12

WHEN I told Terese about the DNA test, I expected a different reaction.

Terese and I sat in the lounge area on Win's plane, a Boeing Business Jet he'd recently purchased from a rap artist. The seats were leather and oversize. There was a wide-screen TV, a couch, plush carpeting, wood trim. The jet also had a dining room and in the back a separate bedroom.

In case you didn't figure it out, Win is loaded.

He earned his money the old-fashioned way: He inherited it. His family owned Lock-Horne Investments, still one of the leading lights on Wall Street, and Win had taken its billions and par-layed them into more billions.

The "flight attendant"-I put that in quotes because I doubt she's had much safety training-was stunning, Asian, young, and, if I knew Win, probably very limber. Her name tag read "Mee." Her attire looked like something out of a Pan Am ad from 1968, with the tailored suit, fitted puffy blouse, even the pillbox hat.

When we started to board, Win said, "The pillbox hat."

"Yeah," I said. "It really throws the whole look together."

"I like her to wear the pillbox hat all the time."

"Please don't go into any more details," I said.

Win grinned. "Her name is Mee."

"I read the name tag."

"As in, it's not just about you, Myron, it's about Mee. Or, I enjoy having carnal knowledge alone with Mee."

I just looked at him.

"Mee and I will stay in the back so you and Terese can have some privacy."

"In the back, as in the bedroom?"

Win slapped my back. "Feel good about yourself, Myron. After all, I feel good about Mee."

"Please stop."

I boarded behind him. Terese was there. When I told her about being jumped and the ensuing shoot-out, she was obviously concerned. When I segued into the DNA test vis-а-vis her being the blond girl's mother-first using words like "preliminary" and "incomplete" to the point where I feared it might cause an eye roll-she shocked me.

She barely reacted.

"You're saying that the blood test shows I could be the girl's mother?"

In fact, the preliminary DNA test showed that she was the girl's mother, but maybe that was a bit much to state at this point. So I simply said, "Yes."

Again it didn't seem to be reaching her. Terese squinted as though she were having trouble hearing. There was a small and nearly imperceptible wince in the eyes. But that was about it.

"How can that be?"

I said nothing, gave a little shrug.

Never underestimate the power of denial. Terese shook it off, snapped into reporter mode, and peppered me with follow-up questions. I told her everything I knew. Her breathing grew shallow. She was trying to hold it together, so much so that I could see the quake in her lips.

But there were no tears.

I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I couldn't. I'm not sure why. So I sat there and waited. Neither of us said it, as if the very words might burst that particularly fragile bubble of hope. But it was there, the proverbial elephant in the room, and we both saw it and avoided it.

Sometimes Terese's questions seemed too pointed, anger slipping through over what perhaps her ex, Rick, had done here or maybe simply to stave off the hope. Finally she leaned back and bit down on her bottom lip and blinked.

"So where are we going now?" she asked.

" London. I thought maybe we should talk to Rick's wife."

"Karen."

"You know her?"

"Knew her, yes." She looked at me. "Remember I told you I was dropping Miriam off at a friend's house when I got in the car accident?"

"Yes." Then: " Karen Tower was that friend?"

She nodded.

The plane had reached its cruising level. The pilot made an announcement to that effect. I had a million more questions, but Terese closed her eyes. I waited.

"Myron?"

"Yes."

"We don't say it. Not yet. We both know it's here with us. But we don't voice it, okay?"

"Okay."

She opened her eyes and looked away. I understood. The moment was too raw even for eye contact. As if on cue, Win opened the bedroom door. Mee, the flight attendant, had on her pillbox hat and everything else. Win was also fully dressed and waved for me to join him in the bedroom.

"I like the pillbox hat," he said.

"So you said."

"It suits Mee."

I looked at him. He led me into the bedroom and closed the door. The room had tiger-print wallpaper with zebra-skin bedding. I looked at Win. "You channeling your inner Elvis?"

"The rapper decorated the room. It's growing on me."

"Did you want something?"

Win pointed to the TV set. "I was watching you talk to her."

I looked up. Terese was on the screen sitting in the chair.

"That's how I knew it would be a good time for me to interject." He opened a drawer and reached in. "Here."

It was a BlackBerry cell phone.

"Your number still works-all your calls will come in, but they will be untraceable. And if they try to track you down, they'll end up someplace in southwest Hungary. By the way, Captain Berleand left you a message."

"Is it safe to call him back?"

Win frowned. "What part of 'untraceable' confuses you?"

Berleand answered on the first ring. "My colleagues want to lock you up."

"But I'm such a charming fellow."

"That's what I told them, but they're not convinced that charm trumps a murder charge."

"But charm is in such short supply." Then: "I told you, Berleand. It was in self-defense."

"So you did. And we have courts and lawyers and investigators who may eventually come to that conclusion too."

"I really don't have the time to waste."

"So you won't tell me where you are?"

"I won't."

"I find the Kong restaurant a tad touristy," he said. "Next time I will take you to this little bistro off Saint Michel that serves only foie gras. You'll love it."

"Next time," I said.

"Are you still in my jurisdiction?"

"No."

"Pity. May I request a favor?"

"Sure," I said.

"Does your new cell phone have the capability to view photographs?"

I looked at Win. He nodded. I told Berleand that it did.

"I'm sending you a photograph as we speak. Please tell me if you recognize the man in it."

I handed the phone to Win. He pressed a Home key and then found the photograph. I took a good hard look, but I knew right away.

"It's probably him," I said.

"The man you hit with the table?"

"Yes."

"You're positive?"

"I said probably."

"Make sure."

I took a longer look. "I'm assuming this is an old photograph. The guy I hit today is at least ten years older than the one in this picture. There are changes-the head shaven, the nose is different. But overall, I'd say I'm fairly positive."

Silence.

"Berleand?"

"I would really like you to come back to Paris."

I didn't like the way he said that.

"No can do, sorry."

More silence.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"This is not something you can handle on your own," he said.

I looked over at Win. "I have some help."

"It won't be enough."

"You wouldn't be the first to underestimate us."

"I know who you're with. I know his wealth and reputation. It's not enough. You may be good at finding people or helping athletes in trouble with the law. But you're not equipped to handle this."

"If I were less of a tough guy," I said, "you might be scaring me right now."

"If you were less of a head case, you'd listen to me. Be careful, Myron. Stay in touch."

He hung up. I turned to Win. "Maybe we can forward this picture to someone back home, someone who can tell us who he is."

"I have a contact at Interpol," Win said.

But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned to follow his gaze. He was watching the TV monitor again.