57

'I have a confession,' Jessica said.

They were coming out of the Kinney garage on Fifty-second Street, the smell of fumes and urine dissipating as they hit the relatively fresh air on the sidewalk. They turned down Fifth Avenue. The line for passports stretched past the statue of Atlas. A black man with long dreadlocks sneezed repeatedly, his hair flapping about like dozens of snakes. A woman behind him tsk-tsked a complaint. Many of the people waiting faced St Patrick's across the street as though pleading for divine intervention, their faces lined with anguish. Japanese tourists took pictures of both the statue and the line.

'I'm listening,' Myron replied.

They kept walking. Jessica did not face him, her gaze fixed on nothing straight ahead. 'We weren't close anymore. In fact, Kathy and I barely spoke.'

Myron was surprised. 'Since when?'

'The last three years or so.'

'What happened?'

She shook her head, but she still did not look at him. 'I don't know exactly. She changed. Or maybe she just grew up and I couldn't handle it.

We just drifted apart. When we saw each other, it was as if she couldn't stand to be in the same room with me.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Yeah, well, it's no big thing. Except Kathy called me the night she disappeared. First time in I don't know how long.'

'What did she want?'

'I don't know. I was on my way out the door. I rushed her off.'

They fell into silence the rest of the way to Myron's office.

When they got off the elevator, Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper and said, 'Win wants to see you right away.' She glared at Jessica the way a linebacker might glare at a limping quarterback on a blindside blitz.

'Otto Burke or Larry Hanson call?' Myron asked.

She swerved her glare toward Myron, 'No. Win wants to see you right away.'

58

'I heard you the first time. Tell him I'll be up in five minutes.'

They moved into Myron's office. He closed the door and skimmed over the sheet. Jessica sat in front of him. She crossed her legs the way few women could, turning an ordinary event into a moment of sexual intrigue.

Myron tried not to stare. He also tried not to remember the luscious feel of those legs in bed. He was unsuccessful in both endeavors.

'What's it say?' she asked.

He snapped to. 'Our slim friend on Kenmore Road in Glen Rock is named Gary Grady.'

Jessica squinted. 'The name sounds familiar.' She shook her head. 'But I can't place it.'

'He's been married seven years, wife Allison. No kids. Has a $110,000 mortgage on that house, pays it on time. Nothing else yet. We should know more in a little while.' He put the paper on his desk. The think we have to start attacking this on a few different fronts.'

'How?'

'We have to go back to the night your sister disappeared. Start with that, and move forward. The whole case needs to be reinvestigated. The same with your father's murder. I'm not saying the cops weren't thorough. They probably were. But we now know some things they don't.'

'The magazine,' she said.

'Exactly.'

'How can I help?' she asked.

'Start finding out all you can about what she was up to when she disappeared. Talk to her friends, roommates, sorority sisters, fellow cheerleaders - anyone.'

'Okay.'

'Also get her school records. Let's see if there's anything there. I want to see what courses she was taking, what activities she was involved with, anything.'

Esperanza threw open the door. 'Meal Ticket. Line two.'

Myron checked his watch. Christian should be in the middle of practice by now. He picked up the phone. 'Christian?'

'Mr Bolitar, I don't understand what's going on.'

Myron could barely hear him. It sounded as if he were standing in a wind tunnel. 'Where are you?'

'A pay phone outside Titans Stadium.'

'What's the matter?'

'They won't let me in.'

Jessica stayed in the office to make a few calls. Myron rushed out. Fifty seventh Street to the West Side Highway was unusually clear. He called Otto Burke and Larry Hanson from the car. Neither one was in. Myron was not astounded.

59

Then he dialed an unlisted phone number in Washington. Few people had this particular number.

'Hello?' the voice answered politely.

'Hi, P.T.'

'Ah shit, Myron, what the fuck do you want?'

'I need a favor.'

'Perfect. I was telling someone, gee, I wish Bolitar would call so I could do him a favor. Few things bring me such joy.'

P.T. worked for the FBI. FBI chiefs come and go. P.T. was a constant.

The press didn't know about him, but every president since Nixon had had his number on their speed dial.

'The Kathy Culver case,' Myron said. 'Who's the best guy to talk to about it?'

'The local cop,' P.T. answered without hesitation. 'He's an elected sheriff or something. Great guy, good friend of mine. I forget his name.'

'Can you get me an appointment?' Myron asked.

'Why not? Serving your needs gives my life a sense of purpose.'

I owe you.'

'You already owe me. More than you can pay. I'll call you when I have something.'

Myron hung up. The traffic was still clear. Amazing. He crossed the Washington Bridge and arrived at the Meadowlands in record time.

The Meadowlands Sports Authority was built on useless swampland off the New Jersey Turnpike in a place called East Rutherford. From west to east stood the Meadowlands Race Track, Titans Stadium, and the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the former governor who was about as well liked as a whitehead on prom night. Angry protests equal to the French Revolution had erupted over the name, but to no avail. Mere revolutions are hardly worthy adversaries for a politician's ego.

'Oh, Christ.'

Christian's car - or he assumed it was Christian's - was barely visible under the blanket of reporters. Myron had expected this. He had told Christian to lock himself in his car and not say a word. Driving away would have been useless. The press would have just followed, and Myron was not up for a car chase.

He parked nearby. The reporters turned toward him like lions smelling a wounded lamb.

'What's going on, Myron?'

'Why isn't Christian at practice?'

'You pulling a holdout or what?'

'What's happening with his contract?'

Myron no-commented them, swimming through the sea of microphones, cameras, and flesh, squeezing his way into the car without allowing any of the slime to ooze in with him.