breath, tried again. “But Tommy, he looked like my kid brother. I couldn’t get him out of my head. So I went to his house. I wanted to apologize to his parents. . . .” He stopped.

“What happened?”

“I got there. We sat at their kitchen table. I remember I put my elbows on it and the whole thing teetered. They had this linoleum floor, half coming up. The wallpaper, this awful yellow flowered stuff, was peeling off the walls. Tommy was their only child. I looked at their lives, at their empty faces . . . I couldn’t bear it.”

She said nothing.

“That was when I ran.”

“Jimmy?”

He looked at her.

“Where have you been?”

“Lot of places.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you just give it all up?”

He shrugged. “There wasn’t all that much, really. The music business, well, I won’t go into it, but let’s just say I hadn’t received much money yet. I was new. It takes a while to get serious money. I didn’t care. I just wanted out.”

“So where do you go?”

“I started in Alaska. Worked gutting fish, if you can believe that. Did that for about a year. Then I started traveling, played with a couple of small bar bands. In Seattle I found a group of old hippies. They used to do IDs for members of the Weather Underground, that kinda thing. They got me new papers. The closest I came back here, I played with a cover band in an Atlantic City casino for a while. At the Tropicana. I dyed my hair. I stuck to the drums. Nobody recognized me, or if they did, they didn’t much care.”

“Were you happy?”

“You want the truth? No. I wanted to come back. I wanted to make amends and move on. But the longer I was gone, the harder it was, the more I longed for it. The whole thing was a vicious circle. And then I met Madison.”

“The lead singer of Rapture?”

“Yeah. Madison. Can you believe that name? It’s huge now. You remember that movie Splash, the one with Tom Hanks and what’s-her-name?”

“Daryl Hannah,” Grace said automatically.

“Right, the blond mermaid. Remember that scene where Tom Hanks is trying to come up with a name for her and he says all kinds of stuff like Jennifer or Stephanie and they’re walking past Madison Avenue and he just mentions the street name and she wants it to be her name and that’s a big laugh in the movie, right, a woman named Madison. Now it’s a top-ten name.”

Grace let it go.

“Anyway, she’s from a farm town in Minnesota. She ran away to the Big Apple when she was fifteen, ended up strung out and homeless in Atlantic City. She landed at a homeless shelter for runaway teens. She found Jesus, you know the deal, trading one addiction for another, and started singing. She has a voice like a Janis Joplin angel.”

“Does she know who you are?”

“No. You know how Shania has Mutt Lange in the background? That’s what I wanted. I like working with her. I like the music, but I wanted to stay out of the spotlight. At least that’s what I tell myself. Madison is painfully shy. She won’t perform unless I’m onstage with her. She’ll get over that, but for now I figured drums are a pretty good disguise.”

He shrugged, tried a smile. There was still a hint of the old knock-’em-back charisma. “Guess I was wrong about that.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I still don’t understand,” Grace said.

He looked at her.

“I said before I’m not the one to give you absolution. I meant that. But the truth is, you didn’t fire a gun that night.”

Jimmy stayed still.

“The Who. When they had that stampede in Cincinnati, they got over it. And the Stones, when that Hell’s Angel killed a guy at their concert. They’re still playing. I can see wanting out for a little while, a year or two . . .”

Jimmy looked to the right. “I should leave.”

He stood.

“Going to disappear again?” she asked.

He hesitated and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a card and handed it to her. There were ten digits on it and nothing more. “I don’t have a home address or anything, just this mobile phone.”

He turned and started for the door. Grace did not follow. Under normal circumstances, she might have pushed him, but in the end, his visit was an aside, a not very important one in the scheme of things. Her past had a curious pull, that was all. Especially now.

“Take care of yourself, Grace.”

“You too, Jimmy.”

She sat in the den, feeling the exhaustion begin to weigh on her shoulders, and wondered where Jack was right now.

• • •

Mike did indeed drive. The Asian man had nearly a minute head start, but what was good about their twisty development of cul-de-sacs, tract houses, nicely wooded lots—this wondrous serpentine sprawl of suburbia—was that there was only one true entrance and exit road.

In this stretch of Ho-Ho-Kus, all roads led to Hollywood Avenue.

Charlaine filled Mike in as quickly as possible. She told him most of it, about how she’d looked out the window and spotted the man and grown suspicious. Mike listened without interrupting. There were holes the size of a heartache in her story. She left out why she had been looking out the window in the first place, for example. Mike must have seen the holes, but right now he was letting it go.

Charlaine studied his profile and traveled back to the first time they met. She had been a freshman at Vanderbilt University. There was a park in Nashville, not far from campus, with a replica of the Parthenon, the one in Athens. Originally built in 1897 for the Centennial Expo, the structure was thought to be the most realistic replica of the famed site atop the Acropolis anywhere in the world. If you wanted to know what the actual Parthenon looked like in its heyday, well, people would travel to Nashville, Tennessee.

She was sitting there on a warm fall day, just eighteen years old, staring at the edifice, imagining what it must have been like in Ancient Greece, when a voice said, “It doesn’t work, does it?”

She turned. Mike had his hands in his pocket. He looked so damned handsome. “Excuse me?”

He took a step closer, a half smile on his lips, moving with a confidence that drew her. Mike gestured with his head toward the enormous structure. “It’s an exact replica, right? You look at it, and this is what they saw, great philosophers like Plato and Socrates, and all I can think is”—he stopped, shrugged—“is that all there is?”

She smiled at him. She saw his eyes widen and knew that the smile had landed hard. “It leaves nothing to the imagination,” she said.

Mike tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“You see the ruins of the real Parthenon and you try to imagine what it would have looked like. But the reality, which this is, can never live up to what your mind conjures up.”

Mike nodded slowly, considering.

“You don’t agree?” she asked.

“I had another theory,” Mike said.

“I’d like to hear it.”

He moved closer and bent down on his haunches. “There are no ghosts.”

Now she did the head tilt.

“You need the history. You need the people in their sandals walking through it. You need the years, the blood, the deaths, the sweat from, what, four hundred years B.C. Socrates never prayed in there. Plato didn’t argue by its door. Replicas never have the ghosts. They’re bodies without souls.”

The young Charlaine smiled again. “You use this line on all the girls?”

“It’s new, actually. I’m trying it out. Any good?”

She lifted her hand, palm down, and turned it back and forth. “Eh.”

Charlaine had been with no other man since that day. For years they returned to the fake Parthenon on their anniversary. This had been the first year they hadn’t gone back.

“There he is,” Mike said.

The Ford Windstar was traveling west on Hollywood Avenue toward Route 17. Charlaine was back on the phone with a 911 operator. The operator was finally taking her seriously.

“We lost radio contact with our officer at the scene,” she said.

“He’s heading onto Route 17 south at the Hollywood Avenue entrance,” Charlaine said. “He’s driving a Ford Windstar.”

“License plate?”

“I can’t see it.”

“We have officers responding to both scenes. You can drop your pursuit now.”

She lowered the phone. “Mike?”

“It’s okay,” he said.

She sat back and thought about her own house, about ghosts, about bodies without souls.

• • •

Eric Wu was not easily surprised.

Seeing the woman from the house and this man he assumed was her husband following him—that definitely registered as something he would not have predicted. He wondered how to handle it.

The woman.

She had set him up. She was following him. She had called the police. They had sent an officer. He knew then that she would call again.

What Wu had counted on, however, was putting enough distance between himself and the Sykes household before the police responded to her call. When it comes to tracking down vehicles the police are far from omnipotent. Think about the Washington sniper a few years back. They had hundreds of officers. They had roadblocks. For an embarrassingly long time they couldn’t locate two amateurs.

If Wu could get enough miles ahead, he would be safe.

But now there was a problem.

That woman again.

That woman and her husband were following him. They would be able to tell the police where he was going, what road he was on, what direction he was heading. He would not be able to put the distance between him and the authorities.

Conclusion: Wu had to stop them.

He spotted the sign for the Paramus Park Mall and took the jug-handle back over the highway. The woman and her husband followed. It was late at night. The stores were closed. The lot was empty. Wu pulled into it. The woman and her husband kept their distance.

That was okay.

Because it was time to call their bluff.

Wu had a gun, a Walther PPK. He didn’t like using it. Not that he was squeamish. Wu simply preferred his hands. He was decent with a gun; he was expert with his hands. He had perfect control with them. They were a part of him. With a gun you are forced to trust the mechanics, an outside source. Wu did not like that.

But he understood the need.

He stopped the car. He made sure the gun was loaded. His car door was unlocked. He pulled the handle, stepped out of the vehicle, and aimed his weapon.

• • •

Mike said, “What the hell is he doing?”

Charlaine watched the Ford Windstar enter the mall lot. There were no other cars. The lot was well lit, bathed in a shopping-center fluorescent glow. She could see Sears up ahead, the Office Depot, Sports Authority.

The Ford Windstar drifted to a stop.

“Keep back,” she said.

“We’re in a locked car,” Mike said. “What can he do?”

The Asian man moved with fluidity and grace, and yet there was also deliberation, as if each movement had been carefully planned in advanced. It was a strange combination, the way he moved, almost inhuman. But right now the man stood next to his car, his entire body still. His arm swept forward, only the arm, the rest of him so undisturbed by the motion that you might think it was an optical illusion.

And then their windshield exploded.

The noise was sudden and deafening. Charlaine screamed. Something splashed on her face, something wet and syrupy. There was a coppery smell in the air now. Instinctively Charlaine ducked. The glass from the windshield rained down on her head. Something slumped against her, pushing her down.

It was Mike.

She screamed again. The scream mixed with the sound of another bullet being fired. She had to move, had to get out, had to get them out of here. Mike was not moving. She shoved him off her and risked raising her head.

Another shot whistled past her.

She had no idea where it landed. Her head was back down. There was a screaming in her ears. A few seconds passed. Charlaine finally risked a glance.

The man was walking toward her.

What now?

Escape. Flee. That was the only thought that came through.

How?

She shifted the car into reverse. Mike’s foot was still on the brake. She dropped low. Her hand stretched out and took hold of his slack ankle. She slid his foot off the brake. Still wedged into the foot area Charlaine managed to jam her palm on the accelerator. She pushed down with everything she had. The car jerked back. She could not move. She had no idea where she was going.

But they were moving.

She kept her palm pressed down to the floor. The car jolted over something, a curb maybe. The bounce banged her head against the steering column. Using her shoulder blades, she tried to keep the wheel steady. Her left hand still pressed down on the accelerator. They hit another bump. She held on. The road was smoother now. But just for a moment. Charlaine heard the honking of horns, the screech of tires and brakes, and the awful whir of cars spinning out of control.

There was an impact, a terrible jarring, and then, a few seconds later, darkness.

chapter 19

The color in Officer Daley’s face had ebbed away. Perlmutter sat up. “What is it?”

Daley stared at the sheet of paper in his hand as if he feared it might flee. “Something doesn’t make sense here, Cap.”

When Captain Perlmutter had started working as a cop, he hated the night shift. The quiet and solitude got to him. He had grown up in a big family, one of seven kids, and he liked that life. He and his wife Marion planned on having a big family. He had the whole thing figured out—the barbecues, the weekends coaching one kid or the other, the school conferences, the family movies on Friday night, the summer nights on the front porch—the life he’d experienced growing up in Brooklyn, but with a suburban, bigger-house twist.

His grandmother used to spew Yiddish quotes all the time. Stu Perlmutter’s personal favorite had been this: “Man plans and God laughs.” Marion, the only woman he had ever loved, died of a sudden embolism when she was thirty-one. She’d been in the kitchen, making Sammy—that was their son, their only child—a sandwich when the embolism hit. She was dead before she landed on the linoleum.

Perlmutter’s life pretty much ended that day. He did what he could to raise Sammy, but the truth was, his heart was never really in it. He loved the boy and enjoyed his job, but he had lived for Marion. This precinct, his work, had become his solace. Home, being with Sammy, reminded him of Marion and all they’d never have. Here, alone, he could almost forget.

All of that was a long time ago. Sammy was in college now. He had turned into a good man, despite his father’s inattentiveness. There was something to be said for that, but Perlmutter did not know what.

Perlmutter signaled for Daley to sit down. “So what’s up?”

“That woman. Grace Lawson.”

“Ah,” Perlmutter said.

“Ah?”

“I was just thinking about her too.”

“Something about her case bothering you, Captain?”

“Yep.”

“I thought it was just me.”

Perlmutter tipped his chair back. “Do you know who she is?”

“Ms. Lawson?”

“Yup.”

“She’s an artist.”

“More than that. You notice the limp?”

“Yes.”

“Her married name is Grace Lawson. But once upon a time, her name—her maiden name, I guess—was Grace Sharpe.”

Daley looked at him blankly.

“You ever hear of the Boston Massacre?”

“Wait, you mean that rock concert riot?”

“More a stampede, but yeah. Lot of people died.”

“She was there?”

Perlmutter nodded. “Badly injured too. In a coma for a while. Press gave her the full fifteen minutes and then some.”

“How long ago was that?”

“What, fifteen, sixteen years ago maybe.”

“But you remember?”

“It was big news. And I was a big fan of the Jimmy X Band.”

Daley looked surprised. “You?”

“Hey, I wasn’t always an old fart.”

“Heard their CD. It was pretty damn good. Radio still plays ‘Pale Ink’ all the time.”

“One of the best songs ever.”

Marion had liked the Jimmy X Band. Perlmutter remembered her constantly blasting “Pale Ink” on an old Walkman, her eyes closed, her lips moving as she silently sang along. He blinked the image away.

“So what happened to them?”

“The massacre destroyed the band. They broke up. Jimmy X—I don’t remember his real name anymore—was the front man and wrote all the songs. He just up and quit.” Perlmutter pointed to the piece of paper in Daley’s hand. “So what’s that?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Something to do with the Lawson case?”

“I don’t know.” Then: “Yeah, maybe.”

Perlmutter put his hands behind his head. “Start talking.”

“DiBartola got a call early tonight,” Daley said. “Another missing husband case.”

“Similarities to Lawson?”

“No. I mean, not at first. This guy wasn’t even her husband anymore. An ex. And he isn’t exactly squeaky clean.”

“He’s got a record?”

“Did time for assault.”

“Name?’

“Rocky Conwell.”

“Rocky? For real?”

“Yep, that’s what it says on his birth certificate.”

“Parents.” Perlmutter made a face. “Wait, why does that name ring a bell?”

“He played a little pro ball.”

Perlmutter searched the memory banks, shrugged. “So what’s the deal?”

“Okay, like I said, this case looks even more cut-and-dry than Lawson. Ex-husband who was supposed to take his wife out shopping this morning. I mean, it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. But DiBartola sees the wife—her name is Lorraine—well, she’s a royal babe. So you know DiBartola.”

“A pig,” Permutter said with a nod. “Ranked in the top ten by both the AP and UPI.”

“Right, so he figures, what the hell, humor her, right? She’s separated, so you never know. Maybe something would swing his way.”

“Very professional.” Perlmutter frowned. “Go on.”

“This is where it gets weird.” Daley licked his lips. “DiBartola, he does the simple thing. He runs the E-ZPass.”

“Like you.”

“Exactly like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gets a hit.” Daley took another step into the room. “Rocky Conwell crossed the tollbooth off Exit 16 on the New York Thruway. At exactly ten-twenty-six last night.”

Perlmutter looked at him.

“Yeah, I know. Exact same time and place as Jack Lawson.”

Perlmutter scanned the report. “You’re sure about this? DiBartola didn’t accidentally run the same number we did or something?”

“Checked it twice. There’s no mistake. Conwell and Lawson crossed the toll at the exact same time. They had to be together.”

Perlmutter mulled it over and shook his head. “No.”

Daley looked confused. “You think it’s a coincidence?”

“Two separate cars, crossing the toll at the same time? Not likely.”

“So how do you figure it?”

“I’m not sure,” Perlmutter said. “Let’s say they, I don’t know, ran away together. Or Conwell kidnapped Lawson. Or hell, Lawson kidnapped Conwell. Whatever. They’d be in the same car. There would be only one E-ZPass hit, not two.”

“Right, okay.”

“But they were in two separate cars. That’s what’s throwing me. Both men in separate cars cross the toll at the same time. And now both men are missing.”

“Except Lawson called his wife,” Daley added. “He needed space, remember?”

They both thought about it.

Daley said, “You want me to call Ms. Lawson? See if she knows this Conwell guy?”

Perlmutter plucked on his bottom lip and thought about it. “Not yet. Besides it’s late. She’s got kids.”

“So what should we do?”

“A little more investigating. Let’s talk to Rocky Conwell’s ex-wife first. See if we dig up a connection between Conwell and Lawson. Put his car out there, see if we get a hit.”

The phone rang. Daley was working the switchboard as well. He picked it up, listened, and then turned to Perlmutter.

“Who was that?”

“Phil over at the Ho-Ho-Kus station.”

“Something wrong?”

“They think an officer might be down. They want our help.”

chapter 20

Beatrice Smith was a fifty-three-year-old widow.

Eric Wu was back in the Ford Windstar. He took Ridgewood Avenue to the Garden State Parkway north. He headed east on Interstate 287 toward the Tappan Zee Bridge. He exited at Armonk in New York. He was on side roads now. He knew exactly where he was going. He had made mistakes, yes, but the basics were still with him.

One of those basics: Have a backup residence lined up.

Beatrice Smith’s husband had been a popular cardiologist, even serving a term as town mayor. They’d had lots of friends, but they were all “couple” friends. When Maury—that was her husband’s name—died of a sudden heart attack, the friends stayed around for a month or two and then faded away. Her only child, a son, and a doctor like his father, lived in San Diego with his wife and three children. She kept the house, the same house she had shared with Maury, but it was big and lonely. She was thinking about selling it and moving into Manhattan, but the prices were just too steep right now. And she was afraid. Armonk was all she knew. Would it be jumping from the frying pan into the fire?

She had confided all of this online to the fictional Kurt McFaddon, a widower from Philadelphia who was considering relocating to New York City. Wu pulled onto her street and slowed. The surroundings were quiet and woodsy and very private. It was late. A fake delivery would not work at this hour. There would be no time or even need for subtlety. Wu would not be able to keep this host alive.

There could be nothing to connect Beatrice Smith to Freddy Sykes.

In short, Beatrice Smith could not be found. Not ever.

Wu parked the car, put on his gloves—no fingerprints this time—and approached the house.

chapter 21

At 5 A.M., Grace threw on a bathrobe—Jack’s robe—and headed downstairs. She always wore Jack’s clothes. He’d kindly request lingerie, but she preferred his pajama tops. “Well?” she’d ask, modeling the top. “Not bad,” he’d reply, “but why not try wearing just the bottoms instead. Now that would be a look.” She shook her head at the memory and reached the computer room.

The first thing Grace did was check the e-mail address they were using to receive replies from their spam of the photograph. What she saw surprised her.

They were no replies.

Not one.

How could that be? It was conceivable, she guessed, that nobody recognized the women in the photograph. She’d been prepared for that possibility. But by now they had sent out hundreds of thousands of e-mails to people. Even with spam blocks and all that, someone should have responded with at the very least an expletive, some crackpot with time on his hands, someone fed up with the overflow of spam who’d need to vent.

Someone.

But she had not received even one reply.

What should she make of that?

The house was quiet. Emma and Max were still asleep. So too was Cora. Cora was snoring, stretched out on her back, her mouth open.

Switch gears, Grace thought.

She knew that Bob Dodd, the murdered reporter, was now her best, perhaps only, lead, and let’s face it, it was a pretty flimsy one. She had no phone contact for him, no next of kin, not even a street address. Still, Dodd had been a reporter for a fairly major newspaper, the New Hampshire Post. She decided that was the best place to start.

Newspapers don’t really close—at least, that was what Grace figured. Someone has to be manning the Post desk in case a big story broke. It also figured that the reporter stuck working at 5 A.M. might be bored and more apt to talk to her. So she picked up the phone.

Grace was not sure how to approach this. She considered various angles, pretending, for example, to be a reporter doing a story, asking for collegial assistance, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to talk the talk.

In the end she decided to try to keep as close to the truth as possible.

She pressed *67 to block the Caller ID. The newspaper had a toll-free line. Grace didn’t use it. You can’t block Caller ID from toll-free numbers. She had learned that somewhere and stockpiled it in the back brain closet, the same closet where she stored information about Daryl Hannah being in Splash and Esperanza Diaz being the wrestler dubbed Little Pocahontas, the same closet that helped make Grace, in Jack’s words, “Mistress of the Useless Factoid.”

The first two calls to the New Hampshire Post went nowhere. The guy at the news desk simply could not be bothered. He hadn’t really known Bob Dodd and barely listened to her pitch. Grace waited twenty minutes and tried again. This time she got routed to Metro, where a woman who sounded very young informed Grace that she had just started at the paper, that this was her first job ever, that she didn’t know Bob Dodd, but gee, wasn’t it awful what happened to him?

Grace checked the e-mails again. Still nothing.

“Mommy!”

It was Max.

“Mommy, come quick!”

Grace hurried up the stairs.

“What is it, honey?”

Max sat in his bed and pointed to his foot. “My toe is growing too fast.”

“Your toe?”

“Look.”

She moved next to him and sat down.

“See?”

“See what, honey?”

“My second toe,” he began. “It’s bigger than my big toe. It’s growing too fast.”

Grace smiled. “That’s normal, honey.”

“Huh?”

“Lots of people have a second toe that’s longer than their big one. Your daddy has that.”

“No way.”

“Yup, way. His second toe is longer than the big one on the end.”

That seemed to appease him. Grace felt another pang. “You want to watch The Wiggles?” she asked him.

“That’s a baby show.”

“Let’s see what’s on Playhouse Disney, okay?”

Rolie Polie Olie was on, and Max settled into the couch to watch. He liked to use the cushions as blankets, making a total mess of the place. Grace was beyond caring. She tried the New Hampshire Post again. This time she asked for features.

The man who answered had a voice like old tires on a gravel road. “What’s up?”

“Good morning,” Grace said, too cheerfully, smiling into the phone like a dimwit.

The man made a noise which, loosely translated, said: Get on with it.

“I’m trying to get some information on Bob Dodd.”

“Who is this?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“You’re kidding, right? Look, sweetheart, I’m going to hang up now—”

“Wait a second. I can’t go into details, but if it turns into a major scoop—”

“Major scoop? Did you just say major scoop?”

“Yes.”

The man started cackling. “And what, you think I’m like Pavlov’s dog or something. Say major scoop and I’ll salivate.”

“I just need to know about Bob Dodd.”

“Why?”

“Because my husband is missing and I think it might have something to do with his murder.”

That made him pause. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No,” Grace said. “Look, I just need to find someone who knew Bob Dodd.”

The voice was softer now. “I knew him.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Well enough. What do you want?”

“Do you know what he was working on?”

“Look, lady, do you have information on Bob’s murder? Because if you do, forget the major scoop crap and tell the police.”

“Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“I was going through some old phone bills. My husband talked to Bob Dodd not long before he was murdered.”

“And your husband is?”

“I’m not going to tell you that. It’s probably just a coincidence.”

“But you said your husband is missing?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re concerned enough to be following up on this old phone call?”

“I’ve got nothing else,” Grace said.

There was a pause. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” the man said.

“I don’t think I can.”

Silence.

“Ah, what’s the harm? I don’t know anything. Bob didn’t confide in me.”

“Who would he confide in?”

“You can try his wife.”

Grace almost slapped herself in the head. How could she not have thought of something so obvious? Man, she was over her head here. “Do you know how I can locate her?”

“Not sure. I only met her, what, once, maybe twice.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jillian. That’s with a J, I think.”

“Jillian Dodd?”

“I guess.”

She wrote it down.

“There’s another person you might try. Bob’s father, Robert Senior. He must be in his eighties, but I think they were pretty close.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“Yeah, he’s in some nursing home in Connecticut. We shipped Bob’s stuff there.”

“Stuff?”

“Cleaned out his desk myself. Put the stuff in a cardboard box for him.”

Grace frowned. “And you sent it to his father’s nursing home?”

“Yup.”

“Why not to Jillian, the wife?”

There was a brief pause. “Don’t know actually. I think she freaked after the murder. She was there, you know. Hold on a second, let me find the number of the nursing home. You can ask yourself.”

• • •

Charlaine wanted to sit next to the hospital bed.

You always see that in movies and on TV—doting wives sitting bedside, holding the hand of their beloved—but in this room there was no chair made for that. The one chair in the room was too low to the ground, the sort of thing that opened up into a sleeper, and yes, that might come in handy later, but now, right now, Charlaine just wanted to sit and hold her husband’s hand.

She stood instead. Every once in a while she sat on the bed’s edge, but she feared that might disturb Mike. So she’d stand again. And maybe that was good. Maybe that felt a little like penance.

The door behind her opened. Her back was to it. She did not bother turning around. A man’s voice, one she hadn’t heard before, said, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“You were lucky.”

She nodded. “I feel like I won the lottery.”

Charlaine reached up and touched the bandage on her forehead. A few stitches and possible slight concussion. That was all she had suffered during the accident. Scrapes, bruises, a few stitches.

“How is your husband?”

She did not bother replying. The bullet had hit Mike in the neck. He still had not regained consciousness, though the doctors had informed her that they believed “the worst was over,” whatever that meant.

“Mr. Sykes is going to live,” the man behind her said. “Because of you. He owes you his life. A few more hours in that tub . . .”

The man—she assumed that he was yet another police officer—let his voice drift off. She finally turned and faced him. Yep, a cop. In uniform nonetheless. The patch on his arm said he was from the Kasselton Police Department.

“I already talked to the Ho-Ho-Kus detectives,” she said.

“I know that.”

“I really don’t know any more, Officer . . . ?”

“Perlmutter,” he said. “Captain Stuart Perlmutter.”

She turned back toward the bed. Mike had his shirt off. His belly rose and fell as if it were being inflated at a gas station. He was overweight, Mike, and the act of breathing, just breathing, seemed to put undue stress on him. He should have taken better care of his health. She should have insisted on it.

“Who’s with your kids?” Perlmutter asked.

“Mike’s brother and sister-in-law.”

“Anything I can get you?”

“No.”

Charlaine changed her grip on Mike’s hand.

“I was going over your statement.”

She did not reply.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few follow-up questions?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Charlaine said.

“Pardon?”

“I live in Ho-Ho-Kus. What does Kasselton have to do with it?”

“I’m just helping out.”

She nodded, though she had no idea why. “I see.”

“According to your statement, you were looking out your bedroom window when you saw the hide-a-key on Mr. Sykes’s back path. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you called the police?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Mr. Sykes?”

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on that rising and falling stomach. “To say hello.”

“You mean like a neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I never really talked to him.”

“Just the neighborly hellos.”

She nodded.

“And the last time you did that?”

“Waved hello?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. A week ago maybe.”

“I’m a little confused, Mrs. Swain, so maybe you can help me out here. You saw a hide-a-key on the path and just decided to call the police—”

“I also saw movement.”

“Pardon?”

“Movement. I saw something move in the house.”

“Like someone was inside?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know it wasn’t Mr. Sykes?”

She turned around. “I didn’t. But I also saw the hide-a-key.”

“Lying there. In plain sight.”

“Yes.”

“I see. And you put two and two together?”

“Right.”

Perlmutter nodded as if suddenly understanding. “And if Mr. Sykes had been the one to use the hide-a-key, he wouldn’t have just tossed it onto the path. Was that your thinking?”

Charlaine said nothing.

“Because, see, that’s what’s weird to me, Mrs. Swain. This guy who broke into the house and assaulted Mr. Sykes. Why would he have left the hide-a-key out in plain sight like that? Wouldn’t he have hidden it or taken it inside with him?”

Silence.

“And there’s something else. Mr. Sykes sustained his injuries at least twenty-four hours before we found him. Do you think the hide-a-key was out on that path the whole time?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t. It’s not like you stare at his backyard or anything.”

She just looked at him.

“Why did you and your husband follow him, the guy who broke into the Sykes place, I mean?”

“I told the other officer—”

“You were trying to help out, so we wouldn’t lose him.”

“I was also afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That he’d know I called the police.”

“Why would you worry about that?”

“I was watching from the window. When the police arrived. He turned and looked out and saw me.”

“And you thought, what, he’d go after you?”

“I don’t know. I was scared, that’s all.”

Perlmutter did that over-nod bit again. “I guess that fits. I mean some of the pieces, well, you have to force them down, but that’s normal. Most cases don’t make perfect sense.”

She turned away from him again.

“You say he was driving a Ford Windstar.”

“That’s right.”

“He pulled out of the garage in that vehicle, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Why do you think he did that?”

“Did what?”

“Parked in the garage.”

“I have no idea. Maybe so no one would see his car.”

“Yeah, okay, that adds up.”

Charlaine took her husband’s hand again. She remembered the last time they’d held hands. Two months ago, when they went to see a romantic comedy with Meg Ryan. Strangely enough Mike was a sucker for “chick flicks.” His eyes welled up during bad romance movies. In real life, she could only remember seeing him cry once, when his father died. But at movies Mike sat in the dark and you would see a little quake in the face and then, yes, the tears would start. That night he reached out and took her hand, and what Charlaine remembered most—what tormented her now—was being unmoved. Mike had tried to interlace their fingers, but she shifted hers just enough to block him. That was how little it meant to Charlaine, nothing really, this overweight man with the comb-over reaching out to her.

“Could you please leave now?” she asked Perlmutter.

“You know I can’t.”

She closed her eyes.

“I know about your tax problem.”

She stayed still.

“In fact, you called H&R Block this morning about it, isn’t that right? That’s where Mr. Sykes worked.”

She didn’t want to let go of the hand, but it felt as though Mike was pulling away.

“Mrs. Swain?”

“Not here,” Charlaine said to Perlmutter. She let the hand drop and stood. “Not in front of my husband.”

chapter 22

Nursing home residents are always in and happy to have a visitor. Grace called the number and a perky woman answered. “Starshine Assisted Living!”

“I’d like to know about visiting hours,” Grace said.

“We don’t have them!” She spoke in exclamations.

“Excuse me?”

“No visiting hours. You can visit anytime, twenty-four-seven.”

“Oh. I’d like to visit Mr. Robert Dodd.”

“Bobby? Well, let me connect you to his room. Oh wait, it’s eight. He’ll be at exercise class. Bobby likes to keep in shape.”

“Is there a way I can make an appointment?”

“To visit?”

“Yes.”

“No need, just stop by.”

The drive would take her a little under two hours. It would be better than trying to explain over the phone, especially in light of the fact that she didn’t have a clue what she wanted to ask him about. The elderly are better in person anyway.

“Do you think he’ll be in this morning?”

“Oh sure. Bobby stopped driving two years ago. He’ll be here.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

At the breakfast table, Max dug his hand deep into the box of Cap’n Crunch. The sight—her child going for the toy—made her pause. It was all so normal. Children sense things. Grace knew that. But sometimes, well, sometimes children are wonderfully oblivious. Right now she was grateful for that.

“You already got the toy out,” she said.

Max stopped. “I did?”

“So many boxes, so crummy a toy.”

“What?”

The truth was, she had done the same thing when she was a kid—digging to get the worthless prize. Come to think of it, with the same cereal. “Never mind.”

She sliced up a banana and mixed it in with the cereal. Grace always tried to be sneaky here, gradually adding more banana and less of the Cap’n. For a while she added Cheerios—less sugar—but Max quickly caught on.

“Emma! Get up now!”

A groan. Her daughter was too young to start with the trouble-getting-out-of-bed bit. Grace hadn’t pulled that until she was in high school. Okay, maybe middle school. But certainly, definitely, not when she was eight. She thought about her own parents, dead for so long now. Sometimes one of the kids did something that reminded Grace of her mother or father. Emma pursed her lips so much like Grace’s mom that Grace sometimes froze in place. Max’s smile was like her dad’s. You could see the genetic echo, and Grace never knew if it was a comfort or a painful reminder.

“Emma, now!”

A sound. Might have been a child getting out of bed.

Grace started making one lunch. Max liked to buy it at school and Grace was all for the ease of that. Making lunches in the morning was a pain in the ass. For a while Emma would buy the school lunch too, but something recently grossed her out, some indiscernible smell in the cafeteria that caused an aversion so strong Emma would gag. She ate outside, even in the cold, but the smell, she soon realized, was also in the food. Now she stayed in the cafeteria and brought a Batman lunchbox with her.

“Emma!”

“I’m here.”

Emma wore her standard gym-rat garb: maroon athletic shorts, blue high-top Converse all-stars, and a New Jersey Nets jersey. Total clash, which may have been the point. Emma wouldn’t wear anything the least bit feminine. Putting on a dress usually required a negotiation of Middle East sensitivity, with often an equally violent result.

“What would you like for lunch?” Grace asked.

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

Grace just stared at her.

Emma played innocent. “What?”

“You’ve been attending this school for how long now?”

“Huh?”

“Four years, right? One year of kindergarten. And now you’re in third grade. That’s four years.”

“So?”

“In all that time how many times have you asked me for peanut butter in school?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe a hundred?”

Shrug.

“And how many times have I told you that your school doesn’t allow peanut butter because some children might have an allergic reaction?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Oh yeah.” Grace checked the clock. She had a few Oscar Mayer “Lunchables,” a rather disgustingly processed premade lunch, that she kept around for emergencies—i.e., no time or desire to fix a lunch. The kids, of course, loved them. She asked Emma softly if she’d like one—softly because if Max heard, that would be the end of buying lunch. Emma graciously accepted it and jammed it into the Batman lunchbox.

They sat down to breakfast.

“Mom?”

It was Emma. “Yep.”

“When you and Dad got married.” She stopped.

“What about it?”

Emma started again. “When you and Dad got married—at the end, when the guy said now you may kiss the bride . . .”

“Right.”

“Well”—Emma cocked her head and closed one eye—“did you have to?”

“Kiss him?”

“Yeah.”

“Have to? No, I guess not. I wanted to.”

“But do you have to?” Emma insisted. “I mean, can’t you just high-five instead?”

“High-five?”

“Instead of kiss. You know, turn to each other and high-five.” She demonstrated.

“I guess. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want,” Emma said firmly.

Grace took them to the bus stop. This time she did not follow the bus to school. She stayed in place and bit down on her lower lip. The calm façade was slipping off again. Now that Emma and Max were gone, that would be okay.

When she got back to the house, Cora was awake and at the computer and groaning.

“Can I get you something?” Grace asked.

“An anesthesiologist,” Cora said. “Straight preferred but not required.”

“I was thinking more like coffee.”

“Even better.” Cora’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Her eyes narrowed. She frowned. “Something’s wrong here.”

“You mean with the e-mails off our spam, right?”

“We’re not getting any replies.”

“I noticed that too.”

Cora sat back. Grace moved next to her and started biting a cuticle. After a few seconds, Cora leaned forward. “Let me try something.” She brought up an e-mail, typed something in, sent it.

“What was that all about?”

“I just sent an e-mail to our spam address. I want to see if it arrives.”

They waited. No e-mail appeared.

“Hmm.” Cora leaned back. “So either something is wrong with the mail system . . .”

“Or?”

“Or Gus is still ticked about that small wee-wee line.”

“How do we find out which?”

Cora kept staring at the computer. “Who were you on the phone with before?”

“Bob Dodd’s nursing home. I’m going to pay him a visit this morning.”

“Good.” Cora’s eyes stayed on the screen.

“What is it?’

“I want to check something out,” she said.

“What?”

“Nothing probably, just something with the phone bills.” Cora started typing again. “I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

• • •

Perlmutter left Charlaine Swain with the Bergen County sketch artist. He had forced the truth out of her, thereby unearthing a tawdry secret that would have been better left deep in the ground. Charlaine Swain had been right to keep it from him. It offered no help. The revelation was, at best, a sleazy and embarrassing distraction.

He sat with a doodle pad, wrote the word “Windstar” and spent the next fifteen minutes circling it.

A Ford Windstar.

Kasselton was not a sleepy small town. They had thirty-eight cops on the payroll. They worked robberies. They checked on suspicious cars. They kept the school drug problems—suburban white-kid drugs—under control. They worked vandalism cases. They dealt with congestion in town, illegal parking, car accidents. They did their best to keep the urban decay of Paterson, a scant three miles from the border of Kasselton, at a safe distance. They answered too many false alarms emanating from the technological mating call of too many overpriced motion detectors.

Perlmutter had never fired his service revolver, except on a range. He had, in fact, never drawn his weapon in the line of duty. There had only been three deaths in the last three decades that fell under the possible heading of “suspicious” and all three perpetrators were caught within hours. One was an ex-husband who got drunk and decided to profess his undying love by planning to kill the woman he purportedly adored before turning the shotgun on himself. Said ex-husband managed to get the first part right—two shotgun blasts to the ex’s head—but like everything else in his pathetic life, he messed up the second part. He had only brought two shells. An hour later he was in custody. Suspicious Death Two was a teenage bully stabbed by a skinny, tormented elementary-school victim. The skinny kid served three years in juvie, where he learned the real meaning of being bullied and tormented. The final case was of a man dying of cancer who begged his wife of forty-eight years to end his suffering. She did. She got parole and Perlmutter suspected that it was worth it to her.

As for gunshots, well, there had been plenty in Kasselton but almost all were self-inflicted. Perlmutter wasn’t much on politics. He wasn’t sure of the relative merits of gun control, but he knew from personal experience that a gun bought for home protection was more likely—much, much, much more likely—to be used by the owner to commit suicide than to ward off a home invasion. In fact, in all his years in law enforcement, Perlmutter had never seen a case where the home gun had been used to shoot, stop, or scare away an intruder. Suicides by handguns, well, they were more plentiful than anyone wanted to let on.

Ford Windstar. He circled it again.

Now, after all these years, Perlmutter had a case involving attempted murder, bizarre abduction, unusually brutal assault—and, he suspected, much more. He started doodling again. He wrote the name Jack Lawson in the top left-hand corner. He wrote the name Rocky Conwell in the top right-hand corner. Both men, possibly missing, had crossed a toll plaza in a neighboring state at the same time. He drew a line from one name to the other.

Connection One.

Perlmutter wrote out Freddy Sykes’s name, bottom left. The victim of a grievous assault. He wrote Mike Swain on the bottom right. Shot, attempted murder. The connection between these two men, Connection Two, was obvious. Swain’s wife had seen the perpetrator of both acts, a stout Chinese guy she made sound like the Son of Odd Job from the old James Bond film.

But nothing really connected the four cases. Nothing connected the two disappearing men to the work of Odd Job’s offspring. Except perhaps for one thing:

The Ford Windstar.

Jack Lawson had been driving a blue Ford Windstar when he disappeared. Mini Odd Job had been driving a blue Ford Windstar when he left the Sykes residence and shot Swain.

Granted this was a tenuous connection at best. Saying “Ford Windstar” in this suburb was like saying “implant” at a strip club. It wasn’t much to go on, but when you add in the history of this town, the fact that stable fathers do not really just go missing, that this much activity never happens in a town like Kasselton . . . no, it wasn’t a strong tie, but it wasn’t far off for Perlmutter to draw a conclusion:

All of this was related.

Perlmutter had no idea how this was all related, and he really didn’t want to think about it too much quite yet. Let the techies and lab guys do their jobs first. Let them scour the Sykes residence for fingerprints and hairs. Let the artist finish the sketch. Let Veronique Baltrus, their resident computer weenie and an honest-to-God knockout, sift through the Sykes computer. It was simply too early to make a guess.

“Captain?”

It was Daley.

“What’s up?”

“We found Rocky Conwell’s car.”

“Where?”

“You know the Park-n-Ride on Route 17?”

Perlmutter took off his reading glasses. “The one down the street?”

Daley nodded. “I know. It doesn’t make sense. We know he left the state, right?”

“Who found it?”

“Pepe and Pashaian.”

“Tell them to secure the area,” he said, rising. “We’ll check the vehicle out ourselves.”

chapter 23

Grace threw on a Coldplay CD for the ride, hoping it’d distract her. It did and it didn’t. On one level she understood exactly what was happening to her with no need for interpretation. But the truth, in a sense, was too stark. To face it straight on would paralyze. That was where the surrealism probably derived from—self-preservation, the need to protect and even filter what one saw. Surrealism gave her the strength to go on, to pursue the truth, to find her husband, as opposed to the eye of reality, stark and naked and alone, which made her want to crouch into a small ball or maybe scream until they took her away.

Her cell phone rang. She instinctively glanced at the display before hitting the hands-free. Again, no, not Jack. It was Cora. Grace picked up and said, “Hey.”

“I won’t classify the news as bad or good, so let me put it this way. Do you want the weird news first or the really weird news?”

“Weird.”

“I can’t reach Gus of the small wee-wee. He won’t answer his calls. I keep getting his voice mail.”

Coldplay started singing, appropriately enough, a haunting number entitled “Shiver.” Grace kept both hands on the wheel, perfectly placed at ten and two o’clock. She stayed in the middle lane and drove exactly the speed limit. Cars flew by on both her right and left.

“And the really weird news?”

“Remember how we tried to see the calls from two nights ago? I mean, the ones Jack might have made?”

“Right.”

“Well, I called the cell phone company. I pretended I was you. I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

“Correct assumption.”

“Right. Anyway, it didn’t matter. The only call Jack’s made in the past three days was to your cell phone yesterday.”

“The call he made when I was at the police station.”

“Right.”

“So what’s weird about that?”

“Nothing. The weird part was on your home phone.”

Silence. She stayed on the Merritt Parkway, her hands on the wheel at ten and two o’clock.

“What about it?”

“You know about the call to his sister’s office?” Cora asked.

“Yeah. I found that one by hitting redial.”

“And his sister—what’s her name again?”

“Sandra Koval.”

“Sandra Koval, right. She told you that she wasn’t there. That they never talked.”

“Yes.”

“The phone call lasted nine minutes.”

A small shudder skipped through Grace. She forced her hands to stay at two and ten. “Ergo she lied.”

“It would seem.”

“So what did Jack say to her?”

“And what did she say back?”

“And why did she lie about it?”

“Sorry to have to tell you,” Cora said.

“No, it’s good.”

“How do you figure?”

“It’s a lead. Before this, Sandra was a dead end. Now we know she’s somehow involved.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “Confront her, I guess.”

They said good-bye and Grace hung up. She drove a little farther, trying to run the scenarios through her head. “Trouble” came on the CD player. She pulled into an Exxon station. New Jersey didn’t have self-serve, so for a moment Grace just sat in her car, not realizing that she had to fill it up herself.

She bought a bottle of cold water at the station’s mini-mart and dropped the change into a charity can. She wanted to think this through some more, this connection to Jack’s sister, but there wasn’t time for finesse here.

Grace remembered the number of the Burton and Crimstein law firm. She took out her phone and pressed in the digits. Two rings later she asked to be connected to Sandra Koval’s line. She was surprised when Sandra herself said, “Hello?”

“You lied to me.”

There was no reply. Grace walked back toward her car.

“The call lasted nine minutes. You talked to Jack.”

More silence.

“What’s going on, Sandra?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did Jack call you?”

“I’m going to hang up now. Please don’t try to contact me again.”

“Sandra?”

“You said he called you already.”

“Yes.”

“My advice is to wait until he calls again.”

“I don’t want your advice, Sandra. I want to know what he said to you.”

“I think you should stop.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re on a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at gas station in Connecticut.”

“Why?”

“Sandra, I want you to listen to me.” There was a burst of static. Grace waited for it to pass. She finished filling the tank and grabbed her receipt. “You’re the last person to talk to my husband before he disappeared. You lied to me about it. You still won’t tell me what he said to you. Why should I tell you anything?”

“Fair point, Grace. Now you listen to me. I’m going to leave you with one last thought before I hang up: Go home and take care of your children.”

The line went dead. Grace was back in the car now. She hit redial and asked to be connected to Sandra’s office. Nobody answered. She tried again. Same thing. So now what? Try to show up in person again?

She pulled out of the gas station. Two miles later Grace saw a sign that said STARSHINE ASSISTED LIVING CENTER. Grace was not sure what she’d been expecting. The nursing home of her youth, she guessed, those one-level edifices of plain brick, the purest form of substance-over-style that, in a perverse way, reminded her of elementary schools. Life, alas, was cyclical. You start in one of those plain brick buildings, you end there. Turn, turn, turn.

But the Starshine Assisted Living Center was a three-story faux Victorian hotel. It had the turrets and the porches and the bright yellow of the painted ladies of old, all set against a ghastly aluminum siding. The grounds were manicured to the point where everything looked a tad too done, almost plastic. The place was aiming for cheery but it was trying too hard. The whole effect reminded Grace of Epcot Center at Disney World—a fun reproduction but you’d never mistake it for the real thing.

An old woman sat on a rocking chair on the front porch. She was reading the paper. She wished Grace a good morning and Grace did likewise. The lobby too tried to force up memories of a hotel from a bygone era. There were oil paintings in gaudy frames that looked like the kind of thing you’d buy at one of those Holiday Inn sales where everything was $19.99. It was obvious that they were reproductions of classics, even if you had never seen Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party or Hopper’s Nighthawks.

The lobby was surprisingly busy. There were elderly people, of course, lots of them, in various states of degeneration. Some walked with no assistance, some shuffled, some had canes, some had walkers, some had wheelchairs. Many seemed spry; others slept.

The lobby was clean and bright but still had that—Grace hated herself for thinking like this—old-people smell, the odor of a sofa turning moldy. They tried to cover it up with something cherry, something that reminded Grace of those dangling tree fresheners in gypsy cabs, but there are some smells that you can never mask.

The singular young person in the room—a woman in her mid-twenties—sat behind a desk that was again aiming for the era but looked like something just bought at the Bombay Company. She smiled up at Grace.

“Good morning. I’m Lindsey Barclay.”

Grace recognized the voice from the phone. “I’m here to see Mr. Dodd.”

“Bobby’s in his room. Second floor, room 211. I’ll take you.”

She rose. Lindsey was pretty in a way that only the young are, with that enthusiasm and smile that belong exclusively to the innocent or the cult recruiter.

“Do you mind taking the stairs?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

Many of the residents stopped and said hello. Lindsey had time for every one of them, cheerfully returning each greeting, though Grace the cynic couldn’t help but wonder if this was a bit of a show for the visitor. Still Lindsey knew all the names. She always had something to say, something personal, and the residents seemed to appreciate that.

“Seems like mostly women,” Grace noted.

“When I was in school, they told us the national ratio in assisted living is five women for every one man.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. Bobby jokes that he’s waited his whole life for that kind of odds.”

Grace smiled.

She waved a hand. “Oh, but he’s all talk. His wife—he calls her ‘his Maudie’—died almost thirty years ago. I don’t think he’s looked at a woman since.”

That silenced them. The corridor was done up in forest green and pink, the walls lined with the familiar—Rockwell prints, dogs playing poker, black-and-whites from old movies like Casablanca and Strangers on a Train. Grace limped along. Lindsey noticed it—Grace could tell the way she cut quick glances—but like most people, she said nothing.

“We have different neighborhoods at Starlight,” Lindsey explained. “That’s what we call the corridors like this. Neighborhoods. Each has a different theme. The one we’re in now is called Nostalgia. We think the residents find it comforting.”

They stopped at a door. A nameplate on the right said “B. Dodd.” She knocked on the door. “Bobby?”

No reply. She opened the door anyway. They stepped into a small but comfortable room. There was a tiny kitchenette on the right. On the coffee table, ideally angled so that you could see it from both the door and the bed, was a large black-and-white photograph of a stunning woman who looked a bit like Lena Horne. The woman in the picture was maybe forty but you could tell that the picture was old.

“That’s his Maudie.”

Grace nodded, lost for a moment in this image in the silver frame. She thought again about “her Jack.” For the first time she allowed herself to consider the unthinkable: Jack might never come home. It was something she’d been avoiding from the moment she’d heard the minivan start up. She might never see Jack again. She might never hold him. She might never laugh at one of his corny jokes. She might never—and this was apropos to think here—grow old with him.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Bobby must be up with Ira on Reminiscence. They play cards.”

They began to back out of the room. “Is Reminiscence another, uh, neighborhood?”

“No. Reminiscence is what we call our third floor. It’s for our residents with Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh.”

“Ira doesn’t recognize his own children, but he still plays a mean game of poker pinochle.”

They were back in the hall. Grace noticed a cluster of images next to Bobby Dodd’s door. She took a closer look. It was one of those box frames people use to display trinkets. There were army medals. There was an old baseball, brown with age. There were photographs from every era of the man’s life. One photograph was of his murdered son, Bob Dodd, the same one she’d seen on the computer last night.

Lindsey said, “Memory box.”

“Nice,” Grace said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Every patient has one by their door. It’s a way to let everyone know about you.”

Grace nodded. Summing up a life in a twelve-by-eight box frame. Like everything else about this place, it managed to be both appropriate and creepy at the exact same time.

To get to the Reminiscence floor you had to use an elevator that worked by a coded numeric keypad. “So the residents don’t wander,” Lindsey explained, which again fit into the “making sense yet giving the willies” style of this place.

The Reminiscence floor was comfortable, well appointed, well staffed, and terrifying. Some residents were functional, but most wilted in wheelchairs like dying flowers. Some stood and shuffled. Several muttered to themselves. All had that glazed, hundred-yard stare.

A woman deep into her eighties jangled her keys and started for the elevator.

Lindsey asked, “Where are you going, Cecile?”

The old woman turned toward her. “I have to pick up Danny from school. He’ll be waiting for me.”

“It’s okay,” Lindsey said. “School won’t be out for another two hours.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Look, let’s have some lunch and then you can pick up Danny, okay?”

“He has piano lessons today.”

“I know.”

A staff member came over and steered Cecile away. Lindsey watched her go. “We use validation therapy,” she said, “with our advanced Alzheimer’s patients.”

“Validation therapy?”

“We don’t argue with them or try to make them see the truth. I don’t, for example, tell her that Danny is now a sixty-two-year-old banker with three grandchildren. We just try to redirect them.”

They walked down a corridor—no, “neighborhood”—filled with life-size dolls of babies. There was a changing table and teddy bears.

“Nursery neighborhood,” she said.

“They play with dolls?”

“Those that are more high functioning. It helps them prepare for visits from great-grandchildren.”

“And the others?”

Lindsey kept walking. “Some think they’re young mothers. It helps soothe them.”

Subconsciously, or maybe not, they picked up the pace. A few seconds later, Lindsey said, “Bobby?”

Bobby Dodd rose from the card table. The first word that came to mind: Dapper. He looked sprightly and fresh. He had dark black skin, thick wrinkles like something you might see on an alligator. He was a snappy dresser in a tweed jacket, two-tone loafers, red ascot with matching hanky. His gray hair was cropped close and slicked down.

His manner was upbeat, even after Grace explained that she wanted to talk to him about his murdered son. She looked for some signs of devastation—a wetness in the eye, a tremor in the voice—but Bobby Dodd showed nothing. Okay, yes, Grace was dealing in heavy generalities, but could it be that death and big-time tragedy did not hit the elderly as hard as the rest of us? Grace wondered. The elderly could be easily agitated by the little stuff—traffic delays, lines at airports, poor service. But it was as if the big things never quite reached them. Was there a strange selfishness that came with age? Was there something about being closer to the inevitable—having that perspective—that made one either internalize, block, or brush off the big calamities? Can frailty not handle the big blows, and thus a defense mechanism, a survival instinct, runs interference?

Bobby Dodd wanted to help, but he really didn’t know much. Grace could see that almost right away. His son had visited twice a month. Yes, Bob’s stuff had been packed up and sent to him, but he hadn’t bothered opening it.

“It’s in storage,” Lindsey told Grace.

“Do you mind if I look through it?”

Bobby Dodd patted her leg. “Not at all, child.”

“We’ll need to ship it to you,” Lindsey said. “The storage facility is off site.”

“It’s very important.”

“I can have it overnighted.”

“Thank you.”

Lindsey left them alone.

“Mr. Dodd—”

“Bobby, please.”

“Bobby,” Grace said. “When was the last time your son visited you?”

“Three days before he was killed.”

The words came quickly and without thought. She finally saw a flicker behind the façade, and she wondered about her earlier observations, about old age making tragedy less hurtful—or does it merely make the mask more deft?

“Did he seem different at all?”

“Different?”

“More distracted, anything like that.”

“No.” Then: “Or at least I didn’t notice, if he did.”

“What did you talk about?”

“We never have much to say. Sometimes we talk about his momma. Most of the time we just watch TV. They got cable here, you know.”

“Did Jillian come with him?”

“No.”

He said that too quickly. Something in his face closed down.

“Did she ever come?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not the last time?”

“That’s right.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“That? No, that”—big emphasis—“didn’t surprise me.”

“What did?”

He looked off and bit his lower lip. “She wasn’t at the funeral.”

Grace thought that she must have heard wrong. Bobby Dodd nodded as if he could read her thoughts.

“That’s right. His own wife.”

“Were they having marital issues?”

“If they were, Bob never said anything to me.”

“Did they have any children?”

“No.” He adjusted the ascot and glanced away for a moment. “Why are you bringing this all up, Mrs. Lawson?”

“Grace, please.”

He did not reply. He looked at her with eyes that spoke of wisdom and sadness. Maybe the answer to elderly coldness is far simpler: Those eyes had seen bad. They didn’t want to see more.

“My own husband is missing,” Grace said. “I think, I don’t know, I think they’re connected.”

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Jack Lawson.”

He shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. She asked if he had a phone number or any idea how she could contact Jillian Dodd. He shook his head again. They headed to the elevator. Bobby didn’t know the code, so an orderly escorted them down. They rode from floor three to one in silence.

When they reached the door, Grace thanked him for his time.

“Your husband,” he said. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Hope you’re stronger than me.” Bobby Dodd walked away then. Grace thought of that silver-framed picture in his room, of his Maudie, and then she showed herself out.

chapter 24

Perlmutter realized that they had no legal right to open Rocky Conwell’s car. He pulled Daley over. “Is DiBartola on duty?”

“No.”

“Call Rocky Conwell’s wife. Ask her if she had a set of keys to the car. Tell her we found it and want her permission to go through it.”

“She’s the ex-wife. Does she have any standing?”

“Enough for our purposes,” Perlmutter said.

“Okay.”

It took Daley no time. The wife cooperated. They stopped by the Maple Garden apartments on Maple Street. Daley ran up and retrieved the keys. Five minutes later they pulled into the Park-n-Ride.

There was no reason to be suspicious of foul play. If anything, finding the car here, at this depot, would lead one to the opposite conclusion. People parked here so that they could go elsewhere. One bus whisked the weary to the heart of midtown Manhattan. Another brought you to the northern tip of the famed isle, near the George Washington Bridge. Other buses took you to the three nearby major airports—JFK, LaGuardia, Newark Liberty—and ultimately anywhere in the world. So no, finding Rocky Conwell’s car did not lead one to suspect foul play.

At least, not at first.

Pepe and Pashaian, the two cops who were watching the car, had not seen it. Perlmutter’s eyes slid toward Daley. Nothing on his face either. They all looked complacent, expecting this would lead to a dead end.

Pepe and Pashaian hoisted their belts and sauntered toward Perlmutter. “Hey, Captain.”

Perlmutter kept his eyes on the car.

“You want us to start questioning the ticket agents?” Pepe asked. “Maybe one of them remembers selling Conwell a ticket.”

“I don’t think so,” Perlmutter said.

The three younger men caught something in their superior’s voice. They looked at each other and shrugged. Perlmutter did not explain.

Conwell’s vehicle was a Toyota Celica. A small car, old model. But the size and age didn’t really matter. Neither did the fact that there was rust along the wheel trims, that two hubcaps were gone, that the other two were so dirty you could not tell where metal ended and rubber began. No, none of that bothered Perlmutter.

He stared at the back of the car and thought about those small-town sheriffs in horror movies, you know the ones, where something is very wrong, where townspeople start acting strangely and the body count keeps rising and the sheriff, that good, smart, loyal, out-of-his-league law enforcement officer, is powerless to do anything about it. That was what Perlmutter felt now because the back of the car, the trunk area, was low.

Much too low.

There was only one explanation. Something heavy was in the trunk.

It could be anything, of course. Rocky Conwell had been a football player. He probably lifted weights. Maybe he was transferring a set of dumbbells. The answer could be as simple as that, good old Rocky moving his weights. Maybe he was bringing them back to the garden apartment on Maple Street, the one where his ex lived. She had worried about him. They were reconciling. Maybe Rocky loaded his car—okay, not his whole car, just his trunk, because Perlmutter could see that there was nothing in the backseat—anyway, maybe he loaded it up to move back in with her.

Perlmutter jangled the keys as he moved closer to the Toyota Celica. Daley, Pepe, and Pashaian hung back. Perlmutter glanced down at the set of keys. Rocky’s wife—he thought that her name was Lorraine but he couldn’t be sure—had a Penn State football helmet key chain. It looked old and scraped up. The Nittany Lion was barely visible. Perlmutter wondered what she thought about when she looked at the key chain, why she still used it.

He stopped at the trunk and sniffed the air. Not a hint. He put the key in the lock and turned. The trunk’s lock popped open, the sound echoing. He began to lift the trunk. The air escaping was almost audible. And now, yes, the smell was unmistakable.

Something large had been squished into the trunk, like an oversize pillow. Without warning it sprang free like a giant jack-in-the-box. Perlmutter jumped back as the head fell out first, smacking the pavement hard.

Didn’t matter, of course. Rocky Conwell was already dead.

chapter 25

Now what?

Grace was starved for one thing. She drove over the George Washington Bridge, took the Jones Road exit, and stopped to grab a bite at a Chinese restaurant called, interestingly enough, Baumgart’s. She ate in silence, feeling as lonely as she had ever felt, and tried to hold herself together. What had happened? The day before yesterday—was it really only then?—she had picked up photographs at Photomat. That was all. Life was good. She had a husband she adored and two wonderful, inquisitive kids. She had time to paint. They all had their health, enough money in the bank. And then she had seen a photograph, an old one, and now . . .

Grace had almost forgotten about Josh the Fuzz Pellet.

He was the one who developed the roll of film. He was the one who mysteriously left the store not long after she picked up the pictures. He had to be the one, she was sure, who put that damn photograph in the middle of her pack.

She grabbed her cell phone, asked directory assistance for the number of the Photomat in Kasselton, and even paid the extra fee to be directly connected. On the third ring, the phone was picked up.

“Photomat.”

Grace said nothing. No question about it. She would recognize that bored yah-dude slur anywhere. It was Fuzz Pellet Josh. He was back at the store.

She considered just hanging up, but maybe, somehow, that would—she didn’t know—tip him off somehow. Make him run. She changed her voice, added a little extra lilt, and asked what time they closed.

“Like, six,” Fuzz Pellet told her.

She thanked him, but he had hung up. The check was already on the table. She paid and tried not to sprint to her car. Route 4 was wide open. She sped past the plethora of malls and found a parking spot not far from the Photomat. Her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carl Vespa.”

“Oh, hi.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday. About springing Jimmy X on you like that.”

She debated telling him about Jimmy’s late night visit, decided now was not the time. “It’s okay.”

“I know you don’t care, but it looks like Wade Larue is going to get released.”

“Maybe it’s the right thing,” she said.

“Maybe.” But Vespa sounded far from convinced. “You sure you don’t need any protection?”

“Positive.”

“If you change your mind . . .”

“I’ll call.”

There was a funny pause. “Any word from your husband?”

“No.”

“Does he have a sister?”

Grace changed hands. “Yes. Why?”

“Her name Sandra Koval?”

“Yes. What does she have to do with this?”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up. Grace stared at the phone. What the hell was that all about? She shook her head. It would be useless to call back. She tried to refocus.

Grace grabbed her purse and hurry-limped toward the Photomat. Her leg hurt. Walking was a chore. It felt as though someone were on the ground clinging to her ankle and she had to drag him along. Grace kept moving. She was three stores away when a man in a business suit stepped in her path.

“Ms. Lawson?”

A weird thought struck Grace as she looked at this stranger: His sandy hair was nearly the same color as his suit. It almost looked liked they were both made from the same material.

“May I help you?” she said.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up to her face so that she could see it. “Did you post this on the Web?”

It was the cropped mystery photograph of the blonde and the redhead.

“Who are you?”

The sandy-haired man said, “My name is Scott Duncan. I’m with the U.S. attorney’s office.” He pointed to the blonde, the one who’d been looking up at Jack, the one with the X across her face.

“And this,” Scott Duncan said, “is a picture of my sister.”

chapter 26

Perlmutter had broken the news to Lorraine Conwell as gently as he could.

He had delivered bad news plenty of times. Usually it involved car accidents on Route 4 or the Garden State Parkway. Lorraine Conwell had exploded into tears when he told her, but now the numb had seeped in and dried her eyes.

The stages of grief: Supposedly the first is denial. That was wrong. The first is just the opposite: Total acceptance. You hear the bad news and you understand exactly what is being said to you. You understand that your loved one—your spouse, your parent, your child—will never come home, that they are gone for good, that their life is over, and that you will never, ever, see them again. You understand that in a flash. Your legs buckle. Your heart gives out.

That was the first step—not just acceptance, not just understanding, but total truth. Human beings are not built to withstand that kind of hurt. That then is when the denial begins. Denial floods in quickly, salving the wounds or at least covering them. But there is still that moment, mercifully quick, the real Stage One, when you hear the news and stare into the abyss, and horrible as it is, you understand everything.

Lorraine Conwell sat ramrod. There was a quiver in her lips. Her eyes were dry. She looked small and alone and it took all Perlmutter had not to put his arms around her and pull her in close.

“Rocky and me,” she said. “We were going to get back together.”

Perlmutter nodded, encouraging.

“It’s my fault, you know. I made Rocky leave. I shouldn’t have.” She looked up at him with those violet eyes. “He was different when we met, you know? He had dreams then. He was so sure of himself. But when he couldn’t play ball anymore, it just ate away at him. I couldn’t live with that.”

Perlmutter nodded again. He wanted to help her out, wanted to stay in her company, but he really did not have time for the unabridged life story. He needed to move this along and get out of here. “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Rocky? Did he have enemies or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “No. No one.”

“He spent time in prison.”

“Yes. It was stupid. He got into a fight in a bar. It got out of hand.”

Perlmutter looked over at Daley. They knew about the fight. They were already on that, seeing if his victim had sought late revenge. It seemed doubtful.

“Was Rocky working?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Newark. He worked at the Budweiser plant. The one near the airport.”

“You called our office yesterday,” Perlmutter said.

She nodded, her eyes staring straight ahead.

“You spoke to an Officer DiBartola.”

“Yes. He was very nice.”

Right. “You told him that Rocky hadn’t come home from work.”

She nodded.

“You called in the early morning. You said he’d been working the night before.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he work a night shift at the plant?”

“No. He’d taken a second job.” She squirmed a little. “It was off the books.”

“Doing what?”

“He worked for this lady.”

“Doing what?”

She used one finger to wipe a tear. “Rocky didn’t talk about it much. He delivered subpoenas, I think, stuff like that.”

“Do you know the lady’s name?”

“Something foreign. I can’t pronounce it.”

Perlmutter did not need to think about it long. “Indira Khariwalla?”

“That’s it.” Lorraine Conwell looked up at him. “You know her?”

He did. It had been a long time, but yes, Perlmutter knew her very well.

• • •

Grace had handed Scott Duncan the photograph, the one with all five people in it. He could not stop staring, especially at the image of his sister. He ran his finger over her face. Grace could barely look at him.

They were back at Grace’s house now, sitting in the kitchen. They had been talking for the better part of half an hour.

“You got this two days ago?” Scott Duncan asked.

“Yes.”

“And then your husband . . . He’s this one, right?” Scott Duncan pointed to Jack’s image.

“Yes.”

“He ran off?”

“He vanished,” she said. “He didn’t run off.”

“Right. You think he was, what, kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what happened to him. I only know he’s in trouble.”

Scott Duncan’s eyes stayed on the old photograph. “Because he gave you some kind of warning? Something about needing space?”

“Mr. Duncan, I’d like to know how you came across this picture. And how you found me, for that matter.”

“You sent it out via some kind of spam. Someone recognized the picture and forwarded it to me. I traced back the spammer and put a little pressure on him.”

“Was that why we didn’t receive any answers?”

Duncan nodded. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. I was on my way to confront the guy in the Photomat when you showed up.”

“We’ll question him, don’t worry about that.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the picture. She had done all the talking. He had told her nothing, except that the woman in the photograph was his sister. Grace pointed at the crossed-out face. “Tell me about her,” she said.

“Her name was Geri. Does her name mean anything to you?”

“I’m sorry, it doesn’t.”

“Your husband never mentioned her? Geri Duncan.”

“Not that I remember.” Then: “You said was.”

“What?”

“You said was. Her name was Geri.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “She died in a fire when she was twenty-one years old. In her dorm room.”

Grace froze. “She went to Tufts, right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Now it made sense—why the girl’s face had seemed familiar. Grace hadn’t known her, but there had been pictures in the newspapers at the time. Grace had been undergoing physical therapy and ripping through way too many periodicals. “I remember reading about it. Wasn’t it an accident? Electrical fire or something?”

“That was what I thought. Until three months ago.”

“What changed?”

“The U.S. attorney’s office captured a man who goes by the name Monte Scanlon. He’s a hired assassin. His job was to make it look like an accident.”

Grace tried to take it in. “And you just learned this three months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Did you investigate?”

“I’m still investigating, but it’s been a long time.” His voice was softer now. “Not many clues after all these years.”

Grace turned away.

“I found out that Geri was dating a boy at the time, a local kid named Shane Alworth. The name mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Shane Alworth had a rap sheet, nothing serious, but I checked him out.”

“And?”

“And he’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“No sign of him. I can’t find work records for him. I can’t find any sign of a Shane Alworth on the tax payroll. I can’t find any hit on his social security number.”

“For how long?”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gone back ten years. Nothing.” Duncan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another photograph. He handed it to Grace. “Recognize him?”

She took a long look at the photograph. No question about it. It was the other guy in her photograph. She looked up at him for confirmation. Duncan nodded.

“Creepy, huh?”

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“From Shane Alworth’s mother. She claims her son lives in a small town in Mexico. That he’s a missionary or something and that’s why his name doesn’t pop up. Shane also has a brother who lives in St. Louis. Works as a psychologist. He backs up what the mother said.”

“But you don’t buy it.”

“Do you?”

Grace put the mystery photograph on the table. “So we know about three people in this photograph,” she said, more to herself than Duncan. “We have your sister, who was murdered. We have her boyfriend, Shane Alworth, the guy over here. He’s missing. We have my husband, who disappeared right after seeing this photograph. That about right?”

“Pretty much.”

“What else did the mother say?”

“Shane was unreachable. He was in the Amazon jungle, she thought.”

“The Amazon jungle? In Mexico?”

“Her geography was fuzzy.”

Grace shook her head and pointed at the picture. “So that leaves the other two women. Any clue who they are?”

“No, not yet. But we know more now. The redhead, we should get a bead on her pretty soon. The other one, the one with her back to the camera, I don’t know if we’ll ever know.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

“Not really. I’ve had Geri’s body exhumed. That took some time to arrange. A full autopsy is being done, see if they can find any physical evidence, but it’s a long shot. This”—he held up the picture from the Web—“this is the first real lead I’ve had.”

She didn’t like the pitch of hope in his voice. “It might just be a picture,” she said.

“You don’t believe that.”

Grace put her hands on the table. “Do you think my husband had something to do with your sister’s death?”

Duncan rubbed his chin. “Good question,” he said.

She waited.

“Something to do with it, probably. But I don’t think he killed her, if that’s what you’re asking. Something happened to them a long time ago. I don’t know what. My sister was killed in a fire. Your husband ran overseas, I guess. France, you said?”

“Yes.”

“And Shane Alworth, too. I mean, it’s all connected. It has to be.”

“My sister-in-law knows something.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “You said she’s a lawyer?”

“Yes. With Burton and Crimstein.”

“That’s not good. I know Hester Crimstein. If she doesn’t want to tell us anything, I won’t be able to apply much pressure.”

“So what do we do?”

“We keep shaking the cage.”

“Shaking the cage?”

He nodded. “Shaking cages is the only way you make progress.”

“So we should start with shaking Josh at the Photomat,” Grace said. “He’s the one who gave me that photograph.”

Duncan stood. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You’re going there now?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come along.”

“Let’s go then.”

• • •

“As I live and breathe. Captain Perlmutter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Indira Khariwalla was small and wizened. Her dark skin—she was, as her name implied, from India, more specifically Bombay—had started to harden and thicken. She was still attractive but not the exotic temptress she had been in her heyday.

“Been a long time,” he said.

“Yes.” The smile, once a dazzler, took great effort now, almost cracking the skin. “But I’d prefer not to rehash the past.”

“Me either.”

When Perlmutter started working in Kasselton, he had been partnered with a veteran a year from retirement named Steve Goedert, a great guy. They struck up a deep friendship. Goedert had three kids, all grown, and a wife named Susan. Perlmutter did not know how Goedert met Indira, but they started up. Susan found out.

Fast-forward past the ugly divorce.

Goedert had no money left once the lawyers were through with him. He ended up working as a private investigator but with a twist: He specialized in infidelity. Or at least that was what he claimed. To Perlmutter’s thinking it was a scam—entrapment at its very worst. He would use Indira as bait. She would approach the husband, lure him in, and then Goedert would take pictures. Perlmutter told him to stop. Fidelity was not a game. It was not a prank, testing a man like that.

Goedert must have known it was wrong. He hit the bottle pretty good and never came out. He too had a gun in his house, and in the end he too did not use it to stop a home invasion. After his death, Indira struck out on her own. She took over the agency, keeping Goedert’s name on the door.

“A long time ago,” she said softly.

“Did you love him?”

“None of your business.”

“You ruined his life.”

“Do you really think I can wield that kind of power over a man?” She shifted in her chair. “What can I do for you, Captain Perlmutter?”

“You have an employee named Rocky Conwell.”

She did not respond.

“I know he’s off the books. I don’t care about that.”

Still nothing. He slapped down a crude Polaroid of Conwell’s dead body.

Indira’s eyes flicked to it, ready to dismiss, and then stared there. “Dear Lord.”

Perlmutter waited, but Indira said nothing. She stared for a little while longer and then let her head drop back.

“His wife says he worked for you.”

She nodded.

“What did he do?”

“Night shifts.”

“What did he do on the night shifts?”

“Mostly repossession. He did a little subpoena work too.”

“What else?’

She said nothing.

“There was stuff in his car. We found a long-range camera and a pair of binoculars.”

“So?”

“So was he doing surveillance?”

She looked at him. There were tears in her eyes. “You think he was killed on the job?”

“It’s a logical assumption, but I won’t know for certain until you tell me what he was doing.”

Indira looked away. She began to rock in the chair.

“Was he working a job the night before last?”

“Yes.”

More silence.

“What was he doing, Indira?”

“I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“I have clients. They have rights. You know the drill, Stu.”

“You’re not a lawyer.”

“No, but I can work for one.”

“Are you saying this case was attorney work product?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You want to take another look at that photograph?”

She almost smiled. “You think that will make me talk?” But Indira did take another look. “I don’t see any blood,” she said.

“There wasn’t any.”

“He wasn’t shot?”

“Nope. No gun, no knife.”

She looked confused. “How was he killed?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s on the table. But I have a guess, if you want to hear it?”

She didn’t. But she nodded slowly.

“He suffocated.”

“You mean like he was garroted?”

“Doubtful. There are no ligature marks on the neck.”

She frowned. “Rocky was huge. He was strong as an ox. It had to be poison, something like that.”

“I don’t think so. The M.E. said there was substantial damage to the larynx.”

She looked confused.

“In other words, his throat was crushed like an eggshell.”

“You mean he was strangled by hand?”

“We don’t know.”

“He was too strong for that,” she said again.

“Who was he following?” Perlmutter asked.

“Let me make a call. You can wait in the hall.”

He did. The wait was not long.

When Indira came out, her voice was clipped. “I can’t speak to you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Attorney’s orders?”

“I can’t speak to you.”

“I’ll be back. I’ll get a warrant.”

“Good luck,” she said, turning away. And Perlmutter thought that maybe she meant it.

chapter 27

Grace and Scott Duncan headed back to the Photomat. Her heart sank when they entered and she saw no Fuzz Pellet.

Assistant Manager Bruce was there. He puffed out his chest. When Scott Duncan flashed his badge, the chest deflated. “Josh is out on lunch break,” he said.

“Do you know where?”

“He usually goes to the Taco Bell. It’s right down the block.”

Grace knew it. She hurried out first, afraid to lose his scent again. Scott Duncan followed. As soon as she entered the Taco Bell, the fragrance of lard rising up to assault her, she spotted Josh.

Equally important, Josh spotted her. His eyes widened.

Scott Duncan stood at her side. “That him?”

Grace nodded.

Fuzz Pellet Josh sat alone. His head was tilted down, his hair hanging in front of his face like a curtain. His expression—and Grace guessed that he only had this one—was sullen. He bit into the taco as if it insulted his favorite grunge group. The earphones were jammed into place. The cord fell into the sour cream. Grace hated to sound like an old biddy, but having this kind of music plugged directly into the brain all day could not be good for a person. Grace enjoyed music. When she was alone, she would turn the music up, sing along, dance, whatever. So it wasn’t the music or even the volume. But what did it do to the mental health of a young mind to have music, probably angry and harsh, pounding in the ears all the time? An aural confinement, solitary walls of sound, to paraphrase Elton John, inescapable. No life noises let in. No talking. An artificial soundtrack to your life.

It could not be healthy.

Josh lowered his head, pretending he didn’t see them. She watched him as they approached. He was so young. He looked pitiful, sitting there alone like that. She thought about his hopes and dreams and how he already looked set on the road of life-long disappointments. She thought about Josh’s mother, about how she must have tried and how she must worry. She thought about her own son, her little Max, and about how she’d handle it if he started slipping in this direction.

She and Scott Duncan stopped in front of Josh’s table. He took another bite and then slowly looked up. The music coming from his earphones was so loud that Grace could actually make out the lyrics. Something about bitches and ho’s. Scott Duncan took the lead. She let him.

“Do you recognize this lady?” Scott asked.

Josh shrugged. He lowered the volume.

“Take those off,” Scott said. “Now.”

He did as he was told, but he took his time.

“I asked you if you recognized this lady.”

Josh glanced in her direction. “Yeah, I guess.”

“How do you know her?”

“From where I work.”

“You work at the Photomat, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And Ms. Lawson here. She’s a customer.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Do you remember the last time she was in the store?”

“No.”

“Think.”

He shrugged.

“Does two days ago sound about right?”

Another shrug. “Could be.”

Scott Duncan had the envelope from the Photomat. “You developed this roll of film, correct?”

“You say so.”

“No, I’m asking you. Look at the envelope.”

He did. Grace stayed still. Josh had not asked Scott Duncan who he was. He had not asked them what they wanted. She wondered about that.

“Yeah, I developed that roll.”

Duncan took out the photograph with his sister in it. He put it on the table. “Did you put this picture in Ms. Lawson’s packet?”

“No,” Josh said.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Grace waited a beat. She knew that he was lying. She spoke for the first time. “How do you know?” she asked.

They both looked at her. Josh said, “Huh?”

“How do you develop rolls?”

He said, “Huh?” again.

“You put the roll in that machine,” Grace said. “They come out in a pile. Then you put the pile in an envelope. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you look at every picture you develop?”

He said nothing. He looked around as if asking for help.

“I’ve seen you work,” Grace said. “You read your magazines. You listen to your music. You do not check through all the pictures. So my question is, Josh, how do you know what pictures were in that pile?”

Josh glanced at Scott Duncan. No help there. He turned back to her. “It’s weird, that’s all.”

Grace waited.

“That picture looks like it’s a hundred years old or something. It’s the right size, but that ain’t Kodak paper. That’s what I meant. I’d never seen it before.” Josh liked that. His eyes lit up, warming to his lie. “Yeah, see, that’s what I thought he meant. When he said did I put it in. Did I ever see it before?”

Grace just looked at him.

“Look, I don’t know what goes through that machine. But I’ve never seen that print. That’s all I know, okay?”

“Josh?”

It was Scott Duncan. Josh turned toward him.

“That picture ended up in Ms. Lawson’s pack of pictures. Do you have any idea how that happened?”

“Maybe she took the picture.”

“No,” Duncan said.

Josh gave another elaborate shrug. He must have had very powerful shoulders from all the work they got.

“Tell me how it works,” Duncan said. “How you develop the pictures.”

“It’s like she said. I put the film into the machine. It does the rest. I just set the size and the count.”

“Count?”

“You know. One print from each negative, two prints, whatever.”

“And they come out in a pile?”

“Yeah.”

Josh was more relaxed now, on comfortable ground.

“And then you put them in an envelope?”

“Right. Same envelope the customer filled out. Then I file it in alphabetical order. That’s it.”

Scott Duncan looked over at Grace. She said nothing. He took out his badge. “Do you know what this badge means, Josh?”

“No.”

“It means I work for the U.S. attorney’s office. It means I can make your life miserable if you cross me. Do you understand?”

Josh looked a little scared now. He managed a nod.

“So I’m going to ask you one more time: Do you know anything about this photograph?”

“No. I swear.” He looked around. “I gotta get back to work now.”

He stood. Grace blocked his path. “Why did you leave work early the other day?”

“Huh?”

“About an hour after I picked up my roll of film, I went back to the store. You were gone. And the next morning too. So what happened?”

“I got sick,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Guess so.” He started pushing past her.

“Because,” Grace went on, “your manager said you had a family emergency. Is that what you told him?”

“I gotta get back to work,” he said, and this time he pushed past her and nearly ran out the door.

• • •

Beatrice Smith was not home.

Eric Wu broke in without any trouble. He checked through the house. No one was there. With the gloves still on Wu flicked on the computer. Her software PIM—a fancy term for a date and phone book—was Time & Chaos. He opened it and checked her calendar.

Beatrice Smith was visiting her son, the doctor, in San Diego. She’d be home in two days—far enough away to save her life. Wu considered that, the fickle winds of fate. He couldn’t help it. He glanced through Beatrice Smith’s calendar two months in the past and two months in the future. There were no overnight trips. If he had come at any other time, Beatrice Smith would be dead. Wu liked to think about things like that, about how it was often the little things, the unconscious things, the things we can’t know or control, that alter our lives. Call it fate, luck, odds, God. Wu found it fascinating.

Beatrice Smith had a two-car garage. Her tan Land Rover took up the right side. The left side was empty. There was an oil stain on the ground. This, Wu figured, had been where Maury parked his car. She kept it empty now—Wu couldn’t help but think of Freddy Sykes’s mother—as if it was his side of the bed. Wu parked there. He opened the back. Jack Lawson looked shaky. Wu untied his legs so he could walk. The hands remained bound at the wrist. Wu led him inside. Jack Lawson fell twice. The blood had not fully circulated through the legs. Wu held him up by the scruff of his shirt.

“I’m taking the gag off,” Wu said.

Jack Lawson nodded. Wu could see it in his eyes. Lawson was broken. Wu had not hurt him much—not yet anyway—but when you spend enough time in the dark, alone with your thoughts, your mind turns inward and feasts. That was always a dangerous thing. The key to serenity, Wu knew, was to keep working, keep moving forward. When you’re moving, you don’t think about guilt or innocence. You don’t think about your past or your dreams, your joys or disappointments. You just worry about survival. Hurt or be hurt. Kill or be killed.

Wu removed the gag. Lawson did not plead and beg or ask questions. That stage was over. Wu tied his legs to a chair. He searched the pantry and refrigerator. They both ate in silence. When they finished, Wu washed off the dishes and cleaned up. Jack Lawson stayed tied to the chair.

Wu’s cell phone rang. “Yes.”

“We have a problem.”

Wu waited.

“When you picked him up, he had a copy of that photograph, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he said there were no other copies?”

“Yes.”

“He was wrong.”

Wu said nothing.

“His wife has a copy of the picture. She’s flashing it everywhere.”

“I see.”

“Will you take care of it?”

“No,” Wu said. “I can’t return to the area.”

“Why not?”

Wu did not respond.

“Forget I asked that. We’ll use Martin. He has the information on her children.”

Wu said nothing. He did not like the idea, but he kept it to himself.

The voice on the phone said, “We’ll take care of it,” before hanging up.

chapter 28

Grace said, “Josh is lying.”

They were back on Main Street. Clouds threatened, but for now humidity ruled the day. Scott Duncan gestured a few stores up with his chin. “I could use a Starbucks,” he said.

“Wait. You don’t think he’s lying?”

“He’s nervous. There’s a difference.”

Scott Duncan pulled open the glass door. Grace entered. There was a line at Starbucks. There always seemed to be a line at Starbucks. The sound system played something old from a female warbly blues singer, a Billie Holiday or Dinah Washington or Nina Simone. The song ended and a girl-with-acoustic-guitar came on, Jewel or Aimee Mann or Lucinda Williams.

“What about his inconsistencies?” she asked.

Scott Duncan frowned.

“What?”

“Does our friend Josh look like the type who willingly cooperates with authority?”

“No.”

“So what would you expect him to say?”

“His boss said that he had a family emergency. He told us he was sick.”

“It is an inconsistency,” he agreed.

“But?”

Scott Duncan gave an exaggerated shrug, mimicking Josh. “I’ve worked a lot of cases. You know what I’ve learned about inconsistencies?”

She shook her head. In the background the milk did that froth thing, the machine making a noise like a car-wash vacuum.

“They exist. I’d be more suspicious if there weren’t a few. The truth is always fuzzy. If his story had been clean, I’d be more concerned. I’d wonder if he rehearsed it. Keeping a lie consistent isn’t that difficult, but in this guy’s case, if you asked him what he ate for breakfast twice he’d mess it up.”

They moved forward in line. The barista asked for a drink order. Duncan looked at Grace. She ordered a venti iced Americano, no water. He nodded and said, “Make that two.” He paid using one of those Starbucks debit cards. They waited for the drinks at the bar.

“So you think he was being truthful?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know. But nothing he said raised much of a red flag.”

Grace wasn’t so sure. “It had to be him.”

“Why?”

“There was no one else.”

They picked up their drinks and found a table near the window. “Run it through for me,” he said.

“Run what?”

“Go back. You picked up the pictures. Josh handed them to you. Did you look at them right away?”

Grace’s eyes went up and to the right. She tried to remember the details. “No.”

“Okay, so you took the packet. Did you stick it in your purse or something?”

“I held it.”

“And then what?”

“I got in my car.”

“The packet was still with you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On the console. Between the two front seats.”

“Where did you go?”

“To pick up Max from school.”

“Did you stop on the way?”

“No.”

“Were the pictures in your possession the whole time?”

Grace smiled in spite of herself. “You sound like I’m checking in for a flight.”

“They don’t ask that anymore.”

“It’s been a while since I flew anywhere.” She smiled stupidly and realized why she had taken this inane detour in their conversation. He did too. She had spotted something—something she really didn’t want to pursue.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I might not have been able to tell if Josh was hiding something. You, however, make for an easier interrogation. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Grace.”

“The pictures were never out of my possession.”

“But?”

“Look, this is a waste of time. I know it was Josh. It had to be.”

“But?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m just going to say this once, so we can dismiss it and get on with our lives.”

Duncan nodded.

“There was one person who may—I stress the word may—have had access.”

“Who?”

“I was sitting in the car waiting for Max. I opened the envelope and looked at the first few pictures. Then my friend Cora got in.”

“Got in your car?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The passenger seat.”

“And the pictures were on the console next to it?”

“No, not anymore.” Her voice cracked now with annoyance. She was not enjoying this. “I just told you. I was looking at them.”

“But you put them down?”

“Eventually, yeah, I guess.”

“On the console?”

“I guess. I don’t remember.”

“So she had access.”

“No. I was there the whole time.”

“Who got out first?”

“We both got out at the same time, I think.”

“You limp.”

She looked at him. “So?”

“So getting out must be something of an effort.”

“I do fine.”

“But come on, Grace, work with me here. It’s possible—I’m not saying likely, I’m saying possible—that while you were stepping out, your friend could have slipped that picture into the envelope.”

“Possible, sure. But she didn’t.”

“No way?”

“No way.”

“You trust her that much?”

“Yes. But even if I didn’t, I mean, think about it. What was she doing—carrying around this picture in the hopes I’d have a packet of developed photos in my car?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe her plan was to plant it in your pocketbook. Or in the glove compartment. Or under the seat, I don’t know. Then maybe she saw the roll of film and—”

“No.” Grace held up a hand. “We’re not going there. It’s not Cora. It’s a waste to even start down this road.”

“What’s her last name?”

“It’s not important.”

“Tell me that and I’ll drop it.”

“Lindley. Cora Lindley.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll drop it.” But he was jotting on a small pad.

“Now what?” Grace asked.

Duncan checked his watch. “I have to go back to work.”

“What should I do?”

“Search your house. If your husband was hiding something, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Your suggestion is to spy on my husband?”

“Shake the cages, Grace.” He started for the car. “Sit tight. I’ll be back to you soon, promise.”

chapter 29

Life does not stop.

Grace had to do some food shopping. That might sound odd considering the circumstances. Her two children, she was sure, would gladly survive on a steady diet of delivered pizzas, but they still needed the basics: milk, orange juice (the kind with calcium and never, ever, pulp), a dozen eggs, sandwich meats, a couple of boxes of cereal, loaf of bread, box of pasta, a Prego sauce. Stuff like that. It might even feel good, food shopping. Doing the mundane, doing something so numbingly normal, would surely be, if not comforting, mildly therapeutic.

She hit the King’s on Franklin Boulevard. Grace held no supermarket loyalties. Her friends had favorites and would never dream of shopping elsewhere. Cora liked the A&P in Midland Park. Her neighbor liked the Whole Foods in Ridgewood. Other acquaintances favored the Stop & Shop in Waldwick. Grace’s selection was more haphazard because, to put it plainly, no matter where you shopped, Tropicana Orange Juice was Tropicana Orange Juice.

In this case the King’s was the closest to Starbucks. Decision made.

She grabbed a cart and pretended that she was just an average citizen having an average day. That didn’t last long. She thought about Scott Duncan, his sister, what that all meant.

Where, Grace wondered, do I go from here?

First off, the purported “Cora Connection”—Grace dismissed it. There was simply no way. Duncan did not know Cora. His job was to be suspicious. Grace knew better. Cora was out there, no question about it, but that was what had drawn Grace to her in the first place. They had met at a school concert when the Lawsons first moved to town. While their kids butchered the holiday standards, they’d both been forced to stand in the lobby because neither of them had arrived early enough to secure a seat. Cora had leaned over and whispered, “I had an easier time getting front row for Springsteen.” Grace had laughed. And so, slowly, it began.

But forget that. Forget Grace’s own biased viewpoint. What possible motive could Cora have? The smart money was still on Fuzz Pellet Josh. Yes, he would naturally be nervous. Yes, he was probably antiauthority. But there was more there, Grace was sure of it. So forget Cora. Concentrate on Josh. Figure an angle on that.

Max was on a bacon kick. There was some newfangled premade bacon he’d had at a friend’s house during a play-date. He wanted her to buy it. Grace was checking the health claims. Like the rest of the country she was concentrating more on lowering the carb intake. This stuff had none. No carbs at all. Enough sodium to salt a large body of water. But no carbs.

She was checking the ingredients—an interesting potpourri of words she’d need to look up—when she felt, actually felt, someone’s eyes on her. Still holding the box at eye level, she slowly shifted her gaze. Down the corridor, near the bologna and salami display, a man stood and openly stared at her. There was no one else in the aisle. He was average height, maybe five-ten or so. A razor hadn’t glided across his face in at least two days. He wore blue jeans, a maroon T-shirt, and a shiny black Members Only windbreaker. His baseball cap had a Nike swoosh on it.

Grace had never seen the man before. He stared at her for another moment before he spoke. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Mrs. Lamb,” the man said to her. “Room 17.”

For a moment the words did not register. Grace just stood there, unable to move. It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him—she had—but his words were so out of context, so out of place coming from this stranger’s lips, that her brain could not really comprehend the significance.

At first anyway. For a second or two. Then it all flooded in. . . .

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

Mrs. Lamb was Emma’s teacher. Room 17 was Emma’s classroom.

The man was already on the move, hurrying down the aisle.

“Wait!” Grace shouted. “Hey!”

The man turned the corner. Grace went after him. She tried to pick up speed but the limp, that damn limp, kept her in check. She reached the end of the aisle, coming out on the back wall by the chicken parts. She looked left and right.

No sign of the man.

Now what?

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

She moved to her right, checking down the aisles as she went. Her hand slid into her pocketbook, fumbled a bit, touched down on her cell phone.

Stay calm, she told herself. Call the school.

Grace tried to pick up the pace, but her leg dragged like a lead bar. The more she hurried, the more pronounced the limp became. When she really tried to run, she resembled Quasimodo heading up the belfry. Didn’t matter, of course, what she looked like. The problem was function: She wasn’t moving fast enough.

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

If he’s done anything to my baby, if he’s so much as looked at her wrong . . .

Grace reached the last aisle, the refrigerated section that housed the milk and eggs, the aisle farthest from the entrance so as to encourage impulse buy. She started toward the front of the store, hoping that she’d find him when she doubled back. She fiddled with her phone as she moved, no easy task, scrolling through her saved phone numbers to see if she had the school’s.

She didn’t.

Damn. Grace bet those other mothers, the good mothers, the ones with the perky smiles and ideal after-school projects—she bet they had the school’s phone number preprogrammed into their speed dial.

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

Try directory assistance, stupid. Dial 411.

She hit the digits and the send button. When she reached the end of the aisle, she looked down the row of cashiers.

No sign of the man.

On the phone the thunder-deep voice of James Earl Jones announced: “Verizon Wireless four-one-one.” Then a ding. A woman’s voice now: “For English please stay on the line. Para español, por favor numero dos.”

And it was then, listening to this Spanish option, that Grace spotted the man again.

He was outside the store now. She could see him through the plate glass window. He still wore the cap and the black windbreaker. He was strolling casually, too casually, whistling even, swinging his arms. She was about to start moving again when something—something in the man’s hand—made her blood freeze.

It couldn’t be.

Again it did not register immediately. The sight, the stimuli the eye was sending to the brain, would not compute, the information causing some sort of short circuit. Again not for long. Only for a second or two.

Grace’s hand, the one with the phone in it, dropped to her side. The man kept walking. Terror—terror unlike anything she had ever experienced before, terror that made the Boston Massacre feel like an amusement park ride—hardened and banged against her chest. The man was almost out of sight now. There was a smile on his face. He was still whistling. His arms were still swinging.

And in his hand, his right hand, the hand closest to the window, he held a Batman lunchbox.

chapter 30

“Mrs. Lawson,” Sylvia Steiner, the principal of Willard School, said to Grace in that voice that principals use when dealing with hysterical parents, “Emma is fine. So is Max.”

By the time Grace had made it to the door at King’s, the man with the Batman lunchbox was gone. She started screaming, started asking for help, but her fellow shoppers looked at her as if she’d escaped from the county mental facility. There was no time to explain. She did her limp-run to her car, called the school while driving a speed that would have intimidated an Andretti, and burst straight into the main office.

“I spoke to both of their teachers. They’re in class.”

“I want to see them.”

“Of course, that’s your right, but may I make a suggestion?”

Sylvia Steiner spoke so damn slowly that Grace wanted to reach her hand down her throat and rip the words out.

“I’m sure you’ve had a terrible fright, but take a few deep breaths. Calm yourself first. You’ll scare your children if they see you like this.”

Part of Grace wanted to grab her patronizing, smug, over-coiffed ’do and pull it off her head. But another part of her, a bigger part, realized that the woman was speaking the truth.

“I just need to see them,” Grace said.

“I understand. How about this? We can peek in on them from the window at the door. Would that work for you, Mrs. Lawson?”

Grace nodded.

“Come on then, I’ll escort you.” Principal Steiner shot the woman working the desk a look. The woman at the desk, Mrs. Dinsmont, did everything she could not to roll her eyes. Every school has a seen-it-all woman like this at the front desk. State law or something.

The corridors were explosions of color. The artwork of children always broke Grace’s heart. The pieces were like snapshots, a moment that is forever gone, a life-post, never to be repeated. Their artistic abilities will mature and change. The innocence will be gone, captured only in fingerpaint or coloring out of the lines, in uneven handwriting.

They reached Max’s classroom first. Grace put her face to the glass. She spotted her son immediately. Max’s back was to her, his face tilted up. He sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor. His teacher, Miss Lyons, was in a chair. She was reading a picture book, holding it up so the children could see it, while she read.

“Okay?” Principal Steiner asked.

Grace nodded.

They continued down the corridor. Grace saw number 17 . . .

Mrs. Lamb. Room 17. . . .

. . . on the door. She felt a fresh shiver and tried not to hurry. Principal Steiner, she knew, had noticed the limp. The leg ached in a way it hadn’t in years. She peered through the glass. Her daughter was there, right where she should be. Grace had to fight back the tears. Emma had her head down. The eraser end of her pencil was in her mouth. She chewed on it, deep in thought. Why, Grace wondered, do we find such poignancy in watching our children when they don’t know we’re there? What exactly are we trying to see?

So now what?

Deep breaths. Calm. Her children were okay. That was the key thing. Think it through. Be rational.

Call the police. That was the obvious move.

Principal Steiner faked a cough. Grace looked at her.

“I know this is going to sound nuts,” Grace said, “but I need to see Emma’s lunchbox.”

Grace expected a look of surprise or exasperation, but no, Sylvia Steiner just nodded. She did not ask why—had in fact not questioned her bizarre behavior in any way. Grace was grateful.

“All the lunchboxes are kept in the cafeteria,” she explained. “Each class has their own bucket. Would you like me to show you?”

“Thank you.”

The buckets were all lined up in grade order. They found the big blue bucket marked “Susan Lamb, Room 17” and started going through it.

“What does it look like?” Principal Steiner asked.

Just as she was about to reply Grace saw it. Batman. The word POW! in yellow caps. She slowly lifted it into view. Emma’s name was written on the bottom.

“Is that it?”

Grace nodded.

“A popular one this year.”

It took all her effort not to clutch the lunchbox to her chest. She put it back as though it were Venetian glass. They headed back to the main office in silence. Grace was tempted to pull the kids out of school. It was two-thirty. They’d be let out in a half an hour anyway. But no, that wouldn’t work. That would probably just freak them out. She needed time to think, to consider her response, and when she thought about it, weren’t Emma and Max safest right here, surrounded by others?

Grace thanked the principal again. They shook hands.

“Is there anything else I can do?” the principal asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Grace left then. She stood outside on the walk. She closed her eyes for a moment. The fear was not so much dissolving as solidifying, turning into pure, primitive rage. She could feel the heat running up her neck. That bastard. That bastard had threatened her daughter.

Now what?

The police. She should call them. That was the obvious move. The phone was in her hand. She was about to dial when a simple thought stopped her: What exactly would she say?

Hi, I was in the supermarket today, see, and this man near the bologna section? Well, he whispered the name of my kid’s teacher. Right, teacher. Oh, and her classroom number. Yes, at the bologna section, right there with the Oscar Mayer meats. And then the man ran off. But, I saw him later with my daughter’s lunchbox. Outside the supermarket. What was he doing? Just walking, I guess. Well, no, it wasn’t really Emma’s lunchbox. It was the same kind. Batman. No, he didn’t make any overt threats. Sorry? Yes, I’m the same woman who said her husband had been kidnapped yesterday. Right, then my husband called and said he needed space. Yep, that was me, the same hysterical broad. . . .

Was there another option?

She ran it through again. The police already thought she was a whack job. Could she convince them otherwise? Perhaps. What would the cops do anyway? Would they assign a man full time to watch her children? Doubtful, even if she could somehow make them understand the urgency.

Then she remembered Scott Duncan.

He was with the U.S. attorney’s office. That was like being a federal cop, right? He would have pull. He would have power. And most of all he would believe her.

Duncan had given her his cell number. She checked her pocket for it. Came up empty. Had she left it in the car? Probably. Didn’t matter. He told her that he was heading back to work. The U.S. attorney’s office was in Newark, she figured. Either that or Trenton. Trenton was too far a ride. Better to try Newark first. He should be there by now.

She stopped walking and turned to face the school. Her children were inside. Weird thought, but there it was. They spent their days here, away from her in this bastion of brick, and part of Grace found that oddly overwhelming. She dialed directory assistance and asked for the U.S. attorney’s office in Newark. She spent the extra thirty-five cents to have the operator dial it for her.

“U.S. attorney for the state of New Jersey.”

“Scott Duncan, please.”

“Hold.”

Two rings and a woman answered. “Goldberg,” she said.

“I’m looking for Scott Duncan.”

“What case?”

“Pardon?”

“What case is this in reference to?”

“No case. I just need to speak with Mr. Duncan.”

“May I ask what it’s about?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you. Scott Duncan doesn’t work here anymore. I’m covering most of his cases. If I can help you with that . . .”

Grace pulled the phone away from her ear. She looked at it as though from afar. She clicked the end button. She got into her car and again watched the brick building that currently housed her children. She watched it for a very long time, wondering if there was anyone she could truly trust, before deciding what to do.

She lifted the phone back into view. She pressed in the number.

“Yes?”

“This is Grace Lawson.”

Three seconds later, Carl Vespa said, “Is everything okay?”

“I changed my mind,” Grace said. “I do need your help.”

chapter 31

“His name is Eric Wu.”

Perlmutter was back at the hospital. He had been working on getting a warrant compelling Indira Khariwalla to tell him who her client was, but the county prosecutor was running into more interference than expected. In the meantime the lab boys were doing their thing. The fingerprints had been sent down to the NCIC, and now, if Daley was to be believed, they had an ID on the perp.

“Does he have a record?” Perlmutter asked.

“He was let out of Walden three months ago.”

“For?”

“Armed assault,” Daley said. “Wu cut a deal on that Scope case. I called and asked around. This is one very bad man.”

“How bad?”

“Poop-in-your-pants bad. If ten percent of the rumors about this guy are true, I’m sleeping with my Barney the Dinosaur night-lite on.”

“I’m listening.”

“He grew up in North Korea. Orphaned at a young age. Spent time working for the state inside prisons for political dissidents. He has a talent with pressure points or something, I don’t know. That’s what he did with that Sykes guy, some kung-fu crap, practically severed his spine. One story I heard, he kidnapped some guy’s wife, worked on her for like two hours. He calls the husband and tells him to listen up. The wife starts screaming. Then she tells him, the husband, that she hates his guts. Starts cursing him. That’s the last thing the husband ever hears.”

“He killed the woman?”

Daley’s face had never looked so solemn. “That’s just it. He didn’t.”

The room’s temperature dropped ten degrees. “I don’t understand.”

“Wu let her go. She hasn’t spoken since. Just sits and rocks someplace. The husband comes near her, she freaks out and starts screaming.”

“Jesus.” Perlmutter felt the chill ease through him. “You got an extra night-lite?”

“I got two, yeah, but I’m using both.”

“So what would this guy want with Freddy Sykes?”

“Not a clue.”

Charlaine Swain appeared down the corridor. She had not left the hospital since the shooting. They had finally gotten her to talk to Freddy Sykes. It had been a strange scene. Sykes kept crying. Charlaine had tried to get information. It’d worked to some extent. Freddy Sykes seemed to know nothing. He had no idea who his assailant was or why anyone would want to hurt him. Sykes was just a small-time accountant who lived alone—he seemed to be on no one’s radar.

“It’s all linked,” Perlmutter said.

“You have a theory?”

“I have some of it. Strands.”

“Let’s hear.”

“Start with the E-ZPass records.”

“Okay.”

“We have Jack Lawson and Rocky Conwell crossing that exit at the same time,” Perlmutter said.

“Right.”

“I think now we know why. Conwell was working for a private investigator.”

“Your friend India Something.”

“Indira Khariwalla. And she’s hardly a friend. But that’s not important. What makes sense here, the only thing that makes sense really, is that Conwell was hired to follow Lawson.”

“Ipso facto, the E-ZPass timing explained.”

Perlmutter nodded, trying to put it together. “So what happened next? Conwell ends up dead. The M.E. says he probably died that night before midnight. We know he crossed the tollbooth at 10:26 P.M. So sometime soon after that, Rocky Conwell met up with foul play.” Perlmutter rubbed his face. “The logical suspect would be Jack Lawson. He realizes he’s being followed. He confronts Conwell. He kills him.”

“Makes sense,” Daley said.

“But it doesn’t. Think about it. Rocky Conwell was six-five, two-sixty, and in great shape. You think a guy like Lawson could have killed him like that? With his bare hands?”

“Sweet Jesus.” Daley saw it now. “Eric Wu?”

Perlmutter nodded. “It adds up. Somehow Conwell met up with Wu. Wu killed him, stuffed his body into a trunk, and left him at the Park-n-Ride. Charlaine Swain said that Wu was driving a Ford Windstar. Same model and color as Jack Lawson’s.”

“So what’s the connection between Lawson and Wu?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe Wu works for him.”

“Could be. We just don’t know. What we do know, however, is that Lawson’s alive—or at least he was alive after Conwell was killed.”

“Right, because he called his wife. When she was at the station. So what happened next?”

“Damned if I know.”

Perlmutter watched Charlaine Swain. She just stood down the hall, staring through the window of her husband’s room. Perlmutter considered going over, but really, what could he say?

Daley jostled him and they both turned to see Officer Veronique Baltrus walk off the elevator. Baltrus had been with the department three years. She was thirty-eight, with tousled black hair and a constant tan. She was in a regulation police uniform that somehow hugged as much as anything with a belt and holster could, but in her off-hours she preferred Lycra workout clothes or anything that revealed the flat tan of her stomach. She was petite, with dark eyes, and every guy in the station, even Perlmutter, had a thing for her.

Veronique Baltrus was both exquisitely beautiful and a computer expert—an interesting albeit heart-racing combination. Six years ago she had been working for a bathing suit retailer in New York City when the stalking began. The stalker would call her. He would send e-mails. He would harass her at work. His main weapon was the computer, the best bastion for the anonymous and gutless. The police did not have the manpower to hunt him down. They also believed that this stalker, whoever he was, would probably not take it to the next level.

But he did.

On a calm fall evening Veronique Baltrus was savagely attacked. Her assailant got away. But Veronique recovered. Already good with computers, she now upped her ability and became an expert. She used her new knowledge to hunt down her assailant—he continued to send her e-mails discussing an encore—and bring him to justice. Then she quit her job and became a police officer.

Now, even though Baltrus wore a uniform and worked a regular shift, she was the county’s unofficial computer expert. Nobody in the department but Perlmutter knew her back story. That was part of the deal when she applied for the job.

“You got something?” he asked her.

Veronique Baltrus smiled. She had a nice smile. Perlmutter’s “thing” for her was different than the rest of the guys’. It was not built simply on lust. Veronique Baltrus was the first woman to make him feel something since Marion’s death. He wouldn’t take it anywhere. It would be unprofessional. It would be unethical. And truth be told, Veronique was waaaaay out of his league.

She gestured down the corridor toward Charlaine Swain. “We might have to thank her.”

“How so?”

“Al Singer.”

That, Sykes had told Charlaine, was the name Eric Wu used when he pretended to be making a delivery. When Charlaine asked who Al Singer was, Sykes jolted a little and denied knowing any Mr. Singer. He said he opened the door anyway out of curiosity. Perlmutter said, “I thought Al Singer was a fake name.”

“Yes and no,” Baltrus said. “I went through Mr. Sykes’s computer pretty thoroughly. He’d signed up for an online dating service and had been corresponding fairly regularly with a man named Al Singer.”

Perlmutter made a face. “A gay dating service?”

“Bisexual, actually. That a problem?”

“No. So Al Singer was, what, his online lover?”

“Al Singer doesn’t exist. It was an alias.”

“Isn’t that common online, especially at a gay dating service? Using an alias?”

“It is,” Baltrus agreed. “But here’s my point. Your Mr. Wu pretended to make a delivery. He used that name, Singer. How would Wu know about Al Singer unless . . . ?”

“You saying Eric Wu is Al Singer?”

Baltrus nodded, rested her hands on her hips. “That would be my guess, sure. Here’s what I think: Wu goes online. He uses the name Al Singer. He meets some people—potential victims—that way. In this case, he meets Freddy Sykes. He breaks into his home and assaults him. My guess is, he would have eventually killed Sykes.”

“You think he’s done this before?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s, what, some kind of serial bisexual basher?”

“That I don’t know. But it fits the action I’m seeing on the computer.”

Perlmutter thought about it. “Does this Al Singer have any other online partners?”

“Three more.”

“Have any of them been assaulted?”

“Not yet, no. They’re all healthy.”

“So what makes you think it’s serial?”

“It’s too early to say for sure one way or the other. But Charlaine Swain did us a huge favor. Wu was using Sykes’s computer. He probably planned on destroying it before he left, but Charlaine flushed him out before he had time. I’m piecing it together now, but there’s definitely another online persona in there. I don’t know the name yet, but he’s working out of yenta-match.com. Jewish singles.”

“How do we know it’s not Freddy Sykes?”

“Because whoever accessed this page did so in the past twenty-four hours.”

“So it had to be Wu.”

“Yes.”

“I still don’t get it. Why would he go to another online dating service?”

“To find more victims,” she said. “Here’s how I think it works: This Wu has a bunch of different names and personas at a bunch of different dating sites. Once he, shall we say, uses one, like Al Singer, he won’t dip into that dating pool again. He used Al Singer to get to Freddy Sykes. He’d have to know that an investigator could track that down.”

“So he stops using Al Singer.”

“Right. But he’s been using other aliases at other sites. So he’s ready for his next victim.”

“Do you have any of the other names yet?”

“Getting close,” Baltrus said. “I just need a warrant for yenta-match.com.”

“You think a judge will grant it?’

“The only identity we know Wu accessed recently is the one at the yenta-match site. I think he was seeking out his next victim. If we can get a list of what name he used and who he contacted . . .”

“Keep digging.”

“Will do.”

Veronique Baltrus hurried out. Wrong as it felt—he was, after all, her superior—Perlmutter watched her go with a longing that made him remember Marion.

chapter 32

Ten minutes later Carl Vespa’s driver—the infamous Cram—met Grace two blocks away from the school.

Cram arrived on foot. Grace did not know how or where his car was. She’d just been standing there, looking at the school from afar, when she felt the tap on her shoulder. She leapt, her heart pounding. When she turned and saw his face, well, the sight was hardly a comforting one.

Cram arched an eyebrow. “You rang?”

“How did you get here?”

Cram shook his head. Up close, now that she was able to get a really good look at him, the man was even more hideous than she remembered. His skin was pockmarked. His nose and mouth looked like an animal’s snout, what with the sea-predator smile locked on autopilot. Cram was older than she’d thought, probably nearing sixty. He was wiry though. He had the wild-eyed look she’d always associated with serious psychosis, but there was a comfort to that element of danger right now, the kind of guy you’d want next to you in a foxhole and nowhere else.

“Tell me everything,” Cram said.

Grace started with Scott Duncan and moved on to arriving at the supermarket. She told him what the unshaven man had said to her, about him darting down the aisle, about him carrying the Batman lunchbox. Cram chewed on a toothpick. He had thin fingers. His nails were too long.

“Describe him.”

She did as best she could. When she was done, Cram spit out the toothpick and shook his head. “For real?” he said.

“What?”

“A Members Only jacket? What is this, 1986?”

Grace did not laugh.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “Your children are safe.”

She believed him.

“What time do they get out?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Fine.” He squinted at the school. “Christ, I hated this place.”

“You went here?”

Cram nodded. “A Willard graduate, 1957.” She tried to picture him as a little boy coming to this school. The image would not hold. He started walking away.

“Wait,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Pick up your kids. Bring them home.”

“Where will you be?”

Cram upped the grin. “Around.” And then he was gone.

• • •

Grace waited by the fence. The mothers began to flock in, gather, chat. Grace folded her arms, trying to give off a “keep away” vibe. There were days she could participate in the clatter. This was not one of them.

The cell phone rang. She put it to her ear and said hello.

“You get the message now?”

The voice was male and muffled. Grace felt her scalp tingle. “Stop looking, stop asking questions, stop flashing the picture. Or we’ll take Emma first.”

Click.

Grace did not scream. She would not scream. She put the phone away. Her hands shook. She looked down at them as if they belonged to someone else. She couldn’t stop the shake. Her children would be coming out soon. She jammed her hands into her pockets and tried to force up a smile. It wouldn’t come. She bit her lower lip and made herself not cry.

“Hey, you okay?”

Grace startled at the voice. It was Cora.

“What are you doing here?” Grace asked. The words came out with too sharp a snap.

“What do you think? I’m picking up Vickie.”

“I thought she was with her father.”

Cora looked puzzled. “Just for last night. He dropped her off at school this morning. Jesus, what the hell happened?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

Cora did not know how to react to that one. The bell sounded. Both women turned away. Grace did not know what to think. She knew that Scott Duncan was wrong about Cora—more than that, she now knew that Scott Duncan was a liar—and yet, once voiced, the suspicion about her friend would not leave. She couldn’t flick it away.

“Look, I’m just scared, okay?”

Cora nodded. Vickie appeared first. “If you need me . . .”

“Thank you.”

Cora moved away without another word. Grace waited alone, searching for the familiar faces in the stream of children pouring through the door. Emma stepped into the sunshine and shielded her eyes. When she spotted her mother, Emma’s face broke into a smile. She waved.

Grace suppressed a cry of relief. Her fingers snaked through the chain-link, gripping hard, holding herself back so she wouldn’t sprint over and scoop Emma into her arms.

• • •

When Grace, Emma, and Max reached home, Cram was already standing on their front stoop.

Emma looked a question at her mother, but before Grace could respond, Max sprinted up the walk. He stopped dead in front of Cram and craned his neck to look up at the sea-predator smile.

“Hey,” Max said to Cram.

“Hey.”

Max said, “You were the guy driving that big car, right?”

“Right.”

“That cool? Driving that big car?”

“Very.”

“I’m Max.”

“I’m Cram.”

“Cool name.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Max made a fist and held it up. Cram made one too and then they touched knuckles-against-knuckles in some newfangled high-five. Grace and Emma came up the walk.

“Cram is a family friend,” Grace said. “He’s going to help me a little.”

Emma did not like it. “Help with what?” She aimed her “eeuw gross” face in Cram’s direction, which, under the circumstances, was both understandable and rude, but this was hardly the time for a correction. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s on a business trip,” Grace said.

Emma did not say another word. She stepped into the house and ran upstairs.

Max squinted up at Cram. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Cram said.

“Do all your friends call you Cram?”

“Yes.”

“Just Cram?”

“One word.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Like Cher or Fabio.”

“Who?”

Cram chuckled.

“Why do they call you that?” Max asked.

“Why do they call me Cram?”

“Yeah.”

“My teeth.” He opened his mouth wide. When Grace worked up the courage to look, she was greeted with a sight that resembled the mad experiment of a very deranged orthodontist. The teeth were all crammed together on the left, almost stacked. It looked like there were too many of them. Empty pockets of coarse pink where teeth should have been lined the right side of his mouth. “Cram,” he said. “You see?”

“Whoa,” Max said. “That’s so cool.”

“You want to know how my teeth got this way?”

Grace took that one. “No, thank you.”

Cram glanced at her. “Good answer.”

Cram. She took another look at the too-small teeth. Tic Tac might have been a more apt name.

“Max, you have homework?”

“Aw, Mom.”

“Now,” she said.

Max looked at Cram. “Scram,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”

They shared another fist-knuckle salute before Max darted off with the abandon of a six-year-old. The phone rang. Grace checked the Caller ID. It was Scott Duncan. She decided to let the machine pick that one up—more important that she talk to Cram. They moved into the kitchen. There were two men sitting at the table. Grace pulled up short. Neither of the men looked up at her. They were whispering to each other. Grace was about to say something, but Cram signaled her to step outside.

“Who are they?”

“They work for me.”

“Doing?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She did, but right now there were more pressing matters. “I got a call from the guy,” she said. “On my cell phone.” She told him what the voice on the phone had said. Cram’s expression did not change. When she finished, he pulled out a cigarette.

“You mind if I smoke?”

She told him to go ahead.

“I won’t do it in the house.”

Grace looked around. “Is that why we’re out here?”

Cram did not reply. He lit the cigarette, drew a deep breath, let the smoke pour out of both nostrils. Grace looked toward the neighbor’s yard. There was no one in sight. A dog barked. A lawn mower ripped through the air like a helicopter.

Grace looked at him. “You’ve threatened people, right?”

“Yup.”

“So if I do what he says—if I stop—do you think they’ll leave us alone?”

“Probably.” Cram took a puff so deep it looked like a doobie toke. “But the real question is, why do they want you to stop?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you must have been getting close. You must have struck a nerve.”

“I can’t imagine how.”

“Mr. Vespa called. He wants to see you tonight.”

“What about?”

Cram shrugged.

She looked off again.

“You ready for some more bad news?” Cram asked.

She turned to him.

“Your computer room. The one in the back.”

“What about it?”

“It’s bugged. One listening device, one camera.”

“A camera?” She couldn’t believe this. “In my house?”

“Yeah. Hidden camera. It’s in a book on the shelf. Fairly easy to spot if you’re looking for it. You can get one at any spy shop. You’ve probably seen them online. You hide it in a clock or a smoke detector, that kind of thing.”

Grace tried to take this in. “Someone is spying on us?”

“Yup.”

“Who?”

“No idea. I don’t think it’s the cops. It’s a little too amateur for that. My boys have given the rest of the house a quick sweep. Nothing else so far.”

“How long . . .” She tried to comprehend what he was telling her. “How long has the camera and—listening device, did you say?—how long have they been here?”

“No way to know. That’s why I dragged you out here. So we could talk freely. I know you’ve been hit with a lot, but you’re ready to deal with this now?”

She nodded, though her head was swimming.

“Okay, first off. The equipment. It’s not all that sophisticated. It only has a range of maybe a hundred feet. If it’s a live feed, it goes to a van or something. Have you noticed any vans parked on the street for long periods of time?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. It probably just goes to a video recorder.”

“Like a VCR?”

“Exactly like a VCR.”

“And it has to be within a hundred feet of the house?”

“Yep.”

She looked around as if it might be in the garden. “How often would they need to change tape?”

“Every twenty-four hours tops.”

“Any idea where it is?”

“Not yet. Sometimes they keep the recorder in the basement or garage. They probably have access to the house, so they can fetch the tape and put in a new one.”

“Wait a second. What do you mean, they have access to the house?”

He shrugged. “They got that camera and bug in somehow, right?”

The rage was back now, rising, smoldering behind her eyes. Grace started looking at her neighbors. Access to the house. Who had access to the house? she asked herself. And a small voice replied . . .

Cora.

Uh-uh, no way. Grace shook it off. “So we need to find that recorder.”

“Yes.”

“And then we wait and watch,” she said. “We see who picks up the tape.”

“That’s one way of doing it,” Cram said.

“You have a better suggestion?”

“Not really.”

“Then, what, we follow the guy, see where it leads?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“But . . . ?”

“It’s risky. We could lose him.”

“What would you do?”

“If it were up to me, I’d grab him. I’d ask him some hard questions.”

“And if he refused to answer?”

Cram still wore the sea-predator smile. It was always a horrific sight, this man’s face, but Grace was getting used to it. She also realized that he was not intentionally scaring her; whatever had been done to his mouth had made that become his permanent, natural expression. It spoke volumes, that face. It rendered her question rhetorical.

Grace wanted to protest, to tell him that she was civil and that they would handle this legally and ethically. But instead she said, “They threatened my daughter.”

“So they did.”

She looked at him. “I can’t do what they asked. Even if I wanted to. I can’t just walk away and leave it alone.”

He said nothing.

“I have no choice, do I? I have to fight them.”

“I don’t see any other way.”

“You knew that all along.”

Cram cocked his head to the right. “So did you.”

His cell phone went off. Cram flipped it open but did not speak, not even a hello. A few seconds later he snapped the phone shut and said, “Someone is pulling up the drive.”

She looked out the screen door. A Ford Taurus came to a stop. Scott Duncan stepped out and approached the house.

“You know him?” Cram asked.

“That,” she said, “is Scott Duncan.”

“The guy who lied about working for the U.S. attorney?” Grace nodded.

“Maybe,” Cram said, “I’ll stick around.”

• • •

They remained outside. Scott Duncan stood next to Grace. Cram had stepped away. Duncan kept sneaking glances at Cram. “Who is that?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Grace gave Cram a look. He got the hint and headed back inside. She and Scott Duncan were alone now.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Duncan picked up on her tone. “Something wrong, Grace?”

“I’m just surprised you got out of work already. I figured it’d be busier at the U.S. attorney’s office.”

He said nothing.

“Cat got your tongue, Mr. Duncan?”

“You called my office.”

She touched her nose with her pointer, indicating a direct hit. Then: “Oh wait, correction: I called the United States attorney’s office. Apparently you don’t work there.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“How enlightening.”

“I should have told you up front.”

“Do tell.”

“Look, everything I said was true.”

“Except the part about working for the United States attorney. I mean, that wasn’t true, was it? Or was Ms. Goldberg lying?”

“Do you want me to explain or not?”

Now his voice had a little steel. Grace gestured for him to continue.

“What I told you was true. I worked there. Three months ago this killer, this Monte Scanlon, he insisted on seeing me. No one could understand why. I was a low-level lawyer on political corruption. Why would a hit man insist on talking only to me? That was when he told me.”

“That he killed your sister.”

“Yes.”

She waited. They moved toward the porch furniture and sat down. Cram stood in a window watching them. He let his gaze wander toward Scott Duncan, hang there for a few heavy seconds, survey the grounds, go back to Duncan.

“He looks familiar,” Duncan said, gesturing toward Cram. “Or maybe I’m flashing back to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. Shouldn’t he have an eye patch?”

Grace shifted in her seat. “You were telling me about why you lied?”

Duncan ran his hand through the sandy hair. “When Scanlon said the fire was no accident . . . You can’t understand what it did to me. I mean, one moment my life was one thing. The next . . .” He snapped his finger with a magician’s flourish. “It wasn’t so much that everything was different now—it was more like the past fifteen years had all been different. Like someone had gone back in time and changed one event and it changed everything else. I wasn’t the same guy. I wasn’t a guy whose sister died in a tragic fire. I was a guy whose sister had been murdered and never avenged.”

“But now you have the killer,” Grace said. “He confessed.”

Duncan smiled, but there was no joy there. “Scanlon said it best. He was just a weapon. Like a gun. I wanted the person who pulled the trigger. It became an obsession. I tried to do it part-time, you know, work my job while searching for the killer. But I started to neglect my cases. So my boss, she strongly suggested I take a leave.” He looked up at her.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t think it would be a great opening line, you know, telling you I was forced out like that. I still have connections in the office. I still have friends in law enforcement. But just so we’re clear, everything I’m doing is off the books.”

Their eyes locked. Grace said, “You’re still holding something back.”

He hesitated.

“What is it?”

“We should get one thing straight.” Duncan stood, did the run through the sandy hair bit again, turned away from her. “Right now we’re both trying to find your husband. It’s a temporary alliance. The truth is, we have separate agendas. I won’t lie to you. What happens after we find Jack, well, do we both want the truth?”

“I just want my husband.”

He nodded. “That’s what I mean about separate agendas. About our alliance being temporary. You want your husband. I want my sister’s killer.”

He looked at her now. She understood.

“So now what?” Grace asked.

He took out the mystery photograph and held it up. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

“What?”

Scott Duncan said, “I know the name of the redhead in the photograph.” She waited.

“Her name is Sheila Lambert. Attended Vermont University the same time as your husband”—he pointed at Jack and then slid his finger to the right—“and Shane Alworth.”

“Where is she now?”

“That’s just the thing, Grace. No one knows.”

She closed her eyes. A shudder ran through her.

“I sent the photograph up to the school. A retired dean identified her. I ran a full check, but she’s gone. There is no sign of Sheila Lambert’s existence over the past decade—no payroll tax, no social security number hit, nothing.”

“Just like with Shane Alworth.”

“Exactly like Shane.”

Grace tried to put it together. “Five people in the photograph. One, your sister, was murdered. Two others, Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert, haven’t been heard of in years. The fourth, my husband, ran overseas and is missing now. And the last one, well, we still don’t know who she is.”

Duncan nodded.

“So where do we go from here?”

“You remember I said I talked to Shane Alworth’s mother?”

“The one with the fuzzy Amazonian geography.”

“When I visited her the first time, I didn’t know about this picture or your husband or any of that. I want to show her the picture now. I want to gauge her reaction. And I want you there.”

“Why?”

“I just have a feeling, that’s all. Evelyn Alworth is an old woman. She’s emotional and I think she’s scared. I went in there the first time as an investigator. Maybe, I don’t know, but maybe if you go in as a concerned mother, something will shake loose.”

Grace hesitated. “Where does she live?”

“A condo in Bedminster. Shouldn’t take us more than thirty minutes to get there.”

Cram came back into view. Scott Duncan nodded toward him.

“So what’s with that scary guy?” Duncan asked.

“I can’t go with you now.”

“Why not?”

“I have the kids. I can’t just leave them here.”

“Bring them along. There’s a playground right there. We won’t take long.”

Cram came to the door now. He beckoned with his hand for Grace. She said, “Excuse me” and headed toward Cram. Scott Duncan stayed where he was.

“What is it?” she asked Cram.

“Emma. She’s upstairs crying.”

Grace found her daughter in classic cry position—facedown on her bed, pillow over her head. The sound was muted. It had been a while since Emma had cried like this. Grace sat on the edge of the bed. She knew what was coming. When Emma could speak, she asked where Daddy was. Grace told her that he was on a business trip. Emma said that she didn’t believe her. That it was a lie. Emma demanded to know the truth. Grace repeated that Jack was just on a business trip. That everything was fine. Emma pushed. Where was he? Why hadn’t Daddy called? When was he coming home? Grace made up rationales that sounded pretty believable in her ears—he was really busy, he was traveling in Europe, London right now, didn’t know how long he’d be gone, he had called but Emma had been sleeping, remember that London is in a different time zone.

Did Emma buy it? Who knew?

Child-rearing experts—those namby-pamby, lobotomy-voiced Ph.D.s on cable TV—would probably tsk-tsk, but Grace was not one of those tell-kids-everything parents. Above all else a mother’s job was to protect. Emma was not old enough to handle the truth. Plain and simple. Deception was a necessary part of parenting. Of course Grace could be wrong—she knew that—but the old adage is true: Kids don’t come with instructions. We all mess up. Raising a child is pure impromptu.

A few minutes later she told Max and Emma to get ready. They were going for a ride. Both children grabbed their Game Boys and piled into the back of the car. Scott Duncan moved toward the passenger seat. Cram cut him off.

“Problem?” Duncan said.

“I want to talk to Ms. Lawson before you go. Stay here.”

Duncan snapped a sarcastic salute. Cram gave him a look that could have held back a weather front. He and Grace stepped into the back room. Cram closed the door.

“You know you shouldn’t go with him.”

“Maybe not. But I have to.”

Cram chewed on his lower lip. He didn’t like it, but he understood. “Do you carry a purse?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

She showed it to him. Cram pulled a gun out of his waist. It was small, almost toylike. “This is a Glock nine-millimeter, model 26.”

Grace held up her hands. “I don’t want that.”

“Keep it in your purse. You can also wear it in an ankle holster but you’ll need long pants.”

“I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

“Experience is overrated. You aim for the middle of the chest, you squeeze the trigger. It’s not complicated.”

“I don’t like weapons.”

Cram shook his head.

“What?”

“Maybe I’m mistaken, but didn’t somebody threaten your daughter today?”

That made her pause. Cram put the gun in her purse. She did not fight him.

“How long are you going to be gone?” Cram asked.

“Couple of hours, tops.”

“Mr. Vespa will be here at 7 P.M. He says it’s important that he speaks to you.”

“I’ll be here.”

“You sure you trust this Duncan guy?”

“I’m not sure. But I think we’re safe with him.”

Cram nodded. “Let me add a little insurance on that front.”

“How?”

Cram said nothing. He escorted her back. Scott Duncan was on his cell phone. Grace did not like what she saw on Duncan’s face. He finished up his call when he spotted them.

“What?”

Scott Duncan shook his head. “Can we go now?”

Cram walked toward him. Duncan did not back down, but there was definitely an understandable flinch. Cram stopped directly in front of him, stuck out his hand, wiggled his fingers. “Let me see your wallet.”

“Pardon me?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who enjoys repeating himself?”

Scott Duncan glanced at Grace. She nodded. Cram still had the fingers wiggling. Duncan handed Cram his wallet. Cram brought it over to a table and sat down. He quickly rifled through the contents, taking notes.

“What are you doing?” Duncan asked.

“While you’re gone, Mr. Duncan, I’m going to learn everything about you.” He looked up. “If Ms. Lawson is harmed in any way, my response will be”—Cram stopped, looked up as though searching for the word—“disproportionate. I make myself clear?”

Duncan looked at Grace. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Grace was already moving toward the door. “We’ll be fine, Cram.”

Cram shrugged, tossed Duncan his wallet. “Have a delightful drive.”

No one talked for the first five minutes of the ride. Max and Emma used their headphones with the Game Boys. Grace had bought the headphones recently because the beeps and buzzes and Luigi shouting “Mamma Mia!” every two minutes gave her a headache. Scott Duncan sat next to her with his hands in his lap.

“So who was on the phone?” Grace asked.

“A coroner.”

Grace waited.

“Remember how I told you that I had my sister’s body exhumed?” he said.

“Yes.”

“The police didn’t really see a need for it. Too expensive. I understand, I guess. Anyway I paid for it myself. I know this person, used to work for a country M.E., who does private autopsies.”

“And he’s the one who called you?”

“It’s a she. Her name is Sally Li.”

“And?”

“And she says she needs to see me right away.” Duncan looked over at her. “Her office is in Livingston. We can hit it on the way back.” He turned back away. “I’d like you to come with me, if that’s okay.”

“To a morgue?”

“No, nothing like that. Sally does the actual autopsy work at St. Barnabas Hospital. This is just an office where she does her paperwork. There’s a waiting room we can stick the kids in.”

Grace did not reply.

The Bedminster condos were generic, which, when you’re talking about condos, is something of a repetition in terms. They had the prefab light-brown aluminum siding, three levels, garages underneath, every building identical to the one to its right and to its left and behind it and in front of it. The complex was huge and sprawling, a khaki-coated ocean stretching as far as the eye could see.

For Grace, the route here had been familiar. Jack drove by this on his way to work. They had, for a very brief moment, debated moving into this condo development. Neither Jack nor Grace was particularly good with their hands or enjoyed fix-the-old-home shows on cable. Condos held that appeal—you pay a monthly fee, you don’t worry about the roof or an addition or the landscaping or any of that. There were tennis courts and a swimming pool and, yes, a playground for children. But in the end there was just so much conformity one could take. Suburbia is already a subworld of sameness. Why add insult to injury by making your physical abode conform too?

Max spotted the complicated, brightly hued playground before the car had come to a complete stop. He was raring to sprint for the swing set. Emma looked more bored with the prospect. She held onto her Game Boy. Normally Grace would have protested—Game Boy in the car only, especially when the alternative was fresh air—but again now did not seem the time.

Grace cupped her hand over her eyes as they started moving away. “I can’t leave them alone.”

“Mrs. Alworth lives right here,” Duncan said. “We can stay in the doorway and watch them.”

They approached the door on the first level. The playground was quiet. The air was still. Grace inhaled deeply and smelled the freshly cut grass. They stood side-by-side, she and Duncan. He rang the bell. Grace waited by the door, feeling oddly like a Jehovah’s Witness.

A cackling voice not unlike the witch in an old Disney film said, “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Alworth?”

Again the cackle: “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Alworth, it’s Scott Duncan.”

“Who?”

“Scott Duncan. We spoke a few weeks ago. About your son, Shane.”

“Go away. I have nothing to say to you.”

Grace picked up an accent now. Boston area.

“We could really use your help.”

“I don’t know nothing. Go away.”

“Please, Mrs. Alworth, I need to talk to you about your son.”

“I told you. Shane lives in Mexico. He’s a good boy. He helps poor people.”

“We need to ask about some of his old friends.” Scott Duncan looked at Grace, nodded for her to say something.

“Mrs. Alworth,” Grace said.

The cackle was more wary now. “Who’s that?”

“My name is Grace Lawson. I think my husband knew your son.”

There was silence now. Grace turned away from the door and watched Max and Emma. Max was on a corkscrew slide. Emma sat cross-legged and played the Game Boy.

Through the door, the cackling voice asked, “Who’s your husband?”

“Jack Lawson.”

Nothing.

“Mrs. Alworth?”

“I don’t know him.”

Scott Duncan said, “We have a picture. We’d like to show it to you.”

The door opened. Mrs. Alworth wore a housedress that couldn’t have been manufactured after the Bay of Pigs. She was in her mid-seventies, heavyset, the kind of big aunt who hugs you and you disappear in the folds. As a kid you hate the hug. As an adult you long for it. She had varicose veins that resembled sausage casing. Her reading glasses dangled against her enormous chest from a chain. She smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

“I don’t have all day,” she said. “Show me this picture.”

Scott Duncan handed her the photograph.

For a long time the old woman said nothing.

“Mrs. Alworth?”

“Why did someone cross her out?” she asked.

“That was my sister,” Duncan said.

She flicked a glance his way. “I thought you said you were an investigator.”

“I am. My sister was murdered. Her name was Geri Duncan.”

Mrs. Alworth’s face went white. Her lip started to tremble. “She’s dead?”

“She was murdered. Fifteen years ago. Do you remember her?”

She seemed to have lost her bearings. She turned to Grace and snapped, “What do you keep looking at?”

Grace was facing Max and Emma. “My children.” She gestured toward the playground. Mrs. Alworth followed suit. She stiffened. She seemed lost now, confused.

“Did you know my sister?” Duncan asked.

“What does this have to do with me?”

His voice was stern now. “Yes or no, did you know my sister?”

“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Your son dated her.”

“He dated a lot of girls. Shane was a handsome boy. So was his brother, Paul. He’s a psychologist in Missouri. Why don’t you leave me alone and talk to him?”

“Try to think.” Scott’s voice rose a notch. “My sister was murdered.” He pointed to the picture of Shane Alworth. “That’s your son, isn’t it, Mrs. Alworth?”

She stared down at the strange photograph for a long time before nodding.

“Where is he?”

“I told you before. Shane lives in Mexico. He helps poor people.”

“When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“Last week.”

“He called you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean where?”

“Did Shane call you here?”

“Of course. Where else would he call?”

Scott Duncan took a step closer. “I checked your phone records, Mrs. Alworth. You haven’t gotten or made an international call in the past year.”

“Shane uses one of those phone cards,” she said too quickly. “Maybe the phone companies don’t pick those up, how I should know?”

Duncan took another step closer. “Listen to me, Mrs. Alworth. And please listen closely. My sister is dead. There is no sign of your son anywhere. This man here”—he pointed to the picture of Jack—“her husband, Jack Lawson, he’s also missing. And this woman over here”—he pointed to the redheaded girl with the spaced-out eyes—“her name is Sheila Lambert. There’s been no sign of her for at least ten years.”

“This has got nothing to do with me,” Mrs. Alworth insisted.

“Five people in the photograph. We’ve been able to identify four of them. They’re all gone. One we know is dead. For all we know, they all are.”

“I told you. Shane is—”

“You’re lying, Mrs. Alworth. Your son graduated Vermont University. So did Jack Lawson and Sheila Lambert. They must have been friends. He dated my sister; we both know that. So what happened to them? Where is your son?”

Grace put a hand on Scott’s arm. Mrs. Alworth was staring out now toward the playground, at the children. Her bottom lip was quivering. Her skin was ashen. Tears ran down both cheeks. She looked as if she’d fallen into a trance. Grace tried to step in her line of vision.

“Mrs. Alworth,” she said gently.

“I’m an old woman.”

Grace waited.

“I don’t have nothing to say to you people.”

Grace said, “I’m trying to find my husband.” Mrs. Alworth was still staring at the playground. “I’m trying to find their father.”

“Shane is a good boy. He helps people.”

“What happened to him?” Grace asked.

“Leave me alone.”

Grace tried to meet the older woman’s gaze, but the focus was gone from her eyes. “His sister”—Grace gestured toward Duncan—“my husband, your son. Whatever happened affected us all. We want to help.”

But the old woman shook her head and turned away. “My son doesn’t need your help. Now go away. Please.” She stepped back into her house and closed the door.

chapter 33

When they were back in the car, Grace said, “When you told Mrs. Alworth you checked her phone records for international calls . . .”

Duncan nodded. “It was a bluff.”

The children were plugged back into their Game Boys. Scott Duncan called the coroner. She was waiting for them.

Grace said, “We’re getting closer to the answer, aren’t we?”

“I think so.”

“Mrs. Alworth might be telling the truth. I mean, as far as she knows.”

“How do you figure?” he asked.

“Something happened years ago. Jack ran away overseas. Maybe Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert did too. Your sister, for whatever reason, hung around and ended up dead.”

He did not reply. His eyes were suddenly moist. There was a tremor in the corner of his mouth.

“Scott?”

“She called me. Geri. Two days before the fire.”

Grace waited.

“I was running out the door. You have to understand. Geri was a bit of a kook. She was always so melodramatic. She said she had to tell me something important, but I figured it could wait. I figured it was about whatever new thing she was into—aromatherapy, her new rock band, her etchings, whatever. I said I’d call her back.”

He stopped, shrugged. “But I forgot.”

Grace wanted to say something, but nothing came to her. Words of comfort would probably do more harm than good right now. She took hold of the wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror. Emma and Max both had their heads lowered, their thumbs working the buttons on the tiny console. She felt that overwhelmed thing coming on, that pure blast in the middle of normalcy, the bliss from the everyday.

“Do you mind if we stop at the coroner’s now?” Duncan asked.

Grace hesitated.

“It’s about a mile away. Just turn right at the next light.”

In for a penny, Grace thought. She drove. He gave directions. A minute later he pointed up ahead. “It’s that office building on the corner.”

The medical office seemed dominated by dentists and orthodontists. When they opened the door, there was that antiseptic smell Grace always associated with a voice telling her to rinse and spit. An ophthalmology group called Laser Today was listed for the second floor. Scott Duncan pointed to the name “Sally Li, MD.” The directory said she was on the lower level.

There was no receptionist. The door chimed when they entered. The office was properly sparse. The furniture consisted of two distressed couches and one flickering lamp that wouldn’t muster a price tag at a garage sale. The lone magazine was a catalogue of medical examiner tools.

An Asian woman, mid-forties and exhausted, stuck her head through the door of the inner office. “Hey, Scott.”

“Hey, Sally.”

“Who’s this?”

“Grace Lawson,” he said. “She’s helping me.”

“Charmed,” Sally said. “Be with you in a sec.”

Grace told the kids that they could keep playing their Game Boys. The danger of video games was that they shut the world out. The beauty of video games was that they shut the world out.

Sally Li opened the door. “Come on in.”

She wore clean surgical scrubs with high heels. A pack of Marlboros was jammed into the breast pocket. The office, if you could call it that, had that Early American Hurricane look going for it. There were papers everywhere. They seemed to be cascading off her desk and bookshelves, almost like a waterfall. Pathology textbooks were open. Her desk was old and metal, something bought at an old elementary school garage sale. There were no pictures on it, nothing personal, though a really big ashtray sat front and center. Magazines, lots of them, were stacked high all over the place. Some of the stacks had already collapsed. Sally Li had not bothered to clean them up. She dropped herself in the chair behind her desk.

“Just knock that stuff to the floor. Sit.”

Grace removed the papers from the chair and sat. Scott Duncan did the same. Sally Li folded her hands and put them on her lap.

“You know, Scott, that I’m not much with bedside manner.”

“I know.”

“The good thing is, my patients never complain.”

She laughed. No one else did.

“Okay, so now you see why I don’t get dates.” Sally Li picked up a pair of reading glasses and started shuffling through files. “You know how the really messy person is always so well organized? They always say something like, ‘It might look like untidy but I know where everything is.’ That’s crap. I don’t know where . . . Wait, here it is.”

Sally Li pulled out a manila file.

“Is that my sister’s autopsy?” Duncan asked.

“Yep.”

She slid it toward him. He opened it. Grace leaned in next to him. On the top were the words DUNCAN, GERI. There were photographs too. Grace spotted one, a brown skeleton lying on a table. She turned away, as if she’d been caught invading someone’s privacy.

Sally Li had her feet on the desk, her hands behind her head. “Look, Scott, you want me to go through the rigmarole of how amazing the science of pathology has become, or do you want me to bottom-line it?”

“Skip the rigmarole.”

“At the time of her death, your sister was pregnant.”

Duncan’s body convulsed as if she’d hit him with a cattle prod. Grace did not move.

“I can’t tell you how long. No more than four, five months.”

“I don’t understand,” Scott said. “They must have done an autopsy the first time around.”

Sally Li nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t they see it then?”

“My guess? They did.”

“But I never knew . . .”

“Why would you? You were, what, in law school? They may have told your mom or dad. But you were just a sibling. And her pregnancy has nothing to do with the cause of death. She died in a dorm fire. The fact that she was pregnant, if they knew, would be deemed irrelevant.”

Scott Duncan just sat there. He looked at Grace and then back at Sally Li. “You can get DNA from the fetus?”

“Probably, yeah. Why?”

“How long will it take you to run a paternity test?”

Grace was not surprised by the question.

“Six weeks.”

“Any way to rush it?”

“I might be able to get some kind of rejection earlier. In other words, rule people out. But I can’t say for sure.”

Scott turned to Grace. She knew what he was thinking. She said, “Geri was dating Shane Alworth.”

“You saw the picture.”

She had. The way Geri looked up at Jack. She had not known the camera was on her. They were all still getting ready to pose. But what was captured, the look on Geri Duncan’s face, well, it was the way you look at someone who is much more than a friend.

“Let’s run the test then,” Grace said.

chapter 34

Charlaine was holding Mike’s hand when his eyes finally fluttered open.

She screamed for a doctor, who declared, in a moment of true obviousness, that this was a “good sign.” Mike was in tremendous pain. The doctor put a morphine pump on him. Mike did not want to go back to sleep. He grimaced and tried to ride it out. Charlaine stayed bedside and held his hand. When the pain got bad, he squeezed hard.

“Go home,” Mike said. “The kids need you.”

She shushed him. “Try to rest.”

“Nothing you can do for me here. Go home.”

“Shh.”

Mike began to drift off. She looked down at him. She remembered the days at Vanderbilt. The range of emotions overwhelmed her. There was love and affection, sure, but what troubled Charlaine right now—even as she held his hand, even as she felt a strong bond with this man who shared her life, even as she prayed and made deals with a God she’d ignored for far too long—was that she knew that these feelings would not last. That was the terrible part. In the middle of this intensity Charlaine knew that her feelings would ebb away, that the emotions were fleeting, and she hated herself for knowing that.

Three years ago Charlaine attended a huge self-help rally at Continental Arena in East Rutherford. The speaker had been dynamic. Charlaine loved it. She bought all the tapes. She started doing exactly what he said—making goals, sticking to them, figuring out what she wanted from life, trying to put things in perspective, organizing and restructuring her priorities so that she could achieve—but even as she went through the motions, even as her life began to change for the better, she knew that it would not last. That this would all be a temporary change. A new regimen, an exercise program, a diet—that was how this felt too.

It would not be happily ever after.

The door behind her opened. “I hear your husband woke up.”

It was Captain Perlmutter. “Yes.”

“I was hoping to talk to him.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

Perlmutter took another step into the room. “Are the children still with their uncle?”

“He took them to school. We want things to feel normal for them.” Perlmutter moved next to her. She kept her eyes on Mike. “Have you learned anything?” she asked.

“The man who shot your husband. His name is Eric Wu. Does that mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. “How did you figure that out?”

“His fingerprints in Sykes’s house.”

“Has he been arrested before?”

“Yes. In fact he’s on parole.”

“What did he do?”

“He was convicted of assault and battery, but it’s believed that he’s committed a number of crimes.”

She was not surprised. “Violent crimes?”

Perlmutter nodded. “Can I ask you something?”

She shrugged.

“Does the name Jack Lawson mean anything to you?”

Charlaine frowned. “Does he have two kids at Willard?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know him personally, but Clay, my youngest, is still at Willard. I see his wife sometimes when we do pickups.”

“That would be Grace Lawson?”

“I think that’s her name. Pretty woman. She has a daughter named Emma, I think. She’s a year or two behind my Clay.”

“Do you know her at all?”

“Not really, no. I see her at the school holiday concert, stuff like that. Why?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

Charlaine frowned. “You just picked that name out of a hat?”

“Early conjecture,” he said, trying to dismiss it. “I also wanted to thank you.”

“For?”

“For talking to Mr. Sykes.”

“He didn’t tell me much.”

“He told you that Wu used the name Al Singer.”

“So?”

“Our computer expert found that name on Sykes’s computer. Al Singer. We think Wu used that alias for an online dating service. That’s how he met Freddy Sykes.”

“He used the name Al Singer?”

“Yes.”

“It was a gay dating service then?”

“Bisexual.”

Charlaine shook her head and came close to chuckling. Ain’t that something? She looked at Perlmutter, daring him to laugh. He was stone-faced. They both looked down at Mike again. Mike startled. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Charlaine smiled back and smoothed his hair. He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

“Captain Perlmutter?”

“Yes.”

“Please leave,” she said.

chapter 35

While waiting for Carl Vespa to arrive, Grace started picking up the bedroom. Jack, she knew, was a great husband and father. He was smart, funny, loving, caring, and devoted. To counter that, God had blessed him with the organization skills of a citrus beverage. He was, in sum, a slob. Nagging him about it—and Grace had tried—did no good. So she stopped. If living happily was about compromise, this seemed to her like a pretty good one to make.

Grace had long ago given up on Jack clearing out the pile of magazines next to his bed. His post-shower wet towel never ended up back on the rack. Not every article of clothing made it to its ultimate destination. Right now, there was a T-shirt draped half-in, half-out of the hamper as if it’d been shot trying to escape.

For a moment Grace just stared down at the T-shirt. It was green with the word FUBU plastered across the front, and it might have one day been in vogue. Jack bought it for $6.99 at T.J. Maxx, a discount clothing store where hip goes to die. He’d put it on with a pair of too-baggy shorts. He stood in front of the mirror and started wrapping his arms around his body in a bizarre variety of ways.

“What are you doing?” Grace had asked him.

“Gangsta poses. Yo, whatchya think?”

“That I should get you seizure medication.”

“Phat,” he said. “Bling-bling.”

“Right. Emma needs a ride to Christina’s.”

“Word. Dawg. Hit dat.”

“Please go. Immediately.”

Grace picked up the shirt now. She had always been cynical about the male species. She was guarded with her feelings. She did not open up easily. She had never believed in love at first sight—she still didn’t—but when she met Jack, the attraction had been immediate, flutters in her stomach, and deny it now as much as she wanted, a small voice had told her right then and there, first meeting, that this was the man she was going to marry.

Cram was in the kitchen with Emma and Max. Emma had recovered from her earlier histrionics. She had recovered the way only kids can—fast and with very little residue. They were all eating fish sticks, Cram included, and ignoring the side dish of peas. Emma was reading a poem to Cram. Cram was a great audience. His laugh was the kind that not only filled a room but pushed against the panes of glass. You heard it, you had to either smile or cringe.

There was still time before Carl Vespa arrived. She didn’t want to think about Geri Duncan, her death, her pregnancy, the way she looked at Jack in that damned photograph. Scott Duncan had asked her what she ultimately wanted. She’d said her husband back. That was still very much the case. But maybe, with all that was happening, she needed the truth too.

With that in mind Grace headed downstairs and flipped on the computer. She brought up Google and typed in “Jack Lawson.” Twelve hundred hits. Too many to do any good. She tried “Shane Alworth.” Hmm, no hits. Interesting. Grace tried “Sheila Lambert.” Hits about a woman basketball player with the same name. Nothing relevant. Then she began trying combinations.

Jack Lawson, Shane Alworth, Sheila Lambert, and Geri Duncan: These four people were together in this picture. They had to be linked in some other way. She tried various combinations. She tried one first name, one last name. Nothing of interest popped. She was still typing, going through the useless 227 hits on the words “Lawson” and “Alworth” when the phone rang.

Grace looked at the Caller ID and saw it was Cora. She picked up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said.

“Don’t worry about it. Bitch.”

Grace smiled and kept hitting the down arrow. The hits were useless.

“So do you still want my help?” Cora asked.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Enthusiasm. I love that. Okay, fill me in.”

Grace kept it vague. She trusted Cora, but she didn’t want to have to trust her. Yeah, that made little sense. It was like this: If Grace’s life were in jeopardy, she’d call Cora immediately. But if the kids were in danger . . . well, she’d hesitate. The scary thing was, she probably trusted Cora more than anybody, which was to say that she had never felt more isolated in her life.

“So you’re putting the names through search engines?” Cora asked.

“Yes.”

“Any relevant hits so far?”

“Not a one.” Then: “Wait, hold on.”

“What?”

But now again, trust or no trust, Grace wondered what would be the point in telling Cora more than she needed to know. “I gotta run. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay. Bitch.”

Grace hung up and stared at the screen. Her pulse started giddying up, just a little faster now. She had pretty much used up all the name combinations when she’d remembered an artist friend name Marlon Coburn. He was constantly complaining because his name was misspelled. Marlon would be spelled Marlin or Marlan or Marlen and Coburn would be Cohen or Corburn. Anyway Grace figured she’d give it a go.

The fourth “typo” combo she tried was “Lawson” and “Allworth”—two Ls instead of one.

There were three hundred hits—neither name was that uncommon—but it was the fourth one that jumped out at her. She looked at the top line first:

Crazy Davey’s Blog

Grace knew vaguely that a blog was a sort of public diary. People wrote down their random thoughts. Other people, for some odd reason, enjoyed reading them. A diary used to be about being private. Now it was about trying to be shrill enough to reach the masses.

The little sample bit under the link line read:

“. . . John Lawson on keyboards and Sean Allworth who was wicked on guitar . . .”

John was Jack’s real name. Sean was pretty close to Shane. Grace clicked the link. The page was forever long. She went back, clicked “cache.” When she returned to the page, the words Lawson and Allworth would be highlighted. She scrolled down and found an entry from two years ago:

April 26

Hey, gang. Terese and I took a weekend up in Vermont. We stayed at the Westerly’s bed and breakfasts. It was great. They had a fireplace and at night we played checkers. . . .

Crazy Davey went on and on. Grace shook her head. Who the hell read this nonsense? She skipped three more paragraphs.

That night I went with Rick, an old college bud, to Wino’s. It’s an old college bar. Total dump. We used to go when we went to Vermont University. Get this, we played Condom Roulette like the old days. Ever play? Every guy guesses a color—there’s Hot Red, Stallion Black, Lemon Yellow, Orange Orange. Okay, the last two are jokes, but you get the point. There’s this condom dispenser in the bathroom. It’s still there! So each guy puts a buck on the table. One guy gets a quarter and buys a condom. He brings it to the table. You open it and whammo, if it’s your color, you win! Rick guessed the first one right. He bought us a pitcher. The band that night sucked. I remembered hearing a group when I was a freshman named Allaw. There were two chicks in that band and two guys. I remember one chick played drums. The guys were John Lawson on keyboards and Sean Allworth who was wicked on guitar. That was how they got the name, I think. Allworth and Lawson. Combine it into Allaw. Rick never heard of them. Anyway we finished up the pitcher. A couple of hot chicks came in but they ignored us. We started feeling old. . . .

That was it. Nothing more.

Grace did a search for “Allaw.” Nothing.

She tried more combinations. Nothing else. Only this one mention in a blog. Crazy Davey had gotten both Shane’s first and last name wrong. Jack had gone by Jack, well, for as long as Grace had known him, but maybe he was John back then. Or maybe the guy remembered it wrong or saw it written down.

But Crazy Davey had mentioned four people—two women, two men. There were five people in the picture, but the one woman, the one who was pretty much a blur near the edge of the photograph—maybe she wasn’t part of the group. And what had Scott said about his sister’s last phone call?

I figured it was about whatever new thing she was into—aromatherapy, her new rock band . . .

Rock band. Could that be it? Was it a picture of a rock group?

She searched Crazy Davey’s site for a phone number or a full name. There was only an e-mail. Grace hit the link and typed quickly:

“I need your help. I have a very important question about Allaw, the band you saw in college. Please call me collect.”

She listed her phone number and then hit the send button.

So what does this mean?

She tried to put it together in a dozen different ways. Nothing fit. A few minutes later the limousine pulled up the driveway. Grace glanced out the window. Carl Vespa was here.

He had a new driver now, a mammoth muscleman with a crewcut and matching scowl who did not look half as dangerous as Cram. She bookmarked Crazy Davey’s blog before heading down the corridor to open the door.

Vespa stepped in without saying hello. He still looked natty, still wearing a blazer that seemed to have been tailored by the gods, but the rest of him looked strangely unruly. His hair was always unkempt—that was his look—but there is a fine line between unkempt and not touched at all. It had crossed that line. His eyes were red. The lines around his mouth were deeper, more pronounced.

“What’s wrong?”

“Somewhere we can talk?” Vespa asked.

“The kids are with Cram in the kitchen. We can use the living room.”

He nodded. From a distance they heard Max’s full-bodied laugh. The sound made Vespa pull up. “Your son is six, right?”

“Yes.”

Vespa smiled now. Grace did not know what he was thinking, but the smile broke her heart. “When Ryan was six, he was into baseball cards.”

“Max is into Yu-Gi-Oh!”

“Yu-Gi-what?”

She shook her head to indicate that it wasn’t worth explaining.

He went on: “Ryan used to play this game with his cards. He’d break them up into teams. Then he’d lay them out on the carpet like it was a ball field. You know, the third baseman—Graig Nettles back then—actually playing third, three guys in the outfield—he even kept the extra pitchers in a bullpen out in right field.”

His face glowed in the memory. He looked at Grace. She smiled at him, as gently as she could, but the mood still burst. Vespa’s face fell.

“He’s getting released on probation.”

Grace said nothing.

“Wade Larue. They’re rushing his release. He’ll be out tomorrow.” “Oh.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“He’s been in jail for almost fifteen years,” she said.

“Eighteen people died.”

She did not want to have this conversation with him. That number—eighteen—was not relevant. Just one mattered. Ryan. From the kitchen Max laughed again. The sound shredded the room. Vespa kept his face steady but Grace could see something going on inside of him. A roiling. He did not speak. He did not have to, the thoughts obvious: Suppose it had been Max or Emma. Would she rationalize it as a stoned loser getting high and panicking? Would she be so quick to forgive?

“Do you remember that security guard, Gordon MacKenzie?” Vespa asked.

Grace nodded. He had been the hero of the night, finding a way to open up two locked emergency exits.

“He died a few weeks ago. He had a brain tumor.”

“I know.” They had given Gordon MacKenzie the biggest spread in the anniversary pieces.

“Do you believe in life after death, Grace?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about your parents? Will you see them one day?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Grace. I want to know what you think.”

Vespa’s eyes bored into hers. She shifted in her seat. “On the phone. You asked if Jack had a sister.”

“Sandra Koval.”

“Why did you ask me that?”

“In a minute,” Vespa said. “I want to know what you think. Where do we go when we die, Grace?”

She could see that it would be useless to argue with him. There was a wrong vibe here, something out of sorts. He was not asking as a friend, a father figure, out of curiosity. There was challenge in his voice. Anger even. She wondered if he’d been drinking.

“There’s a Shakespeare quote,” she said. “From Hamlet. He says that death is—and I think I have the quote right—an undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns.”

He made a face. “In other words, we don’t have a clue.”

“Pretty much.”

“You know that’s crap.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You know that there’s nothing. That I will never see Ryan again. It’s just too hard for people to accept. The weak-minded invent invisible gods and gardens and reunions in paradise. Or some, like you, won’t buy into that nonsense, but it’s still too painful to admit the truth. So you come up with this ‘how can we know?’ rationale. But you do know, Grace, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Carl.”

“For what?”

“I’m sorry that you’re in pain. But please don’t tell me what I believe.”

Something happened to Vespa’s eyes. They expanded for a moment and it was almost as if something behind them exploded. “How did you meet your husband?”

“What?”

“How did you meet Jack?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He took a quick step closer. A threatening step. He looked down at her, and for the first time Grace knew that all the stories, all the rumors about what he was, what he did, they were true. “How did you two meet?”

Grace tried not to cringe. “You already know.”

“In France?”

“Right.”

He stared at her hard.

“What’s going on, Carl?”

“Wade Larue is getting out.”

“So you said.”

“Tomorrow his lawyer is holding a press conference in New York. The families will be there. I want you there.”

She waited. She knew there was more.

“His lawyer was terrific. She really dazzled the parole board. I bet she’ll dazzle the press too.”

He stopped and waited. Grace was puzzled for a few moments, but then something cold started in the center of her chest and spread through her limbs. Carl Vespa saw it. He nodded and stepped back.

“Tell me about Sandra Koval,” he said. “Because, see, I can’t understand how your sister-in-law, of all people, ended up representing someone like Wade Larue.”

chapter 36

Indira Khariwalla waited for the visitor.

Her office was dark. All the private detection was done for the day. Indira liked sitting with the lights out. The problem with the West, she was convinced, was overstimulation. She fell prey to it too, of course. That was the thing. No one was above it. The West seduced you with stimulation, a constant barrage of color and light and sound. It never stopped. So whenever possible, especially at the end of the day, Indira liked to sit with the lights off. Not to meditate, as one might assume because of her heritage. Not sitting in lotus position with her thumbs and forefingers making two circles.

No, just darkness.

At 10 P.M., there was a light rap on the door. “Come on in.”

Scott Duncan entered the room. He did not bother turning on the light. Indira was glad. It would make this easier.

“What’s so important?” he asked.

“Rocky Conwell was murdered,” Indira said.

“I heard about that on the radio. Who is he?”

“The man I hired to follow Jack Lawson.”

Scott Duncan said nothing.

“Do you know who Stu Perlmutter is?” she continued.

“The cop?”

“Yes. He visited me yesterday. He asked about Conwell.”

“Did you claim attorney-client?”

“I did. He wants to get a judge to compel me to answer.”

Scott Duncan turned away.

“Scott?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”

Indira was not so sure. “What are you going to do?”

Duncan stepped out of the office. He reached behind him, grabbed the knob, and started closing the door behind him. “Nip this in the bud,” he said.

chapter 37

The press conference was at 10 A.M. Grace took the children to school first. Cram drove. He wore an oversized flannel shirt left untucked. He had a gun under it, she knew. The children hopped out. They said good-bye to Cram and hurried away. Cram shifted the car into gear.

“Don’t go yet,” Grace said.

She watched until they were safely inside. Then she nodded that it was okay for the car to start moving again.

“Don’t worry,” Cram said. “I have a man watching.”

She turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“How long have you been with Mr. Vespa?”

“You were there when Ryan died, right?”

The question threw her. “Yes.”

“He was my godson.”

The streets were quiet. She looked at him. She had no idea what to do. She could not trust them—not with her children, not after she’d seen Vespa’s face last night. But what choice did she have? Maybe she should try the police again, but would they really be willing or able to protect them? And Scott Duncan, well, even he had admitted that their alliance only went so far.

As if reading her thoughts, Cram said, “Mr. Vespa still trusts you.”

“And what if he decides he doesn’t anymore?”

“He’d never hurt you.”

“You’re that sure?”

“Mr. Vespa will meet us in the city. At the press conference. You want to listen to the radio?”

The traffic was not bad, considering the hour. The George Washington Bridge was still crawling with cops, a hangover from September 11 that Grace could not get over. The press conference was being held at the Crowne Plaza Hotel near Times Square. Vespa told her that there’d been talk about conducting it in Boston—that would seem more appropriate—but someone in the Larue camp realized that it might be too emotionally jarring to return so close to the scene. They also hoped that fewer family members would show up if it were held in New York.

Cram dropped her off on the sidewalk and headed into the lot next door. Grace stood on the street for a moment and tried to gather herself. Her cell phone sounded. She checked the Caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. Six-one-seven area code. That was the Boston area, if she remembered correctly.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is David Roff.”

She was near Times Square in New York. People were, of course, everywhere. No one seemed to be talking. No horns were honking. But the roar in her ear was still deafening. “Who?”

“Uh, well, I guess you might know me better as Crazy Davey. From my blog. I got your e-mail. Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all.” Grace realized that she was shouting to be heard. She stuck a finger in her free ear. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“I know you said to call collect, but I got some new phone service where all long distance is included, so I figured what the hell, you know.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You made it sound kind of important.”

“It is. On your blog you mentioned a band named Allaw.”

“Right.”

“I’m trying to find out anything I can about them.”

“I figured that, yeah, but I don’t think I can really help you. I mean, I just saw them that one night. Me and some buddies got totally wasted, spent the whole night there. We met some girls, did a lot of dancing, did a lot more drinking. We talked to the band afterward. That’s why I remember it so well.”

“My name is Grace Lawson. My husband was Jack.”

“Lawson? That was the lead guy, right? I remember him.”

“Were they any good?”

“The band? Truth is, I don’t remember, but I think so. I remember having a blast and getting wasted. Had a hangover that still makes me cringe to this day. You trying to put a surprise together for him?”

“A surprise?”

“Yeah, like a surprise party or a scrapbook about his old days.”

“I’m just trying to find out anything I can about the people in the group.”

“I wish I could help. I don’t think they lasted that long. Never heard them again, though I know they had another gig at the Lost Tavern. That was in Manchester. That’s all I know, I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate your calling me back.”

“Sure, no problem. Oh wait. This might be fun trivia for a scrapbook.”

“What’s that?”

“The gig Allaw played in Manchester? They opened for Still Night.”

Waves of pedestrians rushed past her. Grace huddled near a wall, trying to avoid the masses. “I’m not familiar with Still Night.”

“Well, only real music buffs would be, I guess. Still Night didn’t last too long either. At least not in that incarnation.” There was a static crackle, but Grace still heard Crazy Davey’s next words too clearly: “But their lead singer was Jimmy X.”

Grace felt her grip on the phone go slack.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here,” Grace said.

“You know who Jimmy X is, right? ‘Pale Ink’? The Boston Massacre?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded very far away. “I remember.”

Cram came out of the parking lot. He spotted her face and picked up his pace again. Grace thanked Crazy Davey and hung up. She had his number on her cell phone now. She could always call him back.

“Everything okay?”

She tried to shake it off, this feeling of cold. It wouldn’t happen. She managed to utter, “Fine.”

“Who was that?”

“You my social secretary now?”

“Easy.” He held up both hands. “Just asking.”

They headed inside the Crowne Plaza. Grace tried to process what she had just heard. A coincidence. That was all. A bizarre coincidence. Her husband had played in a bar band in college. So had a zillion other people. He happened to play on the same bill once as Jimmy X. Again so what? They were both in the same area at around the same time. This would have been at least a year, probably two, before the Boston Massacre. And Jack might not have mentioned it to her because he figured that it was irrelevant and might, in any case, upset his wife. A Jimmy X concert had traumatized her. It had left her partially crippled. So he maybe didn’t see a need to mention that slight connection.

No big deal, right?

Except that Jack had never even mentioned playing in a band. Except that the members of Allaw were all now either dead or missing.

She tried to gather some of the pieces. When exactly had Geri Duncan been murdered anyway? Grace had been undergoing physical therapy when she read about the fire. That meant it probably happened a few months after the massacre. Grace would need to check the exact date. She would need to check the entire time line because, let’s face it, there was no way the Allaw–Jimmy X connection was a coincidence.

But how did it work? Nothing about it made sense.

She ran it through one more time. Her husband plays in a band. One time the band plays at the same time as a band featuring Jimmy X. A year or two later—depending on if Jack had been a senior or a year postgrad—the now famous Jimmy X plays a concert that she, young Grace Sharpe, attends. She gets injured in a melee that night. Another three years pass. She meets Jack Lawson on an entirely different continent and they fall in love.

It didn’t mesh.

The elevator dinged on the ground level. Cram said, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Groovy,” she said.

“Still twenty minutes until the press conference begins. I figured it would be better if you went alone, try to grab your sister-in-law beforehand.”

“You’re a fount of ideas, Cram.”

The doors opened. “Third floor,” he said. Grace stepped inside and let the elevator swallow her whole. She was alone. There would not be much time. She took out her cell phone and the card Jimmy X had given her. She pressed in the number and hit send. It went immediately into his voice mail. Grace waited for the beep:

“I know about Still Night playing with Allaw. Call me.”

She left her number and hung up. The elevator came to a stop. When she stepped off, there was one of those black signs with the changeable white letters, the kind that tell you in what room the Ratzenberg’s bar mitzvah or Smith-Jones wedding is being held. This one read: “Burton-Crimstein Press Conference.” Advertising the firm. She followed the arrow to a door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

The whole thing was like one of those courthouse movie scenes—that pinnacle cinematic moment when the surprise witness bursts through the double doors. When Grace walked in, there was that sort of collective gasp. The room hushed. Grace felt lost. She glanced around and what she saw made her head spin. She took a step back. The faces of grief, older but no more at peace, swirled about her. There they were again—the Garrisons, the Reeds, the Weiders. She flashed back to the early days at the hospital. She had seen everything through the haze of Halcion, as if through a shower curtain. It felt the same today. They approached in silence. They hugged her. None of them said a word. They didn’t have to. Grace accepted the embraces. She could still feel the sadness emanating from them.

She saw the widow of Lieutenant Gordon MacKenzie. Some said that he had been responsible for pulling Grace to safety. Like most true heroes, Gordon MacKenzie rarely talked about it. He claimed not to remember what he did exactly, that yes, he opened doors and pulled people out, but that it was more out of reaction than anything approaching bravery.

Grace gave Mrs. MacKenzie an extra long hug.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Grace said.

“He found God.” Mrs. MacKenzie held on. “He’s with Him now.”

There was really nothing to say to that, so Grace just nodded. She let her go and looked over the woman’s shoulder. Sandra Koval had entered the room from the other side. She spotted Grace at almost the same moment and a strange thing happened. Her sister-in-law smiled, almost as if she’d expected this. Grace stepped away from Mrs. MacKenzie. Sandra tilted her head, signaling her to step forward. There was a velvet rope. A security guard stepped in her way.

“It’s okay, Frank,” Sandra said. He let Grace pass.

Sandra led the way. She hurried down a corridor. Grace limped behind, unable to catch up. No matter. Sandra stopped and opened a door. They stepped into a huge ballroom. Waiters busily laid out the silverware. Sandra led her to a corner. She grabbed two chairs and turned them so that they faced each other.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Grace said.

Sandra shrugged. “I figured you were following the case in the news.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter, I guess. Until two days ago you didn’t know who I was.”

“What’s going on, Sandra?”

She did not answer right away. The tinkling of the silverware provided background music. Sandra let her gaze wander toward the waiters in the center room.

“Why are you representing Wade Larue?”

“He was charged with a crime. I’m a criminal defense lawyer. It’s what I do.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“You want to know how I stumbled upon this particular client, is that it?”

Grace said nothing.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“You, Grace.” She smiled. “You’re the reason I represent Mr. Larue.”

Grace opened her mouth, closed it, started again. “What are you talking about?”

“You never really knew about me. You just knew that Jack had a sister. But I knew all about you.”

“I’m still not following.”

“It’s simple, Grace. You married my brother.”

“So?”

“When I learned you were going to be my sister-in-law, I was curious. I wanted to learn about you. Makes sense, right? So I had one of my investigators do a background check. Your paintings are wonderful, by the way. I bought two. Anonymously. They’re in my home out in Los Angeles. Spectacular stuff, really. My older daughter, Karen—she’s seventeen—loves them. She wants to be an artist.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with Wade Larue.”

“Really?” Her voice was strangely cheerful. “I’ve worked criminal defense since I graduated law school. I started by working with Burton and Crimstein in Boston. I lived there, Grace. I knew all about the Boston Massacre. And now my brother had fallen in love with one of the Massacre’s major players. It piqued my curiosity even more. I started reading up on the case—and guess what I realized?”

“What?”

“That Wade Larue had been railroaded by an incompetent lawyer.”

“Wade Larue was responsible for the death of eighteen people.”

“He fired a gun, Grace. He didn’t even hit anyone. The lights went out. People were screaming. He was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He panicked. He believed—or at least, honestly imagined—that he was in imminent danger. There was no way, no way at all, that he could have known what the outcome would be. His first lawyer should have cut a deal. Probation, eighteen months away tops. But no one really wanted to work this case. Larue was sent to jail to rot. So yes, Grace, I read about him because of you. Wade Larue had been shafted. His old attorney screwed him and ran.”

“So you took the case?”

Sandra Koval nodded. “Pro bono. I came to him two years ago. We started preparing for the parole hearing.”

Something clicked. “Jack knew, didn’t he?”

“That I don’t know. We don’t talk, Grace.”

“Are you still going to tell me you didn’t talk to him that night? Nine minutes, Sandra. The phone company says the call lasted nine minutes.”

“Jack’s call had nothing to do with Wade Larue.”

“What did it have to do with?”

“That photograph.”

“What about it?”

Sandra leaned forward. “First you answer a question for me. And I need the truth here. Where did you get that picture?”

“I told you. It was in my packet of film.”

Sandra shook her head, not believing her. “And you think the guy from Photomat stuck it in there?”

“I don’t know anymore. But you still haven’t explained—what about the picture made him call you?”

Sandra hesitated.

“I know about Geri Duncan,” Grace said.

“You know what about Geri Duncan?”

“That she’s the girl in the picture. And that she was murdered.”

That made Sandra sit up. “She died in a fire. It was an accident.”

Grace shook her head. “It was set intentionally.”

“Who told you that?”

“Her brother.”

“Wait, how do you know her brother?”

“She was pregnant, you know. Geri Duncan. When she died in that fire, she was carrying a baby.”

Sandra stopped and looked up in horror. “Grace, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to find my husband.”

“And you think this is helping?”

“You told me yesterday you didn’t know anyone in the picture. But you just admitted you knew Geri Duncan, that she died in a fire.”

Sandra closed her eyes.

“Did you know Shane Alworth or Sheila Lambert?”

Her voice was soft. “Not really, no.”

“Not really. So their names are not totally unfamiliar to you?”

“Shane Alworth was a classmate of Jack’s. Sheila Lambert, I think, was a friend from a sister college or something. So what?”

“Did you know that the four of them played together in a band?”

“For a month maybe. Again so what?”

“The fifth person in the picture. The one with her head turned. Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Is it you, Sandra?”

She looked up at Grace. “Me?”

“Yes. Is it you?”

There was a funny look on Sandra’s face now. “No, Grace, it’s not me.”

“Did Jack kill Geri Duncan?”

The words just came out. Sandra’s eyes opened as if she’d been slapped. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I want the truth.”

“Jack had nothing to do with her death. He was overseas already.”

“So why did the picture freak him out?”

She hesitated.

“Why, dammit?”

“Because he didn’t know Geri was dead until then.”

Grace looked confused. “Were they lovers?”

“Lovers,” she repeated, as if she’d never heard the word before. “That’s a pretty mature term for what they were.”

“Wasn’t she dating Shane Alworth?”

“I guess. But they were all just kids.”

“Jack was fooling around with his friend’s girlfriend?”

“I don’t know how friendly Jack and Shane were. But yes, Jack slept with her.”

Grace’s head began to whirl. “And Geri Duncan got pregnant.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“But you know she’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“And you know Jack ran away.”

“Before she died.”

“Before she was pregnant?”

“I just told you. I never knew she was pregnant.”

“And Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert, they’re both missing too. You want to tell me it’s all a coincidence, Sandra?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what did Jack say when he called you?”

She let loose a deep sigh. Her head dropped. She was silent for a while.

“Sandra?”

“Look, that picture has to be, what, fifteen, sixteen years old? When you just gave it to him like that, out of the blue . . . how did you think he’d react? With Geri’s face crossed out. So Jack went to the computer. He did a Web search—I think he used the Boston Globe’s archives. He found out she’s been dead this whole time. That was why he called me. He wanted to know what happened to her. I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“What I knew. That she died in a fire.”

“Why would that make Jack run out?”

“That I don’t know.”

“What made him run overseas in the first place?”

“You have to let this go.”

“What happened to them, Sandra?”

She shook her head. “Forget the fact that I’m his attorney and that it’s protected. It is simply not my place. He’s my brother.”

Grace reached out and took Sandra’s hands in hers. “I think he’s in trouble.”

“Then what I know can’t help him.”

“They threatened my children today.”

Sandra closed her eyes.

“Did you hear what I said?”

A man in a business suit leaned into the room. He said, “It’s time, Sandra.” She nodded and thanked him. Sandra pulled her hands away, stood, smoothed out the lines of her suit.

“You have to stop this, Grace. You have to go home now. You have to protect your family. It’s what Jack would want you to do.”

chapter 38

The threat at the supermarket had not taken.

Wu was not surprised. He had been raised in an environment that stressed the power of men and the subordination of women, but Wu had always found it to be more hope than truth. Women were harder. They were more unpredictable. They handled physical pain better—he knew this from personal experience. When it came to protecting their loved ones, they were far more ruthless. Men would sacrifice themselves out of machismo or stupidity or the blind belief that they would be victorious. Women would sacrifice themselves without self-deception.

He had not been in favor of making the threat in the first place. Threats left enemies and uncertainty. Eliminating Grace Lawson earlier would have been routine. Eliminating her now would be riskier.

Wu would have to return and handle the job himself.

He was in Beatrice Smith’s shower, dyeing his hair back to its original color. Wu usually wore it bleached blond. He did this for two reasons. The first reason was basic: He liked the way it looked. Vanity, perhaps, but when Wu looked in the mirror he thought the surfer-blond, gel-spiked style worked on him. Reason two, the color—a garish yellow—was useful because it was what most people remembered. When he brought his hair back to its natural state of everyday Asian-black, flattened it down, when he changed his clothes from the modern hip style to something more conservative, donned a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, well, the transformation was very effective.

He grabbed Jack Lawson and dragged him down into the basement. Lawson did not resist. He was barely conscious. He was not doing well. His mind, already stretched, had perhaps snapped. He would not survive much longer.

The basement was unfinished and damp. Wu remembered the last time he’d been in a similar setting, out in San Mateo, California. The instructions had been specific. He had been hired to torture a man for exactly eight hours—why eight Wu had never learned—and then break bones in both the man’s legs and arms. Wu had manipulated the broken bones so that the jagged edges sat next to nerve bundles or near the surface of the skin. Any movement, even the slightest, would cause excruciating pain. Wu locked the basement and left the man by himself. He checked up on him once a day. The man would plead, but Wu would just stare silently. It took eleven days for the man to die of starvation.

Wu found a strong pipe and chained Lawson to it. He also cuffed his arms behind his back around a support wall. He put the gag back into his mouth.

Then he decided to test the binds.

“You should have gotten every copy of that photograph,” Wu whispered.

Jack Lawson’s eyes rolled up.

“Now I’ll have to pay your wife a visit.”

Their gazes locked. A second passed, no more, and then Lawson sprang to life. He began to flail. Wu watched him. Yes, this would be a good test. Lawson struggled for several minutes, a fish dying on the line. Nothing gave way.

Wu left him alone then, still fighting his chains, to find Grace Lawson.

chapter 39

Grace did not want to stay for the press conference.

Being in the same room with all these mourners . . . She didn’t like to use the term “aura,” but it seemed to fit. The room had a bad aura. Shattered eyes stared at her with a yearning that was palpable. Grace understood, of course. She was no longer the conduit to their lost children—too much time had passed for that. Now she was the survivor. She was there, alive and breathing, while their children rotted in the grave. On the surface there was still affection, but beneath that Grace could feel rage at the unfairness of it all. She had lived—their children had not. The years had offered no reprieve. Now that Grace had children of her own, she understood in a way that would have been impossible fifteen years ago.

She was about to slide out the back door when a hand took firm hold of her wrist. She turned and saw it was Carl Vespa.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“That’s okay. I can hire a car.”

His hand, still on her wrist, tightened for a brief moment and again Grace thought she saw something detonate behind his eyes. “Stay,” he said.

It was not a request. She searched his face, but it was oddly calm. Too calm. His demeanor—so off with the surroundings, so different from the flash of fury she’d seen last night—frightened her anew. Was this really the man she was trusting with her children’s lives?

She sat next to him and watched Sandra Koval and Wade Larue take to the podium. Sandra pulled the microphone closer and started up with the standard clichés about forgiveness and starting over and rehabilitation. Grace watched the faces around her shut down. Some cried. Some pursed their lips. Some visibly shook.

Carl Vespa did none of that.

He crossed his legs and leaned back. He surveyed the proceedings with a casualness that scared her more than the worst scowl. Five minutes into Sandra Koval’s statement, Vespa’s eyes shifted toward Grace. He saw that she’d been watching him. Then he did something that made her shiver.

He winked at her.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

With Sandra still talking, Carl Vespa rose and headed for the door. Heads turned and there was a brief hush. Grace followed. They took the elevator down in silence. The limousine was right out front. The big burly guy was in the driver’s seat.

“Where’s Cram?” Grace asked.

“On an errand,” Vespa said, and Grace thought she saw the trace of a smile. “Tell me about your meeting with Ms. Koval.”

Grace recounted her conversation with her sister-in-law. Vespa stayed silent, gazing out the window, his index finger gently tapping his chin. When she finished, he asked, “Is that everything?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

She did not like the lilt in his tone.

“What about your recent”—Vespa looked up, scanning for the word—“visitor?”

“You mean Scott Duncan?”

Vespa had the oddest grin. “You are aware, of course, that Scott Duncan works for the U.S. attorney’s office.”

“Used to,” she corrected.

“Yes, used to.” His voice was too relaxed. “What did he want with you?”

“I told you.”

“Did you?” He shifted in his chair, but he still did not face her. “Did you tell me everything?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just a question. Was this Mr. Duncan your only recent visitor?”

Grace did not like how this was going. She hesitated.

“Nobody else you’d like to tell me about?” he continued.

She tried to search his face for a clue, but he kept it turned away from her. What was he talking about? She mulled it over, replayed the past few days . . .

Jimmy X?

Could Vespa somehow know about Jimmy stopping by after his concert? It was possible, of course. He had found Jimmy in the first place—it would stand to reason that he’d have someone following him. So what should Grace do here? Would saying something now just compound the issue? Maybe he didn’t know about Jimmy. Maybe opening her mouth now would just get her in deeper trouble.

Play it vague, she thought. See where it goes. “I know I asked for your help,” she said, her tone deliberate. “But I think I’d like to handle this on my own now.”

Vespa finally turned toward her and faced her full. “Really?”

She waited.

“Why is that, Grace?”

“Truth?”

“Preferably.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You think I’d harm you?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“I just think it might be best—”

“What did you tell him about me?”

The interruption caught her off guard. “Scott Duncan?”

“Is there anyone else you talked to about me?”

“What? No.”

“So what did you say to Scott Duncan about me?”

“Nothing.” Grace tried to think. “What could I tell him anyway?”

“Good point.” He nodded, more to himself than at Grace. “But you were never very specific on why Mr. Duncan paid you this visit.” Vespa folded his hands and put them on his lap. “I’d very much like to know the details.”

She didn’t want to tell him—didn’t want him involved anymore—but there was no way to avoid it. “It’s about his sister.”

“What about her?”

“Do you remember the girl crossed out in that picture?”

“Yes.”

“Her name was Geri Duncan. She was his sister.”

Vespa frowned. “And that’s why he came to you?”

“Yes.”

“Because his sister was in the photograph?”

“Yes.”

He sat back. “So what happened to her, this sister?”

“She died in a fire fifteen years ago.”

Vespa surprised Grace then. He didn’t ask a follow-up question. He didn’t ask for clarification. He simply turned away and stared out the window. He did not speak again until the car pulled into the driveway. Grace opened the door to get out, but there was some kind of locking system on it, like the safety lock she’d used when the kids were small, and she could not open it from the inside. The burly driver came around and took hold of the door handle. She wanted to ask Carl Vespa what he planned on doing now, if he’d indeed leave them alone, but his body language was wrong.

Calling him in the first place had been a mistake. Telling him she wanted him out of this may have compounded it.

“I’ll keep my men on until you pick up the children from school,” he said, still not facing her. “Then you’ll be on your own.”

“Thank you.”

“Grace?”

She looked back at him.

“You should never lie to me,” he said.

His voice was ice. Grace swallowed hard. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she hadn’t, but she worried that it would sound too defensive—protesting too much. So she simply nodded.

There were no good-byes. Grace headed up the walk alone. Her step teetered from something more than the limp.

What had she done?

She wondered about her next step. Her sister-in-law had said it best: Protect the children. If Grace were in Jack’s shoes, if she had gone missing for whatever reason, that would be what she’d want. Forget me, she’d tell him. Keep the children safe.

So now, like it or not, Grace was out of the rescue business. Jack was on his own.

She’d pack now. She’d wait until three o’clock, until school was let out, and then she’d pick up the children and drive to Pennsylvania. She’d find a hotel where you didn’t need a credit card. Or a B&B. Or a rooming house. Whatever. She’d call the police, maybe that Perlmutter even. She’d tell him what was going on. But first she needed her children. Once they were safe, once she had them in her car and was on the road, she’d be okay.

She reached her front door. There was a package on the step. She bent down and picked it up. The box had a New Hampshire Post logo on it. The return address read: Bobby Dodd, Sunrise Assisted Living.

It was Bob Dodd’s files.

chapter 40

Wade Larue sat next to his lawyer, Sandra Koval.

He wore brand-new clothes. The room did not smell of prison, that horrid combination of decay and disinfectant, of fat guards and urine, of stains that never come out, and that in and of itself was a strange adjustment. Prison becomes your world, getting out an impossible daydream, like imagining life on other planets. Wade Larue had gone inside at the age of twenty-two. He was now thirty-seven. That meant he had spent pretty much all his adult years inside that place. That smell, that horrid smell, was all he knew. Yes, he was still young. He had, as Sandra Koval repeated mantralike, his whole life in front of him.

It didn’t feel like that right now.

Wade Larue’s life had been ruined by a school play. Growing up in a small town in Maine everyone agreed that Wade had the acting chops. He was a crummy student. He was not much of an athlete. But he could sing and dance and, most important, he had what one local reviewer called—this after seeing Wade star as Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls sophomore year—“supernatural charisma.” Wade had that something special, that intangible that separated talented wannabes from the real deals.

Before his senior year of high school, Mr. Pearson, the high-school play director, called Wade into his office to tell him about his “impossible dream.” Mr. Pearson had always wanted to put on Man of La Mancha, but he never had a student, not until now, who could handle the role of Don Quixote. Now, for the first time, he wanted to give it a go with Wade.

But come September Mr. Pearson moved away and Mr. Arnett took over as director. He held tryouts—usually a formality for Wade Larue—but Mr. Arnett was hostile. To the shock of everyone in town he ended up picking Kenny Thomas, a total no-talent, to play Don Quixote. Kenny’s father was a bookie and Mr. Arnett, rumor had it, was into him for over twenty grand. You do the math. Wade was offered the role of the barber—one song!—and ended up quitting.

Here was how naïve Wade was: He thought that his quitting would cause a town-wide uproar. High schools are made up of types. The handsome quarterback. The basketball captain. The school president. The lead in every school play. He thought the townsfolk would rally against the injustice that had befallen him. But no one said a thing. At first, Wade figured that they were scared of Kenny’s father and his possible mob connections, but the truth was far simpler: They didn’t care. Why should they?

It is so easy to inch your way into foul territory. The line is so thin, so flimsy. You just step over it, just for a second, and sometimes, well, sometimes you can’t make your way back. Three weeks later Wade Larue got drunk, broke into the school, and vandalized the sets for the play. He was caught by the police and suspended from school.

And so the slide began.

Wade ended up taking too many drugs, moving to Boston to help sell and distribute, grew paranoid, carried a gun. And now here he was, sitting at this podium, a famous felon blamed for the death of eighteen people.

The faces glaring up at him were familiar from his trial fifteen years ago. Wade knew most of the names. At the trial they would stare with a combination of grief and bewilderment, still woozy from the sudden blow. Wade had understood back then, sympathized even. Now, fifteen years later, the glares were more hostile. Their grief and bewilderment had crystallized into a purer cut of anger and hate. At the trial, Wade Larue had avoided the glares. But no more. He kept his head up. He met their eyes. His sympathy, his understanding, had been decimated by their lack of forgiveness. He had never meant to hurt anyone. They knew that. He had apologized. He had paid a huge price. They, these families, still chose hate.

To hell with them.

Sandra Koval waxed eloquent from the seat next to him. She spoke of apologies and forgiveness, of turning corners and transformations, of understanding and the human desire for a second chance. Larue tuned her out. He spotted Grace Lawson sitting next to Carl Vespa. He should have felt tremendous fear seeing Vespa in the flesh, but no, he was beyond that now. When Wade was first put in prison, he had been badly beaten—first by people working for Vespa and then by those hoping to curry favor. Guards included. There had been no escape from the constant fear. Fear, like the smell, had become a natural part of him, his world. Maybe that explained why he was immune to it now.

Larue eventually made friends at Walden, but prison is no character-builder, despite what Sandra Koval was now telling this audience. Prison strips you down to your barest state, the state of nature, and what you do to survive is never pretty. No matter. He was out now. That was in the past. You move on.

But not quite yet.

The room was beyond silent, a vacuuming feel, as if the very air had been sucked out of it. The families all sat there, unmoved both physically and emotionally. But there was no energy there. They were hollow entities, devastated and powerless. They could not hurt him. Not anymore.

Without warning Carl Vespa rose. For a second—no longer than that—Sandra Koval was thrown. Grace Lawson stood too. Wade Larue could not understand why they were together. It made no sense. He wondered if it changed anything, if he would soon meet Grace Lawson.

Did it matter?

When Sandra Koval finished, she leaned over to him and whispered, “Come on, Wade. You can take the back way out.”

Ten minutes later, out on the streets of Manhattan, Wade Larue was free for the first time in fifteen years.

He stared up at the skyscrapers. Times Square was his first destination. It would be noisy and crowded with people—real, live non-convicts. Larue did not want solitude. He did not crave green grass or trees—you could see those from his prison cell in the sticks of Walden. He wanted lights and sounds and people, real people, not prisoners, and yes, perhaps, the company of a good (or better, bad) woman.

But that would have to wait. Wade Larue checked his watch. It was almost time.

He started west on Forty-third Street. There was still a chance to back out of this. He was achingly close to the Port Authority bus terminal. He could hop on a bus, any bus, and start anew someplace. He could change his name, maybe his face a little, and try out for local theater. He was still young. He still had the chops. He still had that supernatural charisma.

Soon, he thought.

He needed to clear this up. Put it behind him. When he was being released, one of the prison counselors had given him the standard lecture about this being either a new start or a bad end, it was all up to him. The counselor was right. Today he would either put this all behind him or he would die. Wade doubted that there would be an in between.

Up ahead he saw a black sedan. He recognized the man leaning against the side, his arms crossed. It was the mouth you couldn’t forget, the way the teeth were all twisted together. He had been the first to beat Larue all those years ago. He wanted to know what had happened the night of the Boston Massacre. Larue had told him the truth: He didn’t know.

Now he did.

“Hey, Wade.”

“Cram.”

Cram opened the door. Wade Larue slid into the back. Five minutes later they were on the West Side Highway heading toward the endgame.

chapter 41

Eric Wu watched the limousine pull up to the Lawson residence.

A large man who looked like anything but a chauffeur stepped out of the car, pulled his jacket together hard so he could work the button, and opened the back door. Grace Lawson stepped out. She headed for her front door without saying good-bye or looking behind her. The large man watched her pick up a package and go inside. Then he got back in the car and pulled out.

Wu wondered about him, the large man. Grace Lawson, he’d been told, might have protection now. She had been threatened. Her children had been threatened. The large chauffeur was not with the police. Wu was certain of that. But he was no simple driver either.

Best to be cautious.

Keeping a good distance away, Wu began to circle the perimeter. The day was clear, the foliage bursting with green. There were many places to hide. Wu did not have binoculars—it would have made the task easier—but that was not important. He spotted one man within minutes. The man was stationed behind the detached garage. Wu crept closer. The man was communicating with a cell-phone walkie-talkie. Wu listened. He only picked up snippets, but it was enough. There was someone in the house too. Probably another man on the perimeter, on the other side of the street.

This was not good.

Wu could still handle it. He knew that. But he would have to strike fast. He would first have to know the exact location of the other perimeter man. He would take one out with his hands and one with the gun. He would need to rush the house. It could be done. There would be lots of bodies. The man inside could be tipped off. But it could be done.

Wu checked his watch. Twenty minutes until three.

He started circling back toward the street when the back door of the Lawson home opened. Grace stepped out. She had a suitcase. Wu stopped and watched. She put the suitcase in the trunk. She went back inside. She came out with another suitcase and a package—the same one, he thought, that he’d seen her pick up at the front door.

Wu hurried back to the car he was using—ironically enough, her Ford Windstar, though he’d switched license plates at the Palisades Mall and slapped on some bumper stickers to draw attention away from that fact. People remembered bumper stickers more than license plates or even makes. There was one about him being a proud parent of an honor roll student. A second, for the New York Knicks, read ONE TEAM, ONE NEW YORK.

Grace Lawson got behind the wheel of her car and started it up. Good, Wu thought. It would be much easier to grab her wherever she stopped. His instructions were clear. Find out what she knows. Get rid of the body. He put the Windstar in gear but kept his foot on the brake. He wanted to see if anyone else followed. No one pulled out after her. Wu kept his distance.

There were no other tails.

The men had been ordered to protect the house, he guessed, not her. Wu wondered about the suitcases, about where she might be headed, about how long this journey might take. He was surprised when she started taking small side streets. He was even more surprised when she pulled to a stop near a schoolyard.

Of course. It was nearing three o’clock. She was picking up her children from school.

He thought again about the suitcases and what they might mean. Was her intention to pick up her children and take a trip? If that was the case, it might be someplace far away. It might be hours before she stopped.

Wu did not want to wait hours.

On the other hand she might head straight back home, back into the protection of the two men on the perimeter and the one in the house. That was not good either. He would have the old set of problems, plus, in either case, children would now be involved. Wu was neither bloodthirsty nor sentimental. He was pragmatic. Grabbing a woman whose husband had already run off may raise suspicions and even police involvement, but if you add dead bodies, possibly two dead children, the attention becomes nearly intolerable.

No, Wu realized. It would be best to grab Grace Lawson here and now. Before the children came out of the schoolyard.

That did not give him much time.

Mothers began to congregate and mingle, but Grace Lawson stayed in her car. She seemed to be reading something. The time was 2:50. That gave Wu ten minutes. Then he remembered the earlier threat. They had told her that they would take her children. If that was the case, it was entirely possible that there were men watching the school too.

He had to check fast.

It didn’t take long. The van was parked a block away, at the end of a cul-de-sac. So obvious. Wu considered the possibility that there was more than one. He did a quick scan and saw nothing. No time anyway. He had to strike. The school would be letting out in five minutes. Once the kids were present, it would complicate everything exponentially.

Wu had dark hair now. He put on gold-framed glasses. He had the loose-fitting casual clothes. He tried to make himself look timid as he was walked toward the van. He looked around as if lost. He moved straight to the back door and was about to open it when a bald man with a sweaty brow popped his head out.

“What do you want, pal?”

The man was dressed in a blue velour sweat suit. There was no shirt under the jacket, just mounds of chest hair. He was big and gruff. Wu reached out with his right hand and cupped the back of the man’s head. He snapped his arm forward and planted his left elbow deep in the man’s adam’s apple. The throat simply collapsed. The entire windpipe gave way like a brittle branch. The man went down, his body thrashing like a fish on the dock. Wu pushed him deeper into the van and slid inside.

There was the same cell-phone walkie-talkie, a pair of binoculars, a gun. Wu jammed the weapon into his waist. The man still thrashed. He would not live much longer.

Three minutes until the bell rang.

Wu locked the van’s door behind him and hurried out. He made it back to the street where Grace Lawson was parked. Mothers lined the fence in anticipation of school being let out. Grace Lawson was out of her car now, standing by herself. That was good.

Wu walked toward her.

• • •

On the other side of the schoolyard, Charlaine Swain was thinking about chain reactions and falling dominoes.

If she and Mike hadn’t had problems.

If she had not started up that perverted dance with Freddy Sykes.

If she had not looked out that window when Eric Wu was there.

If she had not opened the hide-a-key and called the police.

But right now, as she passed the playground, the dominoes were falling more in the present: If Mike had not woken up, if he had not insisted she take care of the children, if Perlmutter had not asked her about Jack Lawson, well, without all of that, Charlaine would not have been looking in Grace Lawson’s direction.

But Mike had insisted. He had reminded her that the children needed her. So here she was. Picking up Clay from school. And Perlmutter had indeed asked Charlaine if she knew Jack Lawson. So when Charlaine arrived at the schoolyard, it was natural, if not inevitable, that she would start scanning the grounds for the man’s wife.

That was how Charlaine came to be looking at Grace Lawson.

She had even been tempted to approach—hadn’t that been part of the reason she had agreed to pick up Clay in the first place?—but then she saw Grace pick up her cell phone and start talking into it. Charlaine decided to keep her distance.

“Hi, Charlaine.”

A woman, a popular yappy mom who had never deigned to give Charlaine the time before, now stood before her with a look of feigned concern. The newspaper had not mentioned Mike’s name, just that there was a shooting, but small towns and gossip and all that.

“I heard about Mike. Is he okay?”

“Fine.”

“What happened?”

Another woman sidled up to her right. Two others began to mosey over. Then two more. They came from every direction now, these approaching mothers, getting in her way, almost blocking Charlaine’s view.

Almost.

For a moment Charlaine could not move. She stood frozen, watching as he approached Grace Lawson.

He had changed his appearance. He wore glasses now. His hair wasn’t blond anymore. But there was no doubt. It was the same man.

It was Eric Wu.

From more than a hundred feet away Charlaine felt the shiver when Wu put his hand on Grace Lawson’s shoulder. She saw him bend down and whisper something into her ear.

And then she saw Grace Lawson’s whole body go rigid.

• • •

Grace wondered about the Asian man walking toward her.

She figured that he would just walk by her. He was too young to be a parent. Grace knew most of the teachers. He wasn’t one of them. He was probably a new student teacher. That was probably it. She really did not give him much thought. Her mind was concerned with other things.

She had packed enough clothes for a few days anyway. Grace had a cousin who lived near Penn State, smack in the middle of Pennsylvania. Maybe she would drive out there. Grace had not called ahead to see. She did not want to leave any trail.

After throwing clothes in the suitcases, she had closed the door to her bedroom. She took out the small gun Cram had given her and set it on the bed. For a long time she just stared at it. She had always been fervently anti-gun. Like most rational people she was scared of what a weapon like this could do lying around the house. But Cram had put it succinctly yesterday: Hadn’t her children been threatened?

The trump card.

Grace wrapped the nylon ankle holster around her good leg. It felt itchy and uncomfortable. She changed into jeans with a small flare at the bottom. The gun was covered now, but there was some room down there. There was still a small bulge in the area, but no more so than if she were wearing a boot.

She grabbed the Bob Dodd file from his office at the New Hampshire Post and drove to the school. She had a few minutes now, so she stayed in the car and started going through it. Grace had no idea what she expected to find. There were plenty of desk knickknacks—a small American flag, a Ziggy coffee mug, a return address stamper, a small Lucite paperweight. There were pens, pencils, erasers, paperclips, whiteout, thumbtacks, Post-it notes, staples.

Grace wanted to skip past that stuff and dive into the files, but the pickings were slim. Dodd must have done all his work on a computer. She found a few diskettes, all unmarked. Maybe there would be a clue on one of those. She’d check when she got access to a computer.

As for paperwork, all she found was press clippings. Articles written by Bob Dodd. Grace skimmed through them. Cora had been right. His stories were mostly small-time exposés. People would write in with a complaint. Bob Dodd would investigate. Hardly the sort of stuff that gets you killed, but who knows? The little things have a way of rippling.

She was just about to give up—had given up really—when she located the desk photo in the bottom. The frame was facedown. More out of curiosity than anything else she flipped the frame over and took a look. The photograph was a classic vacation shot. Bob Dodd and his wife Jillian stood on a beach, both smiling with dazzling white teeth, both wearing Hawaiian shirts. Jillian had red hair. Her eyes were widely spaced apart. Grace suddenly understood Bob Dodd’s involvement. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a reporter.

His wife, Jillian Dodd, was Sheila Lambert.

Grace closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she carefully put everything back in the package. She stuck it in the backseat and slipped out of the car. She needed time to think and put it together.

The four members of Allaw—it all came back to them. Sheila Lambert, Grace now knew, had stayed in the country. She had changed her identity and gotten married. Jack had taken off for a small village in France. Shane Alworth was either dead or in parts unknown—maybe, as his mother suggested, helping the poor in Mexico. Geri Duncan had been murdered.

Grace checked her watch. The bell would ring in a few minutes. She felt the buzz of her cell phone on her belt. “Hello?”

“Ms. Lawson, this is Captain Perlmutter.”

“Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

“I’m picking up my children at school right now.”

“Would you like me to come by your house? We can meet there.”

“They’ll be out in two more minutes. I’ll swing by the station.” A sense of relief rushed over her. This half-baked idea of running off to Pennsylvania—that might be too much. Maybe Perlmutter knew something. Maybe, with all she now knew about that picture, he would finally believe her. “Will that be okay?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll be here waiting.”

The very moment Grace snapped the receiver closed, she felt a hand touch down on her shoulder. She turned. The hand belonged to the young Asian man. He bent his head toward her ear.

“I have your husband,” he whispered.

chapter 42

“Charlaine? Are you okay?”

It was the popular yappy mother. Charlaine ignored her.

Okay, Charlaine, think.

What, she wondered, would the dumb heroine do? That was how she’d try to play it in the past—imagine what the waif would do and do the opposite.

C’mon, c’mon . . .

Charlaine tried to battle through the near-paralyzing fear. She had not expected to see this man ever again. Eric Wu was wanted. He had shot Mike. He had assaulted Freddy and held him captive. The police had his fingerprints. They knew who he was. They would send him back to prison. So what was he doing here?

Who cares, Charlaine? Do something.

The answer was a no-brainer: Call the police.

She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out her Motorola. The mothers were still barking like small dogs. Charlaine flipped the phone open.

It was dead.

Typical, and yet it made sense. She had used it during the chase. She had left it on all this time. The phone was two years old. The damn thing was always going dead. She glanced back across the schoolyard. Eric Wu was talking to Grace Lawson. They both began to walk away.

The same woman asked again: “Is something wrong, Charlaine?”

“I need to use your cell phone,” she said. “Now.”

• • •

Grace just stared at the man.

“If you come with me quietly, I will take you to your husband. You will see him. You will be back in an hour. But the school bell rings in one minute. If you do not come with me, I will take out a gun. I will shoot your children. I will shoot random children. Do you understand?”

Grace could not speak.

“You don’t have much time.”

She found her voice. “I’ll go with you.”

“You drive. Just walk calmly with me. Please do not make the mistake of trying to signal someone. I will kill them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You may be wondering about the man assigned to protect you,” he went on. “Let me assure you that he will not interfere.”

“Who are you?” Grace asked.

“The bell is about to ring.” He looked off, a tiny smile on his lips. “Do you want me to be here when your children come out?”

Scream, Grace thought. Scream like a lunatic and start running. But she could see the bulge of the gun. She could see the man’s eyes. This was no bluff. He meant it. He would kill people.

And he had her husband.

They began to walk to her car, side by side, like two friends. Grace’s eyes darted about the playground. She spotted Cora. Cora gave her a puzzled look. Grace did not want to risk it. She looked away.

Grace kept walking. They reached her car. She had just unlocked the doors when the school bell rang.

• • •

The yappy woman rummaged through her purse. “We have a terrible calling plan. Hal is so cheap sometimes. We run out of minutes in the first week and then we need to watch ourselves the rest of the month.”

Charlaine looked at the other faces. She did not want to cause a panic, so she kept her voice even. “Please, does anyone have a phone I can borrow?”

She kept her eyes on Wu and Lawson. They were across the street, by Grace’s car now. She saw Grace use one of those remote controls to unlock the doors. Grace stood by the driver’s door. Wu was by the passenger’s. Grace Lawson made no move to run away. It was hard to see her face, but she didn’t look as if she was being coerced.

The bell sounded.

The mothers all turned toward the doors, a Pavlovian response, and waited for their children to emerge.

“Here, Charlaine.”

One of the mothers, eyes on the school door, handed Charlaine her cell phone. Charlaine tried not to grab it too quickly. She was raising it to her ear when she glanced over at Grace and Wu one more time. She stopped cold.

Wu was staring directly at her.

• • •

When Wu saw that woman again, he started for his gun.

He was going to shoot her. Right here. Right now. Right in front of everyone.

Wu was not a superstitious man. He realized that the odds of her being here were reasonable. She had children. She lived in the area. There must have been two or three hundred mothers here. It would make sense that she would be one of them.

But he still wanted to kill her.

On the superstitious side, he would kill this demon.

On the practical side, he would prevent her from calling the police. He would also cause a panic that would allow him to escape. If he shot her, everyone would run toward the fallen woman. It would be the ideal diversion.

But there were problems too.

First, the woman stood at least a hundred feet away. Eric Wu knew his strengths and weaknesses. In hand-to-hand he had no equal. With a gun, he was merely decent. He might only wound or, worse, miss altogether. Yes, there would be a panic, but without a body falling, it might not be the sort of diversion he wanted.

His real target—the reason he was here—was Grace Lawson. He had her now. She was listening to him. She was pliable because she still held out hope that her family could survive this. If she were to see him fire a shot, standing as she was out of his reach, there was a chance that Grace Lawson would panic and bolt.

“Get in,” he said.

Grace Lawson opened her car door. Eric Wu stared at the woman across the schoolyard. When their eyes met, he slowly shook his head and gestured toward his waist. He wanted her to understand. She had crossed him before and he had fired. He would do so again.

He waited until the woman lowered the phone. Still keeping his eyes on her, Wu slid into the car. They pulled out and disappeared down Morningside Drive.

chapter 43

Perlmutter sat across from Scott Duncan. They were in the captain’s office at the station. The air-conditioning was on the fritz. Dozens of cops in full uniform all day and no air-conditioning—the place was starting to reek.

“So you’re on leave from the U.S. attorney’s office,” Perlmutter said.

“That’s correct,” Duncan replied. “I’m working in private practice right now.”

“I see. And your client hired Indira Khariwalla—check that, you hired Ms. Khariwalla on behalf of a client.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that.”

“And you won’t tell me if your client wanted Jack Lawson followed. Or why.”

“That’s correct.”

Perlmutter spread his hands. “So what exactly do you want, Mr. Duncan?”

“I want to know what you’ve learned about Jack Lawson’s disappearance.”

Perlmutter smiled. “Okay, let me make sure I have this straight. I’m supposed to tell you everything I know about a murder and missing person investigation, even though your client may very well be involved. You, in turn, are supposed to tell me squat. That about cover it?”

“No, that’s not correct.”

“Well, help me here.”

“This has nothing to do with a client.” Duncan crossed his ankle over his knee. “I have a personal involvement in the Lawson case.”

“Come again?”

“Ms. Lawson showed you the photograph.”

“Right, I remember.”

“The girl with her face crossed out,” he said, “was my sister.”

Perlmutter leaned back and whistled low. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d say I have all day, but that would be a lie.”

As if proving the point, the door flew open. Daley jammed his head in.

“Line two.”

“What is it?”

“Charlaine Swain. She says she just saw Eric Wu at the schoolyard.”

• • •

Carl Vespa stared at the painting.

Grace was the artist. He owned eight of her paintings, though this was the one that moved him most. It was, he suspected, a portrait of Ryan’s last moments. Grace’s memory of that night was hazy. She hated to sound pompous about it, but this vision—this seemingly ordinary painting of a young man somehow on the verge of a nightmare—had come to her in something of an artistic trance. Grace Lawson claimed that she dreamed about that night. That, she said, was the only place that the memories existed.

Vespa wondered.

His home was in Englewood, New Jersey. The block had at one time been old money. Now Eddie Murphy lived at the end of the street. A power forward for the New Jersey Nets was two houses down. Vespa’s property, once owned by a Vanderbilt, was sprawling and secluded. In 1988 Sharon, his then-wife, had torn down the turn-of-the-century stone edifice and built what was then considered modern. It had not aged well. The house looked like a bunch of glass cubes, stacked haphazardly. There were too many windows. The house got ridiculously hot in the summer. It looked and felt like a damn greenhouse.

Sharon was gone now too. She had not wanted the house in the divorce. She really did not want very much at all. Vespa did not try to stop her. Ryan had been their main connection, in his death more than life. That was never a healthy thing.

Vespa checked the security monitor for the driveway. The sedan was pulling up.

He and Sharon had wanted more children, but it was not to be. Vespa’s sperm count was too low. He told no one, of course, subtly implying that the fault lay with Sharon. Awful to say now, but Vespa believed that if they had more children, if Ryan had at least one sibling, it would have made the tragedy, if not easier, at least bearable. The problem with tragedy is that you have to go on. There is no choice. You cannot just pull off the road and wait it out—much as you might want to. If you have other children you understand that right away. Your life may be over, but you get out of bed for others.

Put simply, there was no reason for him to get out of bed anymore.

Vespa headed outside and watched the sedan come to a stop. Cram got out first, a cell phone glued to his ear. Wade Larue followed. Larue did not look frightened. He looked oddly at peace, gazing at the lush surroundings. Cram mumbled something to Larue—Vespa couldn’t hear what he said—and then started up the stairs. Wade Larue wandered away as if he was on retreat.

Cram said, “We got a problem.”

Vespa waited, following Wade Larue with his eyes.

“Richie is not answering his radio.”

“Where was he stationed?”

“In a van near the kids’ school.”

“Where is Grace?”

“We don’t know.”

Vespa looked at Cram.

“It was three o’clock. We knew she’d gone to pick up Emma and Max. Richie was supposed to tail her from there. She got to the school, we know that. Richie radioed that in. Since then, nothing.”

“Did you send someone over?”

“Simon went to check on the van.”

“And?”

“It’s still there. Parked in the same spot. But there are cops in the area now.”

“What about the kids?”

“We don’t know yet. Simon thinks he sees them in the schoolyard. But he doesn’t want to get too close with the cops around.”

Vespa closes his fists. “We have to find Grace.”

Cram said nothing.

“What?”

Cram shrugged. “I think you have it wrong, that’s all.”

Neither one of them said anything after that. They stood and watched Wade Larue. He strolled the grounds, cigarette in tow. From the top of the property there was a magnificent view of the George Washington Bridge and, behind it, the distant skyline of Manhattan. It had been there that Vespa and Cram had watched the smoke billow as if from Hades when the towers fell. Vespa had known Cram for thirty-eight years. Cram was the best with a gun or a knife Vespa had ever seen. He scared people with little more than a glance. The vilest men, the most violent psychotics, begged for mercy before Cram even touched them. But on that day, standing silently in the yard, watching the smoke not dissipate, Vespa had seen even Cram break down and cry.

They looked over at Wade Larue.

“Did you talk to him at all?” Vespa asked.

Cram shook his head. “Not a word.”

“He looks pretty calm.”

Cram said nothing. Vespa started toward Larue. Cram stayed where he was. Larue did not turn around. Vespa stopped about ten feet away and said, “You wanted to see me?”

Larue kept staring out at the bridge. “Beautiful view,” he said.

“You’re not here to admire it.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

Vespa waited. Wade Larue did not turn around. “You confessed.”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean it?” Vespa asked.

“At the time? No.”

“What does that mean, at the time?”

“You want to know if I fired those two shots that night.” Wade Larue finally turned and faced Vespa full. “Why?”

“I want to know if you killed my boy.”

“Either way I didn’t shoot him.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Vespa waited.

“Are you doing this for you? Or your son?”

Vespa thought about that. “It’s not for me.”

“Then your son?”

“He’s dead. It won’t do him any good.”

“Who then?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. If it’s not about you or your son, why do you still need revenge?”

“It needs to be done.”

Larue nodded.

“The world needs balance,” Vespa went on.

“Yin and yang?”

“Something like that. Eighteen people died. Someone has to pay.”

“Or the world is out of balance?”

“Yes.”

Larue took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Vespa. Vespa shook his head.

“Did you fire those shots that night?” Vespa asked.

“Yes.”

That was when Vespa exploded. His temper was like that. He went from zero to uncontrolled rage in a snap. There was an adrenaline rush, like a thermometer spiking up in a cartoon. He cocked his fist and smashed it into Larue’s face. Larue went down hard on his back. He sat up, put his hand to his nose. There was blood. Larue smiled at Vespa. “That give you balance?”

Vespa was breathing hard. “It’s a start.”

“Yin and yang,” Larue said. “I like that theory.” He wiped his face with his forearm. “Thing is, this universal balancing act—does it stretch across generations?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Larue smiled. There was blood on his teeth. “I think you know.”

“I’m going to kill you. You know that.”

“Because I did something bad? So I should pay a price?”

“Yes.”

Larue got to his feet. “But what about you, Mr. Vespa?”

Vespa tightened his fists, but the adrenaline rush was quieting.

“You’ve done bad. Did you pay the price?” Larue cocked his head. “Or did your son pay it for you?”

Vespa hit Larue deep in the gut. Larue folded. Vespa punched him in the head. Larue fell again. Vespa kicked him in the face. Larue was flat on his back now. Vespa took a step closer. Blood dripped out of Larue’s mouth, but the man still laughed. The only tears were on Vespa’s face, not Larue’s.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I was like you. I craved revenge.”

“For what?”

“For being in that cell.”

“That was your fault.”

Larue sat up. “Yes and no.”

Vespa took a step back. He looked behind him. Cram stood perfectly still and watched. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I’ll wait till you’re done beating me.”

“Tell me why you called.”

Wade Larue sat up, checked his mouth for blood. He seemed almost happy to see it. “I wanted vengeance. I can’t tell you how badly. But now, today, when I got out, when I was suddenly free . . . I don’t want that anymore. I spent fifteen years in prison. But my sentence is over. Your sentence, well, the truth is yours will never end, will it, Mr. Vespa?”

“What do you want?”

Larue stood. He walked over to Vespa. “You’re in such pain.” His voice was soft now, as intimate as a caress. “I want you to know everything, Mr. Vespa. I want you to learn the truth. This has to end. Today. One way or another. I want to live my life. I don’t want to look over my shoulder. So I’m going to tell you what I know. I’m going to tell you everything. And then you can decide what you need to do.”

“I thought you said you fired those shots.”

Larue ignored that. “Do you remember Lieutenant Gordon MacKenzie?”

The question surprised Vespa. “The security guard. Of course.”

“He visited me in prison.”

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

“Why?”

Larue smiled. “That balance thing again. Making things right. You call it yin and yang. MacKenzie called it God.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Gordon MacKenzie was dying.” Larue put his hand on Vespa’s shoulder. “So before he went, he needed to confess his sins.”

chapter 44

The gun was in Grace’s ankle holster.

She started up the car. The Asian man sat next to her. “Head up the road and turn left.”

Grace was scared, of course, but there was an odd calmness too. Something about being in the eye of the storm, she guessed. Something was happening. There was a potential to find answers here. She tried to prioritize.

First: Get him far away from the children.

That was the number one thing here. Emma and Max would be fine. The teachers stayed outside until all the children were picked up. When she didn’t show, they would give an impatient sigh and bring them to the office. That old battleaxe of a receptionist, Mrs. Dinsmont, would gleefully cluck her tongue about the neglectful mother and make the children wait. There had been an incident about six months ago when Grace got caught up by construction and arrived late. She’d been wracked with guilt, picturing Max waiting like a scene from Oliver Twist, but when she got there he was in the office coloring a picture of a dinosaur. He wanted to stay.

The school was out of sight now. “Turn right.”

Grace obeyed.

Her captor, if that’s what you wanted to call him, had said that he was taking her to Jack. She did not know if that was true or not, but she somehow suspected that it was. She was sure, of course, that he was not doing this out of the goodness of his heart. She had been warned. She had gotten too close. He was dangerous—she didn’t need to see the gun in his waistband to know that. There was a crackle around him, an electricity, and you knew, just knew, that this man always left devastation in his path.

But Grace desperately needed to see where this led. She had her gun in the ankle holster. If she stayed smart, if she was careful, she would have the element of surprise. That was something. So for now she would go along. There was really no alternative anyway.

She was worried about working the gun and the holster. Would the gun come out smoothly? Would the gun really just fire when she pulled the trigger? Did you really just aim and pull? And even if she could get the gun from the holster in time—something doubtful with the way this guy was watching her—what would she do? Point it at him and demand he take her to Jack?

She couldn’t imagine that working.

She couldn’t just shoot him either. Forget the ethical dilemma or the question of if she’d be brave enough to pull the trigger. He, this man, might be her only connection to Jack. If she killed him, where would that leave her? She’d have silenced her only solid clue, maybe her only chance, to find Jack.

Better to wait and play it out. As if she had a choice.

“Who are you?” Grace asked.

Total stone face. He took hold of her purse and emptied the contents into his lap. He went through it, sifting and tossing items into the backseat. He found her cell phone, removed the battery, threw it in the back.

She kept peppering him with questions—where is my husband, what do you want with us—but he continued to ignore her. When they reached a stoplight, the man did something that she did not expect.

He rested his hand on her bad knee.

“Your leg was damaged,” he said.

Grace was not sure how to respond to this. His touch was light, almost feathery. And then without warning his fingers dug down with steel talons. They actually burrowed beneath the kneecap. Grace buckled. The tips of the man’s fingers disappeared into the hollow where the knee meets the shinbone. The pain was so sudden, so enormous, that Grace could not even scream. She reached out and grabbed his fingers, tried to pry them out of her knee, but there was absolutely no give. His hand felt like a concrete block.

His voice was barely a whisper. “If I dig in a little more and then pull . . .”

Her head was swimming. She was close to losing consciousness.

“ . . . I could tear your kneecap right off.”

When the light turned green, he let go. Grace nearly collapsed in relief. The whole incident had probably taken less than five seconds. The man looked at her. There was the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

“I’d like you to stop talking now, okay?”

Grace nodded.

He faced forward. “Keep driving.”

• • •

Perlmutter called in the APB. Charlaine Swain had had the good sense to get both the make and license plate. The car was registered to Grace Lawson. No surprise there. Perlmutter was in an unmarked car now, heading toward the school. Scott Duncan was with him.

“So who is this Eric Wu?” Duncan asked.

Perlmutter debated what to tell him but saw no reason to hold this back. “To date we know he broke into a house, assaulted the owner in such a way as to leave him temporarily paralyzed, shot another man, and my guess is, he killed Rocky Conwell, the guy who was following Lawson.”

Duncan had no response.

Two other police cars were already on the scene. Perlmutter did not like that—marked cars at a school. They’d had the good sense, at least, to not use their sirens. That was something. The parents picking up offspring reacted in two ways. Some hurried their kids to their cars, hands on their shoulders, shielding them as though from gunfire. Others let curiosity rule the day. They walked over, oblivious or in a state of denial that there could be any danger in so innocent a setting.

Charlaine Swain was there. Perlmutter and Duncan hurried toward her. A young uniformed cop named Dempsey was asking her questions and taking notes. Perlmutter shooed him away and asked, “What happened?”

Charlaine told him about coming to school, keeping an eye out for Grace Lawson because of what he, Perlmutter, had said. She told him about seeing Eric Wu with Grace.

“There was no overt threat?” he asked.

Charlaine said, “No.”

“So she might have gone him with him voluntarily.”

Charlaine Swain flicked a glance at Scott Duncan, then back to Perlmutter. “No. She didn’t go voluntarily.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Grace came alone to pick up her kids,” Charlaine said.

“So?”

“So she wouldn’t just voluntarily leave them like that. Look, I couldn’t call you guys right away when I saw him. He was able to make me freeze from across a schoolyard.”

Perlmutter said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“If Wu could do that to me from that far away,” Charlaine said, “imagine what he’d be able to do to Grace Lawson when he was right next to her, whispering in her ear.”

Another uniformed officer named Jackson came sprinting over to Perlmutter. His eyes were wide and Perlmutter could see he was trying everything he could not to panic. The parents picked up on it too. They took a step away.

“We found something,” Jackson said.

“What?”

He leaned in closer so no one would overhear. “A van parked two blocks away. I think you should come see this.”

• • •

She should use the gun now.

Grace’s knee throbbed. It felt as if someone had set off a bomb inside the joint. Her eyes were wet from holding back tears. She wondered if she’d be able to walk when they stopped.

She sneaked glances at the man who had hurt her so. Whenever she did, he was watching her, that bemused look still on his face. She tried to think, tried to organize her thoughts, but she kept flashing back to his hand on her knee.

He had been so casual about causing her such pain. It would have been one thing if he’d been emotional about it, one way or the other, if he’d been moved to either ecstasy or revulsion, but there had been nothing there. Like hurting someone was paperwork. No strain, no sweat. His boast, if you want to call it that, had not been idle: If he’d so desired, he could have twisted off her kneecap like a bottle top.

They had crossed the state line and were in New York now. She was on Interstate 287 heading toward the Tappan Zee Bridge. Grace did not dare speak. Her mind, naturally enough, kept going back to the children. Emma and Max would have come out of the school by now. They would have looked for her. Would they have been brought to the office? Cora had seen Grace in the schoolyard. So had several other mothers, Grace was sure. Would they say or do something?

This was all irrelevant and, more than that, a waste of mental energy. Nothing she could do about it. Time to concentrate on the task at hand.

Think about the gun.

Grace tried to rehearse in her mind how it would go. She would reach down with both hands. She would pull her cuff up with her left and grab the weapon with her right. How was it strapped in? Grace tried to remember. There was a strip covering the top, wasn’t there? She had snapped it into place. It kept the gun secure, so it wouldn’t jerk around. She’d have to unsnap that. If she just tried to pull the gun free, it would get caught.

Okay, good. Remember that: Unsnap first. Then pull.

She thought about timing. The man was incredibly strong. She had seen that. He probably had a fair amount of experience with violence. She would have to wait for an opportunity. First—and this was obvious—she couldn’t be driving when she made her move. They would either need to be at a stoplight or parked or . . . or better, wait until they were getting out of the car. That might work.

Second, the man would have to be distracted. He watched her a lot. He was also armed. He had a weapon in his waistband. He would be able to draw it out far faster than she could. So she had to make sure that he was not looking at her—that his attention was, in some way, diverted.

“Take this exit.”

The sign read ARMONK. They had only been on 287 for maybe three or four miles. They were not going to be crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge. She had thought that perhaps the bridge would have provided another opportunity. There were tollbooths there. She could have tried to escape or somehow signal the toll worker, though she couldn’t imagine that working. Her captor would be watching her if they’d pulled up to the tollbooth. He would, she bet, have put his hand on her knee.

She veered to the right and up the ramp. She began to work it out in her head again. When you really thought about it, Grace’s best bet would be to wait until they reached their destination. For one thing, if indeed he really was taking her to Jack, well, Jack would be there, right? That made some sense.

But more than that, when they stopped the car, they would both have to get out. Obvious, yes, but it would provide an opportunity. He would get out on his side. She would get out on hers.

This could be her diversion.

Again she started rehearsing it in her head. She would open the car door. As she swung her legs out, she’d pull up the cuff. Her legs would be on the ground and blocked by the car. He wouldn’t see. If she timed it right, he would be getting out on his side of the car at the same time. He’d turn his back. She’d be able to pull out the weapon.

“Take the next right,” he said. “And then the second left.”

They were moving through a town Grace didn’t know. There were more trees here than in Kasselton. The houses looked older, more lived-in, more private.

“Pull into the driveway over there. Third on the left.”

Grace’s hands stayed tight on the wheel. She pulled into the driveway. He told her to stop in front of the house.

She took a breath and waited for him to open the door and get out.

• • •

Perlmutter had never seen anything like it.

The guy in the van, an overweight man with a standard issue mafiosa sweat suit, was dead. His last few moments had not been pleasant. The big man’s neck was, well, flat, totally flat, as if a steam-roller had somehow managed to roll over only the man’s throat, leaving his head and torso intact.

Daley, never one at a loss for words, said, “Serious grossness.” Then he added, “He looks familiar.”

“Richie Jovan,” Perlmutter said. “Works low level for Carl Vespa.”

“Vespa?” Daley repeated. “He’s involved in this?”

Perlmutter shrugged. “This has to be Wu’s handiwork.”

Scott Duncan was turning white. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s simple, Mr. Duncan.” Perlmutter turned to face him. “Rocky Conwell worked for Indira Khariwalla, a private investigator you hired. The same man—Eric Wu—murdered Conwell, killed this poor schmuck, and was last seen driving away from that school with Grace Lawson.” Perlmutter moved toward him. “You want to tell us what’s going on now?”

Another police car screeched to a stop. Veronique Baltrus came flying out. “Got it.”

“What?”

“Eric Wu at yenta-match.com. He was using the name Stephen Fleisher.” She sprinted over to them, the raven hair tied back in a tight bun. “Yenta-match sets up Jewish widows and widowers. Wu had three online flirtations going on at the same time. One woman is from Washington, DC. Another lives in Wheeling, West Virginia. And the last one, a Beatrice Smith, resides in Armonk, New York.”

Perlmutter broke into a run. No doubt, he thought. That was where Wu had gone. Scott Duncan followed. The ride to Armonk would take no more than twenty minutes.

“Call the Armonk Police Department,” he shouted to Baltrus. “Tell them to send every available unit right away.”

chapter 45

Grace waited for the man to get out.

The lot was wooded so that the house was hard to see from the road. There were cathedral points and lots of deck space. Grace could see an aging barbecue. There were a string of lights, the old lantern kind, but the lanterns were weathered and torn. There was a rusted swing set in the back, like ruins from another era. There had been parties here once. A family. People who liked to entertain friends. The house had the feel of a ghost town, as if you expected tumbleweeds to roll past.

“Turn off the ignition.”

Grace ran it over again. Open the door. Swing the legs out. Pull out the gun. Take aim . . .

And then what? Tell him to put his hands up? Just shoot him in the chest? What?

She flicked off the ignition and waited for him to get out first. He reached for the door handle. She readied herself. His eyes were on the front door of the house. She slid her hand down a little.

Should she go for it now?

No. Wait until he starts getting out. Don’t hesitate. Any hesitation and she would lose the edge.

The man stopped with his hand on the handle. Then he turned around, made a fist, and hit Grace so hard in the lower ribs she thought the whole cage would cave in like a bird’s nest. There was a thud and a crack.

Pain exploded across Grace’s side.

She thought that her whole body would simply give out. The man grabbed her head with one hand. With the other he traced his hand down the side of her rib cage. His index finger came to rest on the spot he’d just hit, at the bottom of the rib cage.

His voice was gentle. “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He nodded as if he’d expected that. His hand dropped off her. He opened the car door and got out. Grace was dizzy from the pain.

The gun, she thought. Get the goddamn gun!

But he was already on the other side of the car. He opened her door. His hand took hold of her neck, his thumb on one side, his index finger on the other. He squeezed the pressure points and started to lift. Grace tried to stay with him. The movement jarred her ribs. It felt like someone had jammed a screwdriver between two bones and was jerking it up and down.

He dragged her out by the neck. Every step was a new adventure in pain. She tried not to breathe. When she did, even that slight expansion of the ribs made the tendons feel like they were being freshly ripped. He yanked her toward the house. The front door was unlocked. He turned the knob, pushed it open, and tossed her inside. She fell hard, nearly passing out.

“Please tell me how you got that picture.”

He slowly moved toward her. Fear cleared her head. She talked fast.

“I picked up a packet of film at the Photomat,” she began.

He nodded in the way someone does when they are not listening. He kept coming closer. Grace kept talking and tried to scoot back. There was nothing on his face, a man going about a mundane task, planting seeds, hammering a nail, putting in a buy order, whittling wood.

He was on her now. She tried to struggle but he was ridiculously strong. He lifted her enough to flip her onto her stomach. The ribs banged against the floor. A different pain, a new pain, seared through her. Her vision started going hazy. They were still in the front foyer. He straddled her back. She tried to kick, but there was nothing behind it. He pinned her down.

Grace couldn’t move.

“Please tell me how you got that picture.”

She felt the tears coming, but she would not let herself cry. Stupid. Macho. But she would not cry. She said it again, about going to the Photomat, and getting that packet. Still straddling her back, his knees on the other side of her hips, he put his index finger on the damaged bottom of the rib cage. Grace tried to buck. He found the spot where it hurt the most and rested the tip of his finger right there. For a moment he did not do anything. She bucked more. She flung her head back and forth. She flailed. He just waited a second. Then another.

And then he jammed the finger between two broken ribs.

Grace screamed.

The voice unchanged: “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

Now she did cry. He let her. She started explaining again, changing her words, hoping it would sound more believable, more convincing. He did not say a word.

He rested the index finger on the damaged rib again.

That was when a cell phone rang.

The man sighed. He put his hands on her back and lifted himself off. The ribs screamed again. Grace heard a whimpering sound and realized that it was coming from her. She made herself stop. She managed to glance over her shoulder. He kept his eyes on her, took the phone from his pocket, snapped it open.

“Yes.”

One thought in her head: Go for the gun.

He stared down at her. She almost didn’t care. Going for the gun right now would be suicide, but her thoughts were base—escape the pain. Whatever the cost. Whatever the risk. Escape the pain.

The man kept the phone by his ear.

Emma and Max. Their faces floated toward her in something of a haze. Grace encouraged the vision. And something odd happened then.

Lying there, still on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the floor, Grace smiled. Actually smiled. Not from feelings of maternal warmth, though that might be part of it, but with specific memory.

When she was pregnant with Emma, she told Jack that she wanted to do natural childbirth and that she did not want to take any drugs. She and Jack dutifully attended Lamaze class every Monday night for three months. They practiced breathing techniques. Jack would sit behind her and rub her belly. He would go “hee hee hoo hoo.” She would copy him. Jack even bought a shirt that read “Coach” on the front and “Team Healthy Baby” on the back. He wore a whistle around his neck.

When the contractions began, they rushed to the hospital all prepared, all ready for their hard work to pay off dividends. Once there, Grace felt a stronger contraction. They started doing their breathing. Jack would go “hee hee hoo hoo.” Grace would follow suit. It worked wonderfully well right up until the very moment Grace started to, well, started to feel pain.

Then the insanity of their plan—when did “breathing” become a euphemism for “painkiller”?—became apparent. It washed away the macho idiocy of “taking the hurt,” a concept idiotically male in the first place, and reason, calm reason, finally came to her.

She reached out then, grabbed a part of Jack’s anatomy, pulled him close so he could hear her. She told him to find an anesthesiologist. Now. Jack said he would, the moment she released said anatomy. She obliged. He ran and found an anesthesiologist. But by then it was too late. The contractions were too far along.

And the reason Grace was smiling now, some eight years after the fact, was that the pain that day was at least this bad, probably worse. She had taken it. For her daughter. And then, miraculously, she had been willing to risk it again for Max.

So bring it on, she thought.

Maybe she was delirious. Nothing maybe about it. She was. But she didn’t care. The smile stayed in place. Grace could see Emma’s beautiful face. She saw Max’s face too. She blinked and they were gone. But that didn’t matter anymore. She looked at the cruel man on the phone.

Bring it on, you sick son of a bitch. Bring it on.

He finished with his phone call. He moved back toward her. She was still on her stomach. He straddled her again. Grace closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out of them. She waited.

The man took hold of both of her hands and pulled them behind her back. He wrapped duct tape around them and stood. He pulled her so that she was on her knees, her hands bound behind her back. The ribs ached but the pain was manageable for now.

She looked up at him.

He said, “Don’t move.”

He turned away and left her alone then. She listened. She heard a door open and then the sound of footsteps.

He was heading down into the basement.

She was alone.

Grace struggled to free her arms, but they were wrapped tightly. No way to reach the gun. She debated trying to stand and run, but that would be futile at best. The position of her arms, the searing pain in her ribs, and of course, the fact that she was a major gimp under the best of circumstances—add it up and it didn’t look like a sound alternative.

But could she slip her hands under herself?

If she could do that, if she could get her hands, even bound, to the front of her body, she could go for the gun.

It was a plan.

Grace had no idea how long he’d be gone—not long, she figured—but she had to chance it.

Her shoulders rolled back in their sockets. Her arms straightened. Every movement—every breath—set the ribs afire. She fought through it. She stood and bent at the waist. She forced her hands down.

Progress.

Still standing, she bent the knees and squirmed. She was getting close. Footsteps again.

Damn, he was heading back up the stairs.

She was caught in the middle, her bound hands under her buttocks.

Hurry, dammit. One way or the other. Put the hands back behind her or keep going.

She chose to keep going. Keep going forward.

This was going to end here and now.

The footsteps were slow. Heavier. It sounded like he was dragging something with him.

Grace pushed harder. Her hands were stuck. She bent more at the waist and knees. The pain made her head swim. She closed her eyes and swayed. She pulled up, willing to dislocate her shoulders if it would help her get through.

The footsteps stopped. A door closed. He was here.

She forced her arms through. It worked. They came out in front of her.

But it was too late. The man was back. He stood in the room, not five feet from her. He saw what she had done. But Grace did not notice that. She was, in fact, not looking at the man’s face at all. She stared openmouthed at the man’s right hand.

The man let go. And there, falling to the floor by his side, was Jack.

chapter 46

Grace dove toward him. “Jack? Jack?”

His eyes were closed. His hair was matted to his forehead. Her hands were still bound, but she was able to hold his face. Jack’s skin was clammy. His lips were dry and caked over. There was duct tape around his legs. A handcuff hung around his right wrist. She could see scabs on his left wrist. It had been cuffed too, for a long time judging by the marks.

She called his name again. Nothing. She lowered her ear to his mouth. He was breathing. She could see that. Shallow, but he was breathing. She shifted around and put his head in her lap. Her rib pain screamed but that was irrelevant now. He lay flat on his back, her lap his pillow. Her mind fell back to the grape groves in that vineyard in Saint-Emilion. They’d been together about three months by then, totally infatuated, jammed neatly in that sprint-across-the-park, thumping-of-the-heart-whenever-you-see-the-person stage. She packed some pâté, some cheese, wine of course. The day had been sun-kissed, the sky the kind of blue that made you believe in the angels. They’d lain down on a red tartan blanket, his head in her lap like this, she stroking his hair. She’d spent more time staring at him than the natural wonders that surrounded them. She’d traced his face with her fingers.

Grace made her voice soft, tried to ease up on the panic.

“Jack?”

His eyes fluttered open. His pupils were too large. It took him a moment to focus, and then he saw her. For a moment his caked lips cracked into a smile. Grace wondered if he too was flashing back to that same picnic. Her heart burst, but she managed to smile back. There was a serene moment, no more, and then reality flooded in. Jack’s eyes widened in panic. The smile vanished. His face crumbled into anguish.

“Oh God.”

“It’s okay,” she said, even though that was about as dumb a statement as one could make under the circumstances.

He was trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.”

Jack’s eyes searched like beacons, finding their captor. “She doesn’t know anything,” he said to the man. “Let her go.”

The man took a step closer. He bent down on his haunches. “If you speak again,” he said to Jack, “I will hurt her. Not you. Her. I will hurt her very badly. Do you understand?”

Jack closed his eyes and nodded.

He stood back up. He kicked Jack off her lap, grabbed Grace by the hair, and pulled her to a standing position. With his other hand he clutched Jack by the neck.

“We need to take a ride,” he said.

chapter 47

Perlmutter and Duncan had just gotten off the Garden State Parkway at Interstate 287, no more than five miles from the house in Armonk, when the call was radioed in:

“They were here—Lawson’s Saab is still in the driveway—but they’re gone now.”

“How about Beatrice Smith?”

“Nowhere in sight. We just got here. We’re still checking the residence.”

Perlmutter thought about it. “Wu would figure that Charlaine Swain would report seeing him. He’d know he had to get rid of the Saab. Do you know if Beatrice Smith had a car?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Is there any other car in the driveway or garage?”

“Hold on.” Perlmutter waited. Duncan looked at him. Ten seconds later: “No other car.”

“Then they took hers. Find out the make and license plate. Get an APB out right away.”

“Okay, got it. Wait, hold on a second, Captain.” He was gone again.

Scott Duncan said, “Your computer expert. She thought that Wu was maybe a serial killer.”

“She thought it was a possibility.”

“You don’t believe it though.”

Perlmutter shook his head. “He’s a pro. He doesn’t pick victims for jollies. Sykes lived alone. Beatrice Smith is a widow. Wu needs a place to stay and operate. This is how he finds those places.”

“So he’s a gun for hire.”

“Something like that.”

“Any thoughts on who he’s working for?”

Perlmutter held the wheel. He took the Armonk exit. They were only about a mile away now. “I was hoping you or your client might have an idea.”

The radio crackled. “Captain? You still there?”

“I am.”

“One car registered to Mrs. Beatrice Smith. A tan Land Rover. License plate 472-JXY.”

“Get an APB out on it. They can’t be far.”

chapter 48

The tan Land Rover stayed on side roads. Grace had no idea where they were headed. Jack was lying on the floor of the backseat. He had passed out. His legs were duct-taped together. His hands were cuffed behind him. Grace’s hands were still bound in front of her. Her captor, she figured, had seen no reason to make her put them back.

In the backseat Jack groaned like a wounded animal. Grace looked at their captor, his placid face, one hand on the wheel like a father taking the family out for a Sunday drive. She ached. Every breath was a reminder of what he’d done to her ribs. Her knee felt as if it’d been ripped apart by shrapnel.

“What did you do to him?” she asked.

She tensed, awaiting the blow. She almost didn’t care. She was beyond that. But the man did not lash out. He did not stay silent either. He pointed with his thumb toward Jack.

“Not as much,” he said, “as he did to you.”

She stiffened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Now, for the first time, she saw a genuine smile. “I think you know.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.

He still smiled, and maybe, somewhere deep inside of her, the gnawing started to grow. She tried to cast it off, tried to concentrate on getting out of this, on saving Jack. She asked, “Where are you taking us?”

He did not reply.

“I said—”

“You’re brave,” he interrupted.

She said nothing.

“Your husband loves you. You love him. It makes this easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

He glanced toward her. “You both may be willing to risk pain. But are you willing to let me hurt your husband?”

She did not reply.

“The same thing I said to him: If you talk again, I won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt him.”

The man was right. It worked. She kept silent. She gazed out the window and let the trees blur. They veered onto a two-lane highway. Grace had no idea where. The area was rural. She could see that. They took two more roads and now Grace knew where they were—the Palisades Parkway heading south, back down toward New Jersey.

The Glock was still in the ankle holster.

The feel of it was constant now. The weapon seemed to be calling to her, mocking her, so close and yet out of reach.

Grace would have to figure a way to get to it. There was no other choice. This man was going to kill them. She was sure of that. He wanted some information first—the origin of that photograph, for one thing—but once he had it, once he realized that she was telling the truth on that score, he would kill them both.

She had to go for the gun.

The man kept sneaking glances at her. There was no opening. She thought about it. Wait until he stopped the car? She had tried that before—it hadn’t worked. Just go for it? Just pull it out and take her chances? A possibility but she really did not think she’d be fast enough. Pulling up the leg cuff, unsnapping that safety strap, getting her hand around the gun, withdrawing it . . . all before he reacted?

No way.

She debated the slow approach. Lower her hands a little to the side. Try to work her cuff up a bit at a time. Pretend like she had an itch.

Grace shifted in her seat and looked down at her leg. And that was when she felt her heart slam into her throat. . . .

Her cuff had ridden up.

The ankle holster. It was visible now.

Panic spread through her. She cut a glance at her captor, hoping that he hadn’t seen it. But he had. His eyes suddenly widened. He was looking right at her leg.

Now or never.

But even as she reached, Grace could see that she had no chance. There was simply no way to get there in time. Her captor put his hand on her knee again and squeezed. Pain blasted violently through her, nearly knocking her unconscious. She screamed. Her body went rigid. Her hands dropped, useless now.

He had her.

She turned toward him, looked into his eyes, saw nothing. Then, without warning, there was movement coming from behind him. Grace gasped.

It was Jack.

Somehow he had risen up from the backseat like an apparition. The man turned, more curious than concerned. After all, Jack’s hands and legs were bound. He was totally spent. What harm could he do?

Wild-eyed and looking something like an animal, Jack reared back his head and whipped it forward. The surprise caught the man off guard. Jack’s forehead connected with the man’s right cheek. The sound was a deep, hollow clunk. The car shrieked to a stop. The man let go of Grace’s knee.

“Run, Grace!”

It was Jack’s voice. Grace fumbled for the gun. She unsnapped the safety strap. But the man was back up again. He used one hand to grab Jack’s neck. With the other he went after her knee again. She pulled away. He tried again.

Grace knew that there was no time to get the gun. Jack could no longer help. He had used up everything, sacrificed himself, for that one blow.

It would all be for nothing.

The man punched Grace in the ribs again. Hot knives blasted through her. Nausea swam through her stomach and head. She felt consciousness start ebbing away.

She couldn’t hang on. . . .

Jack tried to thrash away, but he was little more than a nuisance. The man squeezed Jack’s neck. Jack made a sound and went still.

The man reached for her again. Grace grabbed the door handle.

His hand clasped her arm.

She could not move.

Jack’s lifeless head slid down the man’s shoulder. It stopped on the forearm. And there, with his eyes closed, Jack opened his mouth and bit down hard.

The man howled and released his grip. He started shaking his arm, trying to get Jack off. Jack clenched his jaw and hung on like a bulldog. The man slammed his free palm into Jack’s head. Jack slumped off.

Grace pulled the door handle, leaned her body against it.

She fell out of the car and landed on the pavement. She rolled away, anything to get farther away from her captor. She actually rolled into the other lane of the highway. A car swerved past her.

Get the gun!

She reached down again. The safety strap was off. She turned toward the car. The man was getting out. He pulled up his shirt. Grace saw his gun. She saw him reaching for it. Grace’s own gun came loose.

There was no question now. There was no ethical dilemma. There was no thought about maybe yelling out a warning, telling him to freeze, asking him to put his hands on his head. There was no moral outrage. There was no culture, no humanity, no years of civilization or breeding.

Grace pulled the trigger. The gun went off. She pulled it again. And again. The man staggered. She pulled it again. The sound of sirens grew. And Grace fired again.

chapter 49

Two ambulances arrived. One whisked Jack away before Grace could even see him. Two paramedics worked on her. They were in constant motion, asking questions as they worked, but their words did not register. She was strapped to a stretcher and wheeled toward the ambulance. Perlmutter was there now.

“Where are Emma and Max?” she asked.

“At the station. They’re safe.”

An hour later Jack was in surgery. That was all they would tell her. He was in surgery.

The young doctor ran a battery of tests on Grace. The ribs were indeed cracked, but there was nothing you could really do for cracked ribs. The doctor wrapped them with an Ace bandage and gave her a shot. The pain began to subside. An orthopedic surgeon checked out her knee and just shook his head.

Perlmutter came into her room and asked a lot of questions. For the most part Grace answered. On some subjects she was intentionally vague. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep anything from the police. Or maybe, well, maybe she did.

Perlmutter was pretty vague too. Her dead captor’s name was Eric Wu. He had been in prison. In Walden. That did not surprise Grace. Wade Larue had been in Walden too. It was all linked. That old photograph. Jack’s group, Allaw. The Jimmy X Band. Wade Larue. And yes, even Eric Wu.

Perlmutter deflected most of her questions. She did not push it. Scott Duncan was in the room too. He stayed in the corner and did not speak.

Grace asked, “How did you know I was with this Eric Wu?”

Perlmutter clearly did not mind answering this one. “Do you know Charlaine Swain?”

“No.”

“Her son Clay goes to Willard.”

“Okay, right. I’ve met her.”

Perlmutter filled her in on Charlaine Swain’s own ordeal at the hands of Eric Wu. He was expansive on the subject, purposefully, Grace thought, so that he could keep mum about the rest of it. Perlmutter’s cell phone rang. He excused himself and headed into the corridor. Grace was alone with Scott Duncan.

“What are they thinking?” she asked.

Scott came closer. “The popular theory is that Eric Wu was working for Wade Larue.”

“How do they figure?”

“They know you went to Larue’s press conference today, so that’s link one. Wu and Larue were not only in Walden at the same time, but they were cellmates for three months.”

“Link two,” she said. “So what do they think Larue was after?”

“Revenge.”

“On?”

“On you, for starters. You testified against him.”

“I testified at his trial, but not really against him. I don’t even remember the stampede.”

“Still. There is a solid link between Eric Wu and Wade Larue—we checked the prison phone records, they’ve been in touch—and there is a solid link between Larue and you.”

“But even if Wade Larue was out for vengeance, why not take me? Why take Jack?”

“They think maybe Larue was trying to hurt you by hurting your family. Make you suffer.”

She shook her head. “And that weird photograph arriving? How do they figure that into the mix? Or your sister’s murder? Or Shane Alworth or Sheila Lambert? Or Bob Dodd getting killed in New Hampshire?”

“It is a theory,” Duncan said, “with lots of holes. But remember—and this plugs most of them—they don’t see all these connections the way we do. My sister may have been murdered fifteen years ago, but that doesn’t have anything to do with now. Neither does Bob Dodd, a reporter who was shot gangland style. For now they’re keeping it simple: Wu gets out of jail. He grabs your husband. Maybe he would have grabbed others, who knows?”

“And the reason he didn’t just kill Jack?”

“Wu was holding him until Wade Larue is released.”

“Which was today.”

“Right, today. Then Wu grabs you both. He was taking you to Larue when you escaped.”

“So Larue could, what, kill us himself?”

Duncan shrugged.

“That doesn’t make sense, Scott. Eric Wu broke my ribs because he wanted to know how I got that photograph. He stopped because he got an unexpected call. Then he suddenly packed us in that car. None of that was planned.”

“Perlmutter just learned all that. They may now alter their theory.”

“And where is Wade Larue anyway?”

“No one seems to know. They’re searching for him.”

Grace dropped back on her pillow. Her bones felt so damned heavy. The tears started flooding her eyes. “How bad is Jack?”

“Bad.”

“Is he going to live?”

“They don’t know.”

“Don’t let them lie to me.”

“I won’t, Grace. But try to get some sleep, okay?”

• • •

In the corridor Perlmutter spoke to the captain of the Armonk Police Department, Anthony Dellapelle. They were still combing through the home of Beatrice Smith.

“We just checked the basement,” Dellapelle said. “Someone was kept locked up down there.”

“Jack Lawson. We know that.”

Dellapelle paused and said, “Maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s still a set of handcuffs against a pipe.”

“Wu unlocked him. He probably left them there.”

“That could be. There’s also blood down there—not much of it, but it’s fairly fresh.”

“Lawson had some cuts on him.”

There was a pause.

“What’s going on?” Perlmutter asked.

“Where are you right now, Stu?”

“Valley Hospital.”

“How long would it take you to get here?”

“Fifteen minutes with the sirens,” Perlmutter said. “Why?”

“There’s something else down here,” Dellapelle said. “Something you might want to see for yourself.”

• • •

At midnight Grace pulled herself out of bed and started down the corridor. Her children had visited briefly. Grace insisted that they let her get out of bed for that. Scott Duncan bought her some regular clothes—an Adidas sweat suit—because she did not want to greet her children in a hospital gown. She took a major pain injection so as to quiet the screaming in her ribs. Grace wanted the children to see that she was all right, that she was safe, that they were safe. She put on a brave face that lasted right up until the moment she saw that Emma had brought her poetry journal. Then she started crying.

You can only be strong for so long.

The children were spending the night in their own beds. Cora would stay in the master bedroom. Cora’s daughter, Vickie, would sleep in the bed next to Emma. Perlmutter had assigned a female cop to stay the night too. Grace was grateful.

The hospital was dark now. Grace managed to stand upright. It took her forever. The hot scream was back in her ribs. Her knee felt more like shards of shattered glass than a joint.

The corridor was quiet. Grace had a specific destination in mind. Someone would try to stop her, she was sure, but that didn’t really concern her. She was determined.

“Grace?”

She turned toward the female voice, readying to do battle. But that wouldn’t be the case here. Grace recognized the woman from the playground. “You’re Charlaine Swain.”

The woman nodded. They moved toward each other, eyes locked, sharing something neither one of them could really articulate.

“I guess I owe you a thanks,” Grace said.

“Vice versa,” Charlaine said. “You killed him. The nightmare is over for us.”

“How is your husband?” Grace asked.

“He’s going to be fine.”

Grace nodded.

Charlaine said, “I hear yours isn’t doing well.” They were both beyond phony platitudes. Grace appreciated the honesty.

“He’s in a coma.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I’m going there now.”

“Sneaking in?”

“Yes.”

Charlaine nodded. “Let me help you.”

Grace leaned on Charlaine Swain. The woman was strong. The corridor was empty. In the distance they heard the sharp clack of heels on tile. The lights were low. They passed an empty nurse station and got into the elevator. Jack was on the third floor, in intensive care. Having Charlaine Swain with her felt oddly right to Grace. She could not say why.

This particular section of the intensive care unit had four rooms with glass walls. A nurse sat in the middle, thus able to monitor them all at once, but right now, only one room had a patient in it.

They both pulled up. Jack was in the bed. The first thing Grace noticed was that her powerful husband, the gruff six-two hunk who’d always made her feel safe, looked so small and fragile in that bed. She knew that it was her imagination. It had only been two days. He had lost some weight. He had been totally dehydrated. But that wasn’t what this was.

Jack’s eyes were closed. He had a tube coming out of his throat. There was another tube in his mouth. Both were taped with white adhesive. Yet another tube was in his nose. Still another in his right arm. There was an IV. There were machines surrounding him, straight out of some futuristic nightmare.

Grace felt herself starting to fall. Charlaine held her up. Grace steadied herself and moved toward the door.

The nurse said, “You can’t go in there.”

“She just wants to sit with him,” Charlaine said. “Please.”

The nurse glanced around then back at Grace. “Two minutes.”

Grace let go of Charlaine. Charlaine pushed opened the door for her. Grace went in alone. There were beeps and dings and a hellish sound like drops of water being sucked up a straw. Grace sat down next to the bed. She did not reach for Jack’s hand. She did not kiss Jack’s cheek.

“You’re going to love the last verse,” Grace said.

She opened Emma’s journal and started reading:

“Baseball, baseball,

Who’s your best friend?

Is it the bat,

Who hits your rear end?”

Grace laughed and turned the page, but the next page—in fact, the rest of the journal—was blank.

chapter 50

A few minutes before Wade Larue died, he thought he had finally found true peace.

He had let vengeance go. He no longer needed to know the full truth. He knew enough. He knew where he was to blame and where he was not. It was time to put it behind him.

Carl Vespa had no choice. He would never be able to recover. The same was true for that awful swirl of faces—that blur of grief—he had been forced to see in the courtroom and again today at the press conference. Wade had lost time. But time is relative. Death is not.

He had told Vespa all he knew. Vespa was a bad man, no doubt about it. The man was capable of unspeakable cruelty. Over the past fifteen years Wade Larue had met a lot of people like that, but few were that simple. With the exception of full-blown psychopaths, most people, even our most evil, have the ability to love someone, to care about them, to make connections. That was not inconsistent. That was simply human.

Larue spoke. Vespa listened. Sometime in the middle of his explanation, Cram appeared with a towel and ice. He handed it to Larue. Larue thanked him. He took the towel—the ice would be too bulky—and dabbed the blood off his face. Vespa’s blows no longer hurt. Larue had dealt with much worse over the years. When you’ve had enough of beatings, you go one way or the other—you fear them so much that you will do anything to avoid them, or you just ride them out and realize that this too shall pass. Somewhere during his incarceration Larue had joined that second camp.

Carl Vespa did not say a word. He did not interrupt or ask for clarification. When Larue finished Vespa stood there, his face unchanged, waiting for more. There was nothing. Without a word Vespa turned and left. He nodded at Cram. Cram started toward him. Larue lifted his head. He would not run. He was through with running.

“Come on, let’s go,” Cram said.

Cram dropped him off in the center of Manhattan. Larue debated calling Eric Wu, but he knew that would be pointless at this stage. He started toward the Port Authority bus terminal. He was ready now for the rest of his life to begin. He was going to head to Portland, Oregon. He wasn’t sure why. He had read about Portland in prison and it seemed to fit the bill. He wanted a big city with a liberal feel. From what he’d read, Portland sounded like a hippy commune that had turned into a major metropolis. He might get a fair shake out there.

He would have to change his name. Grow a beard. Dye his hair. He didn’t think it would take that much to change him, to help him escape the past fifteen years. Naïve to think it, yes, but Wade Larue still thought that an acting career was a possibility. He still had the chops. He still had the supernatural charisma. So why not give it a go? If not, he’d get a regular job. He wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. He’d be in a big city again. He’d be free.

But Wade Larue didn’t go to the Port Authority bus station.

The past still had too strong a pull. He couldn’t go quite yet. He stopped a block away. He saw the buses churning out to the viaduct. He watched for a moment and then turned to the row of pay phones.

He had to make one last phone call. He had to know one last truth.

Now, an hour later, the barrel of a gun was pressed against that soft hollow under his ear. It was funny what you thought of a moment before death. The soft hollow—that was one of Eric Wu’s favorite pressure-point spots. Wu had explained to him that knowing the location was fairly meaningless. You could not just stick your finger in there and push. That might hurt, but it would never incapacitate an opponent.

That was it. That pitiful thought, beyond pitiful, was Wade Larue’s last before the bullet entered his brain and ended his life.

chapter 51

Dellapelle led Perlmutter into the basement. There was enough light, but Dellapelle still used the flashlight. He pointed it at the floor.

“There.”

Perlmutter stared down at the concrete and felt a fresh chill.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dellapelle asked him.

“That maybe”—Perlmutter stopped, trying to figure this into the equation—“that maybe Jack Lawson wasn’t the only one being held down here.”

Dellapelle nodded. “So where is the other guy?”

Perlmutter did not say anything. He just stared at the floor. Someone had indeed been held down. Someone who found a pebble and scratched two words into the floor, all in caps. A name actually, another person from that strange photograph, a name he’d just heard from Grace Lawson:

“SHANE ALWORTH.”

• • •

Charlaine Swain stayed to help Grace back to her room. Their silence was comfortable. Grace wondered about that. She wondered about a lot of things. She wondered why Jack had run away all those years ago. She wondered why he’d never touched that trust fund, why he let his sister and father control his percentage. She wondered why he’d run away not long after the Boston Massacre. She wondered about Geri Duncan and why she ended up dead two months later. And she wondered, perhaps most of all, if meeting Jack in France that day, if falling in love with him, had been more than just a coincidence.

She no longer wondered if it was all connected. She knew that it was. When they reached Grace’s room, Charlaine helped her get back into bed. She turned to go.

“Do you want to stay a few minutes?” Grace asked.

Charlaine nodded. “I’d like that.”

They talked. They started with what they had in common—children—but it was clear neither one of them wanted to stay on the subject long. An hour passed in a moment. Grace was not sure what they’d even discussed exactly. Just that she was grateful.

At nearly two in the morning the hospital phone next to Grace rang. For a moment they both just stared at it. Then Grace reached over and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“I got your message. About Allaw and Still Night.”

She recognized the voice. It was Jimmy X.

“Where are you?”

“In the hospital. I’m downstairs. They won’t let me up.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

• • •

The hospital lobby was quiet.

Grace was not sure how to handle this. Jimmy X sat with his forearms resting against his thighs. He didn’t look up as she hobbled toward him. The receptionist read a magazine. The security guard whistled softly. Grace wondered if the guard would be able to protect her. She suddenly missed that gun.

She stopped in front of Jimmy X, stood over him, and waited. He looked up. Their eyes met and Grace knew. She didn’t know the details. She barely knew the outline. But she knew.

His voice was almost a plea. “How did you learn about Allaw?”

“My husband.”

Jimmy looked confused.

“My husband is Jack Lawson.”

His jaw dropped. “John?”

“That’s what he went by back then, I guess. He’s upstairs right now. He may very well die.”

“Oh God.” Jimmy buried his face in his hands.

Grace said, “You know what always bothered me?”

He did not reply.

“Your running away. It doesn’t happen very much—a rock star just giving up like that. There are rumors about Elvis or Jim Morrison, but that’s because they’re dead. There was that movie, Eddie and the Cruisers, but that was a movie. In reality, well, like I said before, the Who didn’t run away after Cincinnati. The Stones didn’t after Altamont Speedway. So why, Jimmy? Why did you run?”

He kept his head low.

“I know about the Allaw connection. It’s just a matter of time before someone puts it together.”

She waited. He dropped his hands away from his face and rubbed them together. He looked toward the security guard. Grace almost took a step back, but she held her ground.

“Do you know why rock concerts used to always start so late?” Jimmy asked.

The question threw her. “What?”

“I said . . .”

“I heard what you said. No, I don’t know why.”

“It’s because we’re so wasted—drunk, stoned, whatever—that our handlers need time to get us sobered up enough to perform.”

“Your point being?”

“That night I nearly passed out from cocaine and alcohol.” His gaze drifted off then, his eyes red. “That’s why there was such a long delay. That was why the crowd got so impatient. If I had been sober, if I had taken the stage on time . . .” He let his voice drift off with a “who knows” shrug.

She didn’t want excuses anymore. “Tell me about Allaw.”

“I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “John Lawson is your husband? How the hell did that happen?”

She didn’t have an answer. She wondered if she ever would. The heart, she knew, was strange terrain. Could that have been part of the initial attraction, something subconscious, a knowing that they had both survived that terrible night? She flashed back to meeting Jack on that beach. Had it been fate, preordained—or planned? Did Jack want to meet the woman who had come to embody the Boston Massacre?

“Was my husband at the concert that night?” she asked.

“What, you don’t know?”

“We can play this two ways, Jimmy. One, I can pretend I know everything and just want confirmation. But I don’t. I may never know the truth, if you don’t tell me. You may be able to keep your secret. But I’ll keep looking. So will Carl Vespa and the Garrisons and the Reeds and the Weiders.”

He looked up, his face so like a child’s.

“But two—and I think this is more important—you can’t live with yourself anymore. You came to my house needing absolution. You know it’s time.”

He lowered his head. Grace heard the sobs. They wracked his body. Grace did not say a word. She did not put a hand on his shoulder. The security guard glanced over. The receptionist looked up from her magazine. But that was all. This was a hospital. Adults weeping were hardly foreign in this environment. They both looked away. A minute later Jimmy’s sobs started to quiet. His shoulders no longer shook.

“We met at a gig in Manchester,” Jimmy said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I was with a group called Still Night. There were four bands on the roster. One of them was Allaw. That’s how I met your husband. We hung out backstage, getting stoned. He was charming and all, but you have to understand. For me the music was everything. I wanted to make Born to Run, you know. I wanted to change the landscape of music. I ate, slept, dreamed, shat music. Lawson didn’t take it too seriously. The band was fun, that’s all. They had some decent songs, but the vocals and arrangement were totally amateur. Lawson didn’t have any grand illusions about making it big or anything.”

The security guard was whistling again. The receptionist had her nose back in the magazine. A car drove up to the entrance. The guard headed outside and pointed toward the ER.

“Allaw broke up a few months later, I think. So did Still Night. But Lawson and I stayed in touch. When I started up the Jimmy X Band, I almost thought of asking him to join.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think he was that good a musician.”

Jimmy stood so suddenly that he startled Grace. She took a step back. She kept her eyes on him, still searching to make eye contact, as if that alone could keep him in place.

“Yeah, your husband was at the concert that night. I got him five tickets in the front pit. He brought some of his old band members with him. He even brought a couple backstage.”

He stopped then. They stood there. He looked off and for a moment Grace feared that she was losing him.

“Do you remember who they were?” she asked.

“The old band members?”

“Yes.”

“Two girls. One had this bright red hair.”

Sheila Lambert. “Was the other girl Geri Duncan?”

“I never knew her name.”

“How about Shane Alworth? Was he there?”

“Was that the guy on keyboard?”

“Yes.”

“Not backstage. I only saw Lawson and the two girls.”

He shut his eyes.

“What happened, Jimmy?”

His face sagged and he suddenly looked older. “I was pretty wasted. I could hear the crowd. Twenty thousand strong. They would chant my name. They would clap. Anything to get the concert started. But I could barely move. My manager came in. I told him I’d need more time. He left. I was alone. And then Lawson and those two chicks came into the room.”

Jimmy blinked and looked at Grace. “Is there a cafeteria in this place?”

“It’s closed.”

“I could use a cup of coffee.”

“Tough.”

Jimmy started pacing.

Grace asked, “What happened after they came in the room?”

“I don’t know how they got backstage. I never gave them passes. But all of a sudden Lawson comes up to me and is all ‘hey how’s it going?’ I was happy to see him, I guess. But then, I don’t know, something went really wrong.”

“What?”

“Lawson. He went crazy. I don’t know, he must have been higher than I was. He started pushing me, making threats. He shouted that I was a thief.”

“A thief?”

Jimmy nodded. “It was all nonsense. He said . . .” He finally stayed still and met her eyes. “He said I stole his song.”

“What song?”

“ ‘Pale Ink.’ ”

Grace could not move. The tremor started moving down her left side. There was a flutter in her chest.

“Lawson and that other guy, Alworth, wrote this song for Allaw called ‘Invisible Ink.’ That was pretty much the only similarity between the songs. That part of the title. You know the lyrics to ‘Pale Ink,’ right?”

She nodded. She didn’t even try to speak.

“ ‘Invisible Ink’ had a similar theme, I guess. Both about how fragile memory can be. But that was it. I told John that. But he was just out of his mind. Whatever I said just pissed him off more. He kept pushing me. One of the girls, she had this really dark hair, was egging him on too. She started saying they’d break my legs or something. I called for help. Lawson punched me. You remember the reports that I was injured in the melee?”

She nodded again.

“I wasn’t. It was your husband. He hit my jaw, and then he jumped me. I tried to push him off. He started shouting how he was going to kill me. It was, I don’t know, the whole thing was surreal. He said he was going to cut me up.”

The flutter expanded and grew cold. Grace was holding her breath. This couldn’t be. Please, this just couldn’t be.

“By now it was just so out of hand, one of the girls, the redhead, told him to calm down. It’s not worth it, she said. She pleaded with him to forget it. But he wasn’t listening. He just smiled at me and then . . . then he took out a knife.”

Grace shook her head.

“He said he was going to stab me in the heart. You remember how I said I was stoned out of my mind? Well, that sobered me up. You want to sober someone up? Threaten to stick a knife in their chest.” He went quiet again.

“What did you do?”

Had she spoken? Grace wasn’t sure. The voice sounded like hers, but it seemed as though it’d come from someplace else, someplace tinny and distant.

Jimmy’s face, lost in the memory, went slack. “I wasn’t going to just let him stab me. So I jumped him. He dropped the knife. We started wrestling. The girls were screaming now. They came over and tried to pull us apart. And then, when we were on the floor like that, I heard a gunshot.”

Grace was still shaking her head. Not Jack. Jack wasn’t there that night, no way, no chance at all. . . .

“It was so loud, you know. Like the gun was behind my ear or something. All hell broke loose then. There were screams. And then there were two, maybe three more shots. Not in the room. They were from far away. I heard more screams. Lawson stopped moving. There was blood on the floor. He’d been hit in the back. I pushed him off and then I saw that security guard, Gordon MacKenzie, still pointing his gun.”

Grace closed her eyes. “Wait a second. Are you telling me Gordon MacKenzie fired the first shot?”

Jimmy nodded. “He heard the commotion, heard me calling for help and . . .” Again his voice trailed off. “We just stared at each other for a second. The girls were screaming, but by now they were being drowned out by the crowd. That sound, I don’t know, people talk about the most terrible sound, like maybe it’s a wounded animal, but I’ve never heard anything that comes close to the sound of fear and panic. But you know that.”

She didn’t. The head trauma had wiped out the memory. But she nodded so that he’d keep talking.

“Anyway, MacKenzie stood there for a second, stunned. And then he just ran. The two girls grabbed Lawson and started dragging him out.” He shrugged. “You know the rest, Grace.”

She tried to take it all in. She tried to understand the implications, tried to fit it into her own reality. She had been standing yards away from all this, the other side of the stage. Jack. Her husband. He’d been right there. How could that be?

“No,” she said.

“No what?”

“No, I don’t know the rest, Jimmy.”

He said nothing.

“The story didn’t end there. Allaw had four members. I’ve been checking out the time line. Two months after the stampede someone hired a hit man to kill one of the members, Geri Duncan. My husband, the one who you say attacked you, ran overseas, shaved his beard, and started going by Jack. According to Shane Alworth’s mother, he’s overseas too, but I think she’s lying about that. Sheila Lambert, the redhead, changed her name. Her husband was recently murdered and she disappeared again.”

Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any of that.”

“You think it’s all just a big coincidence?”

“No, I guess not,” Jimmy said. “Maybe they were scared of what would happen if the truth came out. You remember what it was like those first few months—everyone wanting blood. They could have gone to jail, maybe worse.”

Grace shook her head. “And what about you, Jimmy?”

“What about me?”

“Why did you keep this secret all these years?”

He said nothing.

“If what you just told me is true, you didn’t do anything wrong. You were the one attacked. Why didn’t you just tell the police what happened?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “This was bigger than me. Gordon MacKenzie was part of it, too. He came out the hero, remember? If the world ever learned that he fired that first shot, what do you think would have happened to him?”

“Are you saying you lied all these years to protect Gordon MacKenzie?”

He didn’t reply.

“Why, Jimmy? Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you run away?”

His eyes started shifting. “Look, I told you everything I know. I’m going home now.”

Grace moved closer. “You did steal that song, didn’t you?”

“What? No.”

But she saw it now. “That was why you felt responsible. You stole that song. If you hadn’t, none of this would have happened.”

He just kept shaking his head. “That’s not it.”

“That’s why you ran away. It wasn’t just that you were stoned. You stole the song that made you. That was where it all started. You heard Allaw play in Manchester. You liked their song. You stole it.”

He shook his head, but there was nothing behind it. “There were similarities. . . .”

And another thought struck her with a deep, hard pang: “How far would you go to keep your secret, Jimmy?”

He looked at her.

“ ‘Pale Ink’ became even bigger after the stampede. That album ended up selling millions. Who has that money?”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong, Grace.”

“Did you already know I was married to Jack Lawson?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Is that why you came by my house that night? Were you trying to figure out what I knew?”

He kept shaking his head, tears on his cheeks. “That’s not true. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“Who killed Geri Duncan?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Was she going to talk? Is that what happened? And then, fifteen years later, someone goes after Sheila Lambert aka Jillian Dodd, but her husband gets in the way. Was she going to talk, Jimmy? Did she know you were back?”

“I have to go.”

She stepped in his path. “You can’t run away again. There’s been too much of that.”

“I know,” he said, his voice a plea. “I know that better than anyone.”

He pushed past her and ran outside. Grace was tempted to yell, “Stop! Grab him!” but she doubted the whistling guard would be able to do much. Jimmy was already outside, almost out of sight. She limped after him.

Gunshots—three of them—shattered the night. There was the squeal of tires. The receptionist dropped her magazine and picked up the phone. The security guard stopped whistling and sprinted toward the door. Grace hurried behind him.

When Grace got outside, she saw a car shoot down the exit ramp and disappear into the night. Grace had not seen who was in the car. But she thought she knew. The security guard bent down over the body. Two doctors ran out, nearly knocking Grace down. But it was too late.

Fifteen years after the stampede began, the Boston Massacre claimed its most elusive victim.

chapter 52

Maybe, Grace thought, we are not supposed to know the entire truth. And maybe the truth does not matter.

There were plenty of questions in the end. Grace thought that she would never know all the answers. Too many of the players were dead now.

Jimmy X, real name James Xavier Farmington, died from three gunshot wounds to the chest.

Wade Larue’s body was found near the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City less than twenty-four hours after his release. He’d been shot in the head at point-blank range. There was only one significant clue: A reporter for the New York Daily News managed to follow Wade Larue after he left the press conference at the Crowne Plaza. According to the reporter, Larue got into a black sedan with a man fitting Cram’s description. That was the last time anyone saw Larue alive.

No arrests have been made, but the answer seemed clear.

Grace tried to understand what Carl Vespa had done. Fifteen years had passed, and his son was still dead. Weird to put it that way, but maybe it was apropos. For Vespa, nothing had changed. Time had not been enough.

Captain Perlmutter would try to make a case against him. But Vespa was pretty good about covering his tracks.

Both Perlmutter and Duncan came to the hospital after Jimmy was killed. Grace told them everything. There was nothing to hide anymore. Perlmutter mentioned almost in passing that the words Shane Alworth had been scratched into the concrete floor.

“So what does that mean?” Grace asked.

“We’re checking the physical evidence, but maybe your husband wasn’t alone in that basement.”

It made sense, Grace guessed. Fifteen years later they were all coming back. Everyone in that photograph.

At four in the morning Grace was back in her hospital bed. Her room was dark when the door opened. A silhouette slid in quietly. He thought that she was asleep. For a moment Grace didn’t say anything. She waited until he was in the chair again, just like fifteen years ago, before she said, “Hello, Carl.”

“How are you feeling?” Vespa asked.

“Did you kill Jimmy X?”

There was a long pause. The shadow did not move. “What happened that night,” he said at last. “It was his fault.”

“It’s hard to know.”

Vespa’s face was no more than a shadow. “You see too many shades of gray.”

Grace tried to sit up, but her rib cage would not cooperate. “How did you find out about Jimmy?”

“From Wade Larue,” he said.

“You killed him too.”

“Do you want to make accusations, Grace, or do you want to know the truth?”

She wanted to ask if that was all he wanted, the truth, but she knew the answer. The truth would never be enough. Vengeance and justice would never be enough.

“Wade Larue reached out to me the day before he was released,” Vespa said. “He asked if we could talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“He wouldn’t say. I had Cram pick him up in the city. He came out to my house. He started in with some touchy-feely crap about understanding my pain. He said he was suddenly all at peace with himself, that he didn’t want vengeance anymore. I didn’t want to hear any of that. I wanted him to get to the point.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” The shadow was still again. Grace debated reaching for the light switch and decided against it. “He told me that Gordon MacKenzie had visited him in the hospital three months ago. Do you know why?”

Grace nodded, seeing it now. “MacKenzie had terminal cancer.”

“Right. He was still hoping to buy a last-minute ticket to the Promised Land. All of a sudden he can’t live with what he’s done.” Vespa cocked his head and smiled. “Amazing how that happens right before you’re going to die anyway, isn’t it? Ironic timing when you think about it. He confesses when there is no personal cost, and hey, if you buy into that confess-and-forgive nonsense, there could be a big upside.”

Grace knew not to comment. She stayed still.

“Anyway, Gordon MacKenzie took the blame. He was working the backstage entrance. He let some pretty young thing distract him. He said that Lawson and two girls sneaked past him. You know all this, don’t you?”

“Some of it.”

“You know that MacKenzie shot your husband?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s what started the riot. MacKenzie met up with Jimmy X after the whole thing went down. They both agreed to keep it quiet. They worried a little about Jack’s injury or if those girls were going to come forward, but hey, those three had plenty to lose too.”

“So everyone just kept quiet.”

“Pretty much. MacKenzie became a hero. He got a job with the Boston police from that. He rose to captain. All off his heroics from that night.”

“So what did Larue do after MacKenzie confessed all this?”

“What do you think? He wanted the truth to come out. He wanted vengeance and exoneration.”

“So why didn’t Larue tell anyone?”

“Oh, he did.” Vespa smiled. “Three guesses who.”

Grace saw it. “He told his lawyer.”

Vespa spread his hands. “Give the lady a kewpie doll.”

“But how did Sandra Koval convince him to keep quiet?”

“Oh, this part is brilliant. Somehow—and let’s give the lady credit—she did what was best for her client and her brother.”

“How?”

“She told Larue that he’d have a better chance of getting out on parole if he didn’t tell the truth.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t know much about parole, do you?”

She shrugged.

“You see, the parole board doesn’t want to hear that you’re innocent. They want to hear your mea culpas. If you want to get out, you have to hang your head in shame. You did wrong, you tell them. You’ve accepted blame—that’s the first step toward rehabilitation. If you keep insisting you’re innocent, you’re not going to get better.”

“Couldn’t MacKenzie testify?”

“He was too ill by then. You see, Larue’s innocence wasn’t the parole board’s concern. If Larue wanted to take that route, he’d have to request a new trial. It would take months, maybe years. According to Sandra Koval—and she was telling the truth here—Larue’s best chance of getting out was to admit his guilt.”

“And she was right,” Grace said.

“Yes.”

“And Larue never knew that Sandra and Jack were brother and sister?”

Again Vespa spread his hands. “How would he?”

Grace shook her head.

“But, you see, it’s not over for Wade Larue. He still wants vengeance and exoneration. He just knows he’ll have to wait until he’s out of jail. The question is, how? He knows the truth, but how will he prove it? Who will, pardon the expression, feel his wrath? Who is really to blame for what happened that night?”

Grace nodded as something else fell into place. “So he went after Jack.”

“The one who pulled the knife, yep. So Larue got his old prison buddy Eric Wu to grab your husband. Larue’s plan was to hook up with Wu the moment he got released. He’d make Jack tell the truth, film it, and then, he wasn’t sure, but probably kill him.”

“Find exoneration and then commit murder?”

Vespa shrugged. “He was angry, Grace. He might have ended up just beating him up or breaking his legs. Who knows?”

“So what happened?”

“Wade Larue had a change of heart.”

Grace frowned.

“You should have heard him talk about it. His eyes were so clear. I’d just punched him in the face. I’d kicked him and threatened his life. But the peace on his face . . . it just stayed there. The moment Larue was free, he realized that he would be able to get past it.”

“What do you mean, past it?”

“Exactly that. His punishment was in the past. He could never really be exonerated because he wasn’t blameless. He fired shots in the middle of the crowd. That raised the hysteria level. But more than that, it was like he told me: He was truly free. Nothing was left to tie him to the past. He was no longer in prison, but my son would always be dead. You see?”

“I think so.”

“Larue just wanted to live his life. He was also afraid of what I’d do to him. So he wanted to trade. He told me the truth. He gave me Wu’s number. And in exchange, I’d leave him alone.”

“So it was you who called Wu?”

“Actually Larue made the call. But yes, I spoke to him.”

“And you told Wu to bring us to you?”

“I didn’t realize you were there. I thought it was just Jack.”

“What was your plan, Carl?”

He said nothing.

“Would you have killed Jack too?”

“Does it matter anymore?”

“And what would you have done with me?”

He took his time. “There were things that made me wonder,” he said.

“About?”

“About you.”

Seconds passed. There were footsteps in the corridor. A stretcher with a squeaky wheel rolled past the door. Grace listened to the sound recede. She tried to slow her breath.

“Here you were nearly killed in the Boston Massacre—yet you end up marrying the man responsible for it all. I also know that Jimmy X came to visit your house after we saw him at that rehearsal. You never told me about that. And then there’s the fact that you remember so little of what happened. Not just that night, but for almost a week before.”

She tried to keep her breaths even. “You thought—”

“I didn’t know what to think. But now maybe I do. I think your husband is a good man who made a terrible mistake. I think he ran away after the stampede. I think he felt guilty. That was why he wanted to meet you. He saw the press reports and wanted to know you were okay. Maybe he even planned on apologizing. So he found you on the beach in France. And then he fell in love with you.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back.

“It’s over now, Grace.”

They sat in silence. There was nothing else to say. A few minutes later Vespa stole out, silent as the night.

chapter 53

But it wasn’t over.

Four days passed. Grace got better. She went home that first afternoon. Cora and Vickie stayed with them. Cram came by that first day too, but Grace asked him to leave. He nodded and complied.

The media went crazy, of course. They only knew bits and pieces, but the fact that the notorious Jimmy X had resurfaced only to be murdered had been enough to send them into a total state of derangement. Perlmutter set up a patrol car in front of Grace’s house. Emma and Max still went to school. Grace spent most of her days in the hospital with Jack. Charlaine Swain kept her company a lot.

Grace thought about the photograph that started it all. She now figured that one of the four members of Allaw had found a way to get it in her packet. Why? That was harder to answer. Perhaps one of them realized that the eighteen ghosts would never sleep.

But then there was the question of timing: Why now? Why after fifteen years?

There was no shortage of possibilities. It could have been the release of Wade Larue. It could have been the death of Gordon MacKenzie. It could have been all the anniversary coverage. But most likely, what made the most sense, was that the return of Jimmy X set everything in motion.

Who really was to blame for what happened that tragic night? Was it Jimmy for stealing the song? Jack for attacking him? Gordon MacKenzie for firing a weapon under those circumstances? Wade Larue for illegally carrying a gun, panicking, and firing more shots into an already frenzied crowd? Grace did not know. Small ripples. All of this carnage had not started with some big conspiracy. It had started with two small-time bands playing some dive in Manchester.

There were still holes, of course. Lots of them. But they would have to wait.

There are some things more important than the truth.

Now, right now, Grace stared at Jack. He lay still in his hospital bed. His doctor, a man named Stan Walker, sat next to her. Dr. Walker folded his hands and used his gravest voice. Grace listened. Emma and Max waited in the corridor. They wanted to be there. Grace didn’t know what to do. What was the call on this one?

She wished that she could ask Jack.

She did not want to ask him why he had lied to her for so long. She did not want an explanation for what he had done that terrible night. She did not want to ask him how he’d happened by her on the beach that day, if he had been intentionally seeking her out, if that was why they fell in love. She didn’t want to ask Jack any of that.

She only wanted to ask him one last question: Did he want his children by his bedside when he died?

In the end Grace let them stay. The four of them gathered as a family for the last time. Emma cried. Max sat there, his eyes trained on the tile floor. And then, with a gentle tug at her heart, Grace felt Jack leave for good.

chapter 54

The funeral was a major blur. Grace usually wore contact lenses. She took them off that day and did not wear her glasses. Everything seemed a little easier to handle in the blur. She sat in the front pew and thought about Jack. She did not picture him in the vineyards or on the beach anymore. The sight she remembered best, the sight she would always carry with her, was Jack holding Emma after she was born, the way his big hands held the little wonder, carrying her as if afraid she’d break, scared he might hurt her, the way he turned to Grace and looked at her in pure awe. That was what she saw.

The rest, all she now knew about his past, was white noise.

Sandra Koval came to the funeral. She stayed in the back. She apologized that their father could not come. He was elderly and ill. Grace said that she understood. The two women did not embrace. Scott Duncan was there. So were Stu Perlmutter and Cora. Grace had no idea how many people showed up. She didn’t much care either. She held her two children and fought her way through it.

• • •

Two weeks later the children went back to school. There were issues, of course. Both Emma and Max were suffering separation anxieties. That was normal, she knew. Grace walked them into school. She was there before the bell rang to pick them up. They were hurting. That, Grace knew, was the price you paid for having a kind and loving father. The hurt never goes away.

But now it was time to end this.

Jack’s autopsy.

Some would say that the autopsy, when she read and understood it, was what sent Grace’s world off kilter again. But that really wasn’t it. The autopsy was merely independent confirmation of what she already knew. Jack had been her husband. She had loved him. They had been together for thirteen years. They had two children together. And while he had clearly kept secrets, there were some things a man cannot hide.

Some things must truly remain on the surface.

So Grace knew.

She knew his body. She knew his skin. She knew every muscle on his back. So she really did not need the autopsy. She did not need to see the results of the full-exterior examination to tell her what she already knew.

Jack had no major scars.

And that meant that—despite what Jimmy had said, despite what Gordon MacKenzie had told Wade Larue—Jack had never been shot.

• • •

First Grace visited the Photomat and found Fuzz Pellet Josh. Then she drove back down to Bedminster, to the condominium development where Shane Alworth’s mother resided. After that, she plowed through the legal work on Jack’s family trust. Grace knew a lawyer from Livingston who now worked as a sports agent in Manhattan. He set up plenty of trusts for his wealthy athletes. He went through the paperwork and explained enough for her to understand.

And then, when she had all the facts pretty much down, she visited Sandra Koval, her dear sister-in-law, at the offices of Burton and Crimstein in New York City.

• • •

Sandra Koval did not meet her in the reception area this time. Grace was inspecting the photo gallery, stopping again at the shot of the wrestler, Little Pocahontas, when a peasant-bloused woman told her to come this way. She led Grace down the corridor and into the exact same conference room where she and Sandra had first talked a lifetime ago.

“Ms. Koval will be with you shortly.”

“Great.”

She left her alone. The room was set up exactly the same as last time, except now there was a yellow legal pad and a Bic pen in front of each seat. Grace did not want to sit. She did her own version of a pace, more a limp-pace, and ran it over in her head again. Her cell phone buzzed. She spoke briefly and then snapped it off. She kept it close. Just in case.

“Hi, Grace.”

Sandra Koval swept into the room like a turbulent weather front. She headed straight for the little refrigerator, opened it and peered inside.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No.”

With her head still in the mini-fridge, she asked, “How are the children?”

Grace did not reply. Sandra Koval dug out a Perrier. She twisted the top off and sat.

“So what’s up?”

Should she test the temperature with her toe or just jump in? Grace chose the latter. “You didn’t take on Wade Larue as a client because of me,” she began without preamble. “You took him on because you wanted to stay close to him.”

Sandra Koval poured the Perrier into a glass. “That might—hypothetically—be true.”

“Hypothetically?”

“Yes. I may, in a hypothetical world, have represented Wade Larue to protect a certain family member. But if I had, I would have still made sure that I represented my client to the best of my ability.”

“Two birds with one stone?”

“Perhaps.”

“And the certain family member. That would be your brother?”

“It would be possible.”

“Possible,” Grace said. “But that wasn’t what happened here. You weren’t out to protect your brother.”

Their eyes met.

“I know,” Grace said.

“Oh?” Sandra took a sip. “Then why don’t you clue me in.”

“You were, what, twenty-seven years old? Fresh out of law school and working as a criminal lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“You were married. Your daughter was two years old. You were on your way to a promising career. And then your brother messed it all up for you. You were there that night, Sandra. At the Boston Garden. You were the other woman backstage, not Geri Duncan.”

“I see,” she said without a trace of worry. “And you know this how?”

“Jimmy X said one woman was a redhead—that’s Sheila Lambert—and the other, the one who was egging him on, had dark hair. Geri Duncan was a blonde. You, Sandra, had dark hair.”

She laughed. “And that’s supposed to be proof of something?”

“No, not in and of itself. I’m not even sure it’s relevant. Geri Duncan was probably there too. She might have been the one who distracted Gordon MacKenzie so you three could sneak backstage.”

Sandra Koval gave her a vague wave of the hand. “Go on, this is interesting.”

“Shall I just get to the heart of the matter?”

“Please do.”

“According to both Jimmy X and Gordon MacKenzie, your brother was shot that night.”

“He was,” Sandra said. “He was in the hospital for three weeks.”

“Which hospital?”

There was no hesitation, no eye twitch, no give at all. “Mass General.”

Grace shook her head.

Sandra made a face. “Are you telling me you checked every hospital in the Boston area?”

“No need,” Grace said. “There was no scar.”

Silence.

“You see, the bullet wound would have left a scar, Sandra. It’s simple logic. Your brother was shot. My husband had no scar. There’s only one way that can be so.” Grace put her hands on the table. They were quaking.

“I was never married to your brother.”

Sandra Koval said nothing.

“Your brother, John Lawson, was shot that day. You and Sheila Lambert helped drag him out during the melee. But his wounds were lethal. At least I hope they were, because the alternative is that you killed him.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if you took him to a hospital, they would have to report the shooting. If you showed up with a dead body—or even if you just dumped him on the street—someone would investigate and realize where and how he was shot. You, the promising lawyer, were terrified. I bet Sheila Lambert was too. The world went crazy when this happened. The Boston DA—hell, Carl Vespa—was on television demanding blood. So were all the families. If you got caught up in that, you’d be arrested or worse.”

Sandra Koval stayed quiet.

“Did you call your father? Did you ask him what to do? Did you contact one of your old criminal clients to help you? Or did you just get rid of the body on your own?”

She chuckled. “You have some imagination, Grace. Can I ask you something now?”

“Sure.”

“If John Lawson died fifteen years ago, who did you marry?”

“I married Jack Lawson,” Grace said. “Who used to be known as Shane Alworth.”

Eric Wu hadn’t held two men in the basement, Grace now realized. Just one. One who had sacrificed himself to save her. One who probably knew that he was going to die and wanted to scratch out some last truth in the only way left to him.

Sandra Koval almost smiled. “That’s a hell of a theory.”

“One that will be easy to prove.”

She leaned back and folded her arms. “I don’t understand something about your scenario. Why didn’t I just hide my brother’s body and pretend he ran away?”

“Too many people would ask questions,” Grace said.

“But that’s what happened to Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert. They just disappeared.”

“True enough,” Grace admitted. “And maybe the answer has to do with your family trust.”

That made Sandra’s face freeze. “The trust?”

“I found the papers on the trust in Jack’s desk. I took them to a friend who’s a lawyer. It seems your grandfather set up six trusts. He had two children and four grandchildren. Forget the money for a second. Let’s talk about voting power. All of you got equal voting shares, divided six ways, with your father getting the extra four percent. That way your side of the family kept control of the business, fifty-two percent to forty-eight. But—and I’m not good with this stuff so bear with me—Grandpa wanted to keep it all in the family. If any of you died before the age of twenty-five, the voting power would be divided equally among the five survivors. If your brother died the night of the concert, for example, that would mean that your side of the family, you and your father, would no longer hold a majority position.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Could be,” Grace said. “But tell me, Sandra. What drove you? Was it fear of being caught—or were you worried about losing control of the family business? Probably a combination of both. Either way, I know you got Shane Alworth to take your brother’s place. It’ll be easy to prove. We’ll dig up old pictures. We can run a DNA test. I mean, it’s over.”

Sandra started drumming the table with her fingertips. “If that’s true,” she said, “the man you loved lied to you all these years.”

“That’s true no matter what,” Grace said. “How did you get him to cooperate anyway?”

“That question is supposed to be rhetorical, right?”

Grace shrugged. “Mrs. Alworth tells me that they were dirt poor. His brother Paul couldn’t afford college. She was living in a dump. But my guess is, you made a threat. If one member of Allaw went down for this, they all would. He probably thought he had no choice.”

“Come on, Grace. Do you really think a poor kid like Shane Alworth could pull off being my brother?”

“How hard would it be? You and your father helped, I’m sure. Getting an ID would be no problem. You had your brother’s birth certificate and the pertinent paperwork. You just say he had his wallet stolen. Screening was easier back then. He’d have gotten a new driver’s license, new passport, whatever. You found a new trust lawyer in Boston—my friend noticed the change from the one in Los Angeles—someone who wouldn’t know what John Lawson looked like. You, your dad, and Shane go in to his office together, all with proper ID—who would question that? Your brother had already graduated from Vermont University, so it wasn’t like he’d have to show up there with a new face. Shane could go overseas now. If someone bumped into him, well, he’d go by Jack and just say he was another John Lawson. It’s not an uncommon name.”

Grace waited.

Sandra folded her arms. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to crack and confess everything?”

“You? No, I don’t think so. But come on, you know it’s over. It won’t be any problem to prove that my husband wasn’t your brother.”

Sandra Koval took her time. “That may well be,” she said, her words coming out more measured now. “But I’m not sure I see any crime here.”

“How’s that?”

“Let’s say—again hypothetically—that you’re right. Let’s say I did get your husband to pretend to be my brother. That was fifteen years ago. There’s a statute of limitations. My cousins might try to fight me on the trust issue, but they wouldn’t want the scandal. We’d work it out. And even if what you said is true, my crime was hardly a big one. If I was at the concert that night, well, in the early days of that rabid frenzy, who could blame me for being scared?”

Grace’s voice was soft. “I wouldn’t blame you for that.”

“Right, so there you go.”

“And at first you didn’t really do anything that terrible. You went to that concert seeking justice for your brother. You confronted a man who stole a song your brother and his friend wrote. That’s not a crime. Things went wrong. Your brother died. There was nothing you could do to bring him back. So you did what you thought best. You played the terrible hand you were dealt.”

Sandra Koval opened her arms. “Then what do you want here, Grace?”

“Answers, I guess.”

“It seems as if you already got some of those.” Then she raised her index finger and added, “Hypothetically speaking.”

“And maybe I want justice.”

“What justice? You just said yourself that what happened was understandable.”

“That part,” Grace said, her voice still soft. “If it ended there, yeah, I’d probably just walk away. But it didn’t.”

Sandra Koval sat back and waited.

“Sheila Lambert was scared too. She knew that her best move would be to change her name and disappear. You all agreed to disperse and stay silent. Geri Duncan, she stayed where she was. That was okay, at first. But then Geri found out she was pregnant.”

Sandra just shut her eyes.

“When he agreed to be John Lawson, Shane, my Jack, had to cut all ties and go overseas. Geri Duncan couldn’t find him. A month later she learns that she’s pregnant. She’s desperate to find the father. So she came to see you. She probably wanted to start new. She wanted to tell the truth and have her baby with a clean slate. You knew my husband. He would never turn his back on her if she insisted on having a child. Maybe he’d want to wipe the slate clean too. And then what would happen to you, Sandra?”

Grace looked down at her hands. They were still shaking.

“So you had to silence Geri. You’re a criminal defense attorney. You repped criminals. And one of them helped you find a hit man named Monte Scanlon.”

Sandra said, “You can’t prove any of this.”

“The years pass,” Grace went on. “My husband is now Jack Lawson.” Grace stopped and remembered what Carl Vespa had said about Jack Lawson seeking her out. Something there still didn’t mesh. “We have children now. I tell Jack I want to go back stateside. He doesn’t want to. I push him on it. We have kids. I want to be back in the United States. That’s my fault, I guess. I wish he had just told me the truth—”

“And how would you have reacted, Grace?”

She thought about it. “I don’t know.”

Sandra Koval smiled. “Neither, I guess, did he.”

It was, Grace knew, a fair point, but this was not the time for that sort of contemplation. She pressed on. “We ended up moving to New York. But I don’t know what happened next, Sandra, so you’re going to have to help me with this part. I think what with the anniversary and with Wade Larue coming free, Sheila Lambert—or maybe even Jack—decided it was time to tell the truth. Jack never slept well. Maybe they both needed to ease their guilt, I don’t know. You couldn’t go along with that, of course. They might be granted forgiveness but not you. You had Geri Duncan killed.”

“And again I ask: The proof of that is . . . ?”

“We’ll get to that,” Grace said. “You’ve lied to me from the start, but you did tell the truth about one thing.”

“Oh goodie.” The sarcasm was thick now. “What was that?”

“When Jack saw that old picture in the kitchen, he did look up Geri Duncan on the computer. He found out she’d died in a fire, but he suspected it was no accident. So he called you. That was the nine-minute phone call. You were afraid he was about to crack, so you knew that you had to strike fast. You told Jack that you’d explain everything but not over the phone. You set up a meet off the New York Thruway. Then you called Larue and told him that this would be a perfect time to get his revenge. You figured Larue would have Wu kill Jack, not hold him like that.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

But Grace did not stop. “My big mistake was showing you the photograph that first day. Jack didn’t know I’d made a copy. There it was, a photograph of your dead brother and his new identity for all the world to see. You needed to keep me quiet too. So you sent that guy, the one with my daughter’s lunchbox, to scare me off. But I didn’t listen. So you used Wu. He was supposed to find out what I knew and then kill me.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough.” Sandra Koval stood. “Get out of my office.”

“Nothing to add?”

“I’m still waiting for proof.”

“I don’t really have any,” Grace said. “But maybe you’ll confess.”

She laughed at that one. “What, you don’t think I know you’re wired? I haven’t said or done one thing that’ll incriminate me.”

“Look out the window, Sandra.”

“What?”

“The window. Look down at the sidewalk. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Grace limped toward the huge picture window and pointed down. Sandra Koval moved warily, as if she expected that Grace would push her through it. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

When Sandra Koval looked down, a small gasp escaped her lips. On the sidewalk below them, pacing like two lions, were Carl Vespa and Cram. Grace turned away and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sandra asked.

“Oh,” Grace said. She wrote something down on a piece of paper. “This is Captain Perlmutter’s phone number. You have your choice. You can call and leave with him. Or you can take your chances with the sidewalk.”

She put the piece of paper on the conference table. And then, without looking back, Grace left the room.

Epilogue

Sandra Koval chose to call Captain Stuart Perlmutter. She then lawyered up. Hester Crimstein, the legend herself, was going to represent her. It would be a tough case to make, but the DA thought, because of certain developments, that he could do it.

One of those developments was the return of Allaw’s redheaded member, Sheila Lambert. When Sheila read about the arrest—and the media appeal for her help—she came forward. The man who shot her husband fit the description of the man who threatened Grace at the supermarket. His name was Martin Brayboy. He’d been caught and had agreed to testify for the prosecution.

Sheila Lambert also told prosecutors that Shane Alworth had been at the concert that night but that he had decided at the last minute not to go backstage and confront Jimmy X. Sheila Lambert wasn’t sure why he’d changed his mind, but she speculated that Shane realized John Lawson was too high, too wired, too willing to snap.

Grace was supposed to find comfort in that, but she’s not sure she did.

Captain Stuart Perlmutter had hooked up with Scott Duncan’s old boss, Linda Morgan, the U.S. attorney. They managed to turn one of the men from Carl Vespa’s inner circle. Rumor has it they’ll be arresting him soon, though it will be hard to nail him on Jimmy X’s murder. Cram called Grace one afternoon. He told her Vespa wasn’t fighting back. He stayed in bed a lot. “It’s like watching a slow death,” he told her. She didn’t really want to hear it.

Charlaine Swain brought Mike home from the hospital. They returned to their regularly scheduled lives. Mike is back at work. They watch TV together now instead of in separate rooms. Mike still falls asleep early. They’ve upped their lovemaking somewhat, but it’s all too self-conscious. Charlaine and Grace have become close friends. Charlaine never complains but Grace can see the desperation. Something, Grace knows, will soon give.

Freddy Sykes is still recuperating. He put his house up for sale and is buying a condo in Fair Lawn, New Jersey.

Cora remained Cora. Enough said on that subject.

Evelyn and Paul Alworth, Jack’s—or in this case, she should say, Shane’s—mother and brother, have also come forward. Over the years Jack had used the trust money to pay for Paul’s schooling. When he started working with Pentocol Pharmaceuticals, Jack moved his mother into that condominium development so they could be closer. They had lunch together at the condo at least once a week. Both Evelyn and Paul wanted very much to be a part of the children’s lives—they were, after all, Emma and Max’s grandmother and uncle—but they understood that it would be best to take it slow.

As for Emma and Max, they handled the tragedy in very different ways.

Max likes to talk about his father. He wants to know where Daddy is, what heaven is like, if Daddy really sees them. He wants to be assured that his father can still observe the key events of his young life. Grace tries to answer him the best she can—tries to sell it, as it were—but her words have the stilted hollow of the dubious. Max wants Grace to make up “Jenny Jenkins” rhymes with him in the tub, like Jack used to do, and when she does, Max laughs and he sounds so much like his father that Grace thinks her heart might explode right then and there.

Emma, her father’s princess, never talks about Jack. She does not ask questions. She does not look at photographs or reminisce. Grace tries to facilitate her daughter’s needs, but she is never sure what approach to take. Psychiatrists talk about opening up. Grace, who has suffered her share of tragedies, is not so sure. There is, she’s learned, something to be said for denial, for severing and compartmentalizing.

Strangely enough, Emma seems happy. She’s doing well in school. She has lots of friends. But Grace knows better. Emma never writes poetry anymore. She won’t even look at her journal. She insists now on sleeping with her door shut. Grace stands outside her daughter’s bedroom at night, often very late, and sometimes she thinks she hears soft sobs. In the morning, after Emma goes to school, Grace checks her daughter’s room.

Her pillow is always wet.

People naturally assume that if Jack were still alive, Grace would have a lot of questions for him. That’s true, but she no longer cares about the details of what a stoned, scared kid of twenty did in the face of that devastation and aftermath. In hindsight he should have told her. But then again suppose he had? Suppose Jack had told her right in the beginning? Or a month into their relationship? A year? How would she have reacted? Would she have stayed? She thinks about Emma and Max, about the simple fact that they are here, and the road untraveled brings a shiver.

So late at night, when Grace lies alone in their too-large bed and talks to Jack, feeling very strange because, really, she doesn’t believe he’s listening, her questions are more basic: Max wants to sign up for the Kasselton traveling soccer team, but isn’t he too young for that kind of commitment? The school wants to put Emma in an accelerated English program, but will that put too much pressure on her? Should we still go to Disney World in February, without you, or will that be too painful a reminder? And what, Jack, should I do about those damn tears on Emma’s pillow?

Questions like that.

Scott Duncan came by a week after Sandra’s arrest. When she opened the door, he said, “I found something.”

“What?”

“This was in Geri’s stuff,” Duncan said.

He handed her a beat-up cassette. There was no label on it but faintly, in black ink, someone had written: ALLAW.

They moved silently into the den. Grace stuck the cassette in her player and pressed the play button.

“Invisible Ink” was the third song.

There were similarities to “Pale Ink.” Would a court of law have found Jimmy guilty of plagiarism? It would be a close call, but Grace figured that the answer, after all these years, was probably no. There were plenty of songs that sounded alike. There was also a fine line between influence and plagiarism. “Pale Ink,” it seemed to her, probably straddled that blurry line.

So much that went wrong did—straddled a blurry line, that is.

“Scott?”

He did not turn toward her.

“Don’t you think it’s time we cleared the air?”

He nodded slowly.

She was not sure how to put this. “When you found out your sister was murdered, you investigated with a passion. You left your job. You went all out.”

“Yes.”

“It wouldn’t have been hard to find out she had an old boyfriend.”

“Not hard at all,” Duncan agreed.

“And you would have found out that his name was Shane Alworth.”

“I knew about Shane before all this. They dated for six months. But I thought Geri had died in a fire. There was no reason to follow up with him.”

“Right. But now, after you talked to Monte Scanlon, you did.”

“Yes,” he said. “It was the first thing I did.”

“You learned that he’d disappeared right around the time of your sister’s murder.”

“Right.”

“And that made you suspicious.”

“To put it mildly.”

“You probably, I don’t know, checked his old college records, his old high school records even. You talked to his mom. It wouldn’t have taken much. Not when you’re looking for it.”

Scott Duncan nodded.

“So you knew, before we even met, that Jack was Shane Alworth.”

“Yes,” he said. “I knew.”

“You suspected him of killing your sister?”

Duncan smiled, but there was no joy in it. “A man is dating your sister. He breaks up with her. She’s murdered. He changes identity and disappears for fifteen years.” He shrugged. “What would you think?”

Grace nodded. “You told me you like to shake the cages. That was the way to make progress in a case.”

“Right.”

“And you knew that you couldn’t just ask Jack about your sister. You had nothing on him.”

“Right again.”

“So,” she said, “you shook the cage.”

Silence.

“I checked with Josh at the Photomat,” Grace said.

“Ah. How much did you pay him?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Duncan snorted. “I only paid him five hundred.”

“To put that picture in my envelope.”

“Yes.”

The song changed. Allaw was now singing a song about voices and wind. Their sound was raw, but there was potential there too.

“You cast suspicion on Cora to distract me from pressuring Josh.”

“Yes.”

“You insisted I go with you to see Mrs. Alworth. You wanted to see her reaction when she saw her grandchildren.”

“More cage shaking,” he agreed. “Did you see the look in her eyes when she saw Emma and Max?”

She had. She just hadn’t known what it meant or why she ended up living in a condo right on Jack’s route to work. Now, of course, she did. “And because you were forced to take a leave, you couldn’t use the FBI for surveillance. So you hired a private detective, the one who used Rocky Conwell. And you put that camera in our house. If you were going to shake the cage, you’d need to see how your suspect would react.”

“All true.”

She thought of the end result. “A lot of people died because of what you did.”

“I was investigating my sister’s murder. You can’t expect me to apologize for that.”

Blame, she thought again. So much of it to go around. “You could have told me.”

“No. No, Grace, I could never trust you.”

“You said our alliance was temporary.”

He looked at her. There was something dark there now. “That,” he said, “was a lie. We never had an alliance.”

She sat up and turned the music down.

“You don’t remember the massacre, do you, Grace?”

“That’s not uncommon,” she said. “It’s not amnesia or anything like that. I was hit so hard in the head I was in a coma.”

“Head trauma,” he said with a nod. “I know all about it. I’ve seen in it lots of cases. The Central Park jogger, for one. Most cases, like yours, you don’t even remember the days before it.”

“So?”

“So how did you get into the front pit that night?”

The question, coming out of nowhere like that, made her sit up. She searched his face for a give. There was none. “What?”

“Ryan Vespa, well, his father scalped the ticket for four hundred bucks. The members of Allaw got them from Jimmy himself. The only way to get up there was to shell out a ton of dough or know someone.” He leaned forward. “How did you get into that front pit, Grace?”

“My boyfriend got tickets.”

“That would be Todd Woodcroft? The one who never visited you at the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that? Because before you said you don’t remember.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it. He leaned closer.

“Grace, I talked to Todd Woodcroft. He didn’t go to the concert.”

Something inside her chest lurched to the side. Her body went cold.

“Todd didn’t visit you because you’d broken up with him two days before the show. He thought it’d be weird. And you know what, Grace? Shane Alworth broke up with my sister on that same day. Geri never went to the concert. So who do you think Shane took instead?”

Grace shivered and felt the tremor spread. “I don’t understand.”

He pulled out the photograph. “This is the original Polaroid I had blown up and put into your envelope. My sister wrote the date on the back. The picture was taken the day before the concert.”

She shook her head.

“That mystery woman on the far right, the one we can barely see? You thought it was Sandra Koval. Well, maybe, Grace—just maybe—that’s you.”

“No . . .”

“And maybe, while we’re looking for more people to blame, maybe we should wonder about the pretty girl who distracted Gordon MacKenzie so the others could get to Jimmy X. We know it wasn’t my sister or Sheila Lambert or Sandra Koval.”

Grace kept shaking her head, but then she flashed back to that day at the beach, the first time she laid eyes on Jack, that feeling, that instant grab of the gut. Where had that come from? It was the kind of thing you feel . . .

. . . when you’ve met someone before.

The strangest sort of déjà-vu. The kind where you’ve already connected with someone, gotten that first head rush of infatuation. You hold hands, and when the turmoil begins, there’s that stomach-dropping feel of his hand slipping from yours. . . .

“No,” Grace said, more firmly now. “You got it wrong. It can’t be. I’d have remembered that.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “You’re probably right.”

He stood and popped the cassette out of the machine. He handed it to her. “This is all just crazy conjecture. I mean, for all we know, maybe that mystery woman was the reason Shane didn’t go backstage. Maybe she talked him out of it. Or maybe he realized that there was something more important right there, in that front pit, than anything he could find in a song. Maybe, even three years later, he made sure he found it again.”

Scott Duncan left then. Grace stood and headed into her studio. She had not painted since Jack’s death. She put the cassette into her portable player and pressed the play button.

She picked up a brush and tried to paint. She wanted to paint him. She wanted to paint Jack—not John, not Shane. Jack. She thought it would come out muddled and confused, but that wasn’t what happened at all. The brush soared and danced across the canvas. She started thinking again about how we can never know everything about our loved ones. And maybe, if you think about it hard, we don’t even know everything about ourselves.

The cassette ended. She rewound it and started it again. She worked in a delirious and delightful frenzy. Tears ran down her cheeks. She did not brush them away. At some point she glanced at a clock. Soon it would be time to stop. School would be letting out. She had to get the kids. Emma had piano today. Max had traveling-team soccer practice.

Grace grabbed her purse and locked the door behind her.

•  •  •

For a complete list of this author’s books click here or visit
www.penguin.com/cobenchecklist

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to thank the following for their technical expertise: Mitchell F. Reiter, MD, Chief, Division of Spine Surgery, UMDNJ (aka “Cuz”); David A. Gold, MD; Christopher J. Christie, United States attorney for the state of New Jersey; Captain Keith Killion of the Ridgewood Police Department; Steven Miller, MD, Director of Pediatric Emergency Medicine, Children’s Hospital of New York Presbyterian; John Elias; Anthony Dellapelle (the nonfictional one); Jennifer van Dam; Linda Fairstein; and Craig Coben (aka “Bro”). As always, if there are errors, technical or otherwise, the fault is with these people. I’m tired of being the fall guy.

A nod of gratitude to Carole Baron, Mitch Hoffman, Lisa Johnson, and all at Dutton and Penguin Group USA; Jon Woods, Malcolm Edwards, Susan Lamb, Juliet Ewers, Nicky Jeanes, Emma Noble and the gang at Orion; Aaron Priest, Lisa Erbach Vance, Bryant and Hil (for helping me over that first hump), Mike and Taylor (for helping me over the second one), and Maggie Griffin.

Characters in this book may share a name with people I know, but they are still completely fictional. In fact, this entire novel is a work of fiction. That means I make stuff up.

A special thanks to Charlotte Coben for Emma’s poems. All rights reserved, as they say.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harlan Coben is the author of ten previous novels, including the New York Times bestsellers No Second Chance (chosen as the first ever International Book-of-the-Month Club selection), Gone for Good, and Tell No One. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and family.