"No."

No hesitation. No questions. No sign of alarm. Gail DeMarco wasn't responding according to the script. "We think perhaps this man abducted your sister-in-law."

The nurse didn't even blink. "Why would he do that?"

Hansen rubbed his chin. In other circumstances, he would take great pleasure in using a knife on this uncooperative woman. To calm himself, he looked down at the sleeping girl. She was just at the high end of the age group he liked. He raised her wrist and looked at the sea-green hospital bracelet there.

"Please don't touch her, Captain. We're worried about infection. Thank you. We shouldn't be in here."

"Just one more minute, Mrs. DeMarco. Your sister-in-law works for a man named Joe Kurtz. What can you tell me about Mr. Kurtz?"

The nurse had moved between Hansen and the sleeping girl. "Joe Kurtz? Nothing, really. I've never met him."

"So you haven't heard from Arlene in the last few days?"

"No."

Hansen graced the woman with a last glimpse of his most charming smile. "You've been very helpful, Mrs. DeMarco. We are concerned about your sister-in-law's whereabouts and well-being. If she gets in touch, please call me immediately. Here's my card."

Gail DeMarco took the card but immediately slipped it into her smock pocket as if it was contaminated.

Hansen took the elevator down to the reception level, spoke briefly with the nurse there, and took the elevator the rest of the way to the parking garage. He had learned several things. First, Kurtz's secretary had been in touch with her sister-in-law, but Arlene probably had not told her any details concerning Frears or what was going on. The nurse had known just enough not to be concerned about her sister's safety. Second, Gail almost certainly knew where Arlene was hiding. And probably Kurtz as well. Third, odds were good that Arlene and her boss, probably with Frears, were hiding at Nurse DeMarco's borne on Colvin Avenue. Finally, and perhaps most important, Hansen had recognized the girl's name on the ID bracelet—Rachel Rafferty. Most people would not have made the connection, but James B. Hansen's memory was near photographically perfect. He recalled the notes in Joe Kurtz's file: former partner in their private investigation firm, Samantha Fielding, one daughter—Rachel—two years old when Ms. Fielding had been murdered; Rachel later adopted by Fielding's ex-husband, Donald Rafferty. And the nurse at reception, after being prodded by his badge, gave the details of the Raffertys' auto accident—black ice on the Kensington Expressway, Donald Rafferty recovering well but under suspicion of sexually abusing his daughter, the investigation currently on hold until the girl either recovered consciousness or died.

Hansen smiled. He loved subtle connections. Even more, he loved leverage over other people, and this injured child might make wonderful leverage.

Kurtz and Angelina had just driven away from the Hansen house in Tonawanda when Kurtz's cell phone rang. It was Arlene. "Gail just called from the hospital."

"You told her that you were all staying at her place?" said Kurtz.

"I called her earlier this morning," Arlene said. "She called a minute ago because she was in Rachel's ICU room and her friend at reception called up from downstairs to tell her that a plainclothes detective was there at the hospital looking for her. Gail was on the phone with me when the cop came in and she left the line open while they talked… it was Millworth. Hansen. He even sounded crazy, Joe. And scary."

"What did Gail tell him?"

"Nothing. Not a thing."

Kurtz doubted that. Even with the titanium briefcase full of incriminating evidence in the car with him, it was no time to start underestimating the creature Kurtz thought of as James B. Hansen.

"You and Pruno and Frears have to get out of there," he said.

"We'll go now," said Arlene. "I'll take the station wagon."

"No," said Kurtz. He checked where they were. Angelina had chosen the Youngman Highway to get them back to the city, and the Lincoln was approaching the Colvin Boulevard exit. "Get off here," he snapped at Angelina.

She gave him an angry look but glanced at the titanium case and roared down the off-ramp onto Colvin Boulevard South.

"We'll be there in ten minutes," Kurtz said to Arlene. "Less."

Hansen had just left the Medical Center when his private cell phone rang.

"We just got to the DeMarco place on Colvin," came Brubaker's voice. "A black Lincoln Town Car just pulled into the driveway—either the DeMarco drive or the one belonging to the duplex next door, we can't tell from down the block. Wait a minute, it's pulling out again… the Lincoln's coming by us… I see a woman driving, not Kurtz's secretary. There was someone in the passenger seat, but Myers and me couldn't see because of the reflection and I can't see in the back because of the goddamned tinted windows… sorry for the language, Captain. You want us to stake out the duplex or follow the Lincoln?"

"Did you see anyone get into the car from the DeMarco house?"

"No, sir. But we can't see that side door from where we're parked. Someone might have had time to jump in. But the Lincoln wasn't in the driveway for more than ten seconds. It was more like a car turning around than anything else."

"Is the Country Squire station wagon in the driveway?"

"Yeah. I can see it."

"Did you get the tag numbers on the Lincoln?"

There was a short silence that sounded to Hansen like Brubaker sulking at being asked if they'd carried out such an elementary bit of detective work. Hansen wouldn't have been surprised if they'd neglected to get the tag numbers.

"Yeah," Brubaker said at last. He read the numbers. "There's no parking on the street here, Captain. We pulled into a driveway a couple of houses down. You want us to go after the Lincoln? We can catch up to it if we hurry."

"Brubaker," said Hansen, "tell Myers to follow the Lincoln. Tell him to run a DMV check while he's tailing it. You stay there and keep watch on the house. Try to be inconspicuous."

"How do I look inconspicuous while I'm standing out on the sidewalk in the snow?" said Brubaker.

"Shut up and tell Myers to catch that Lincoln," said Hansen. "I'll be at the duplex in five minutes." He broke the connection.

"Where's Pruno?" said Kurtz, turned in the passenger seat to look at the two in the rear. When they had swept into the driveway, only Arlene and John Wellington Frears had run to the Lincoln and jumped in.

"He left early this morning," said Arlene. "About dawn. All dressed up in his pinstripe suit. He said something about hiding in plain sight. I think he's going to check into a hotel or something until all this blows over."

"Pruno in a hotel?" said Kurtz. It was hard to picture. "Did he have any money?"

"Yes," said Frears.

"There's a Pontiac following us," said Angelina.

Kurtz swiveled back and looked in the rearview mirror. "Where'd it come from?"

"It was parked a couple of houses down from the place we picked these two up. It's been moving fast in traffic to catch up."

"It could be coincidence," said the violinist in back, looking out the rear window of the Lincoln.

Kurtz and Angelina exchanged glances. Obviously neither of them believed in coincidences.

"The car across the street from my house yesterday was a Pontiac," Arlene said.

Kurtz nodded and looked at Angelina. "Can we lose them?"

"Tell me who we're losing. I'm beginning to feel like the hired help today."

Kurtz thought of her black bag with the $200,000 next to Hansen's bag of C-4 in the trunk. "You have to admit, the pay's pretty good," he said.

Angelina shrugged. "Who's behind us? Mr. — ?" She tapped the titanium briefcase Kurtz was holding on his lap.

"One or more of the detectives who are working for him," said Kurtz.