“So what do I owe this visit to?” Velko turned to Hauck. “I know this isn’t exactly your favorite place.”

“I need to ask you a favor, Joe.”

A seasoned cop, Velko seemed to see something in Hauck’s face that made him pause.

“I’m trying to locate someone,” Hauck explained. He removed a thin manila envelope from under his sport jacket. “I have no idea where he is. Or even what name he might be using. He’s most likely out of the country as well.” He put the envelope on Velko’s lap.

“I thought you were going to give me a challenge.” The security man chuckled, unfastening the clasp.

He slid out the contents: a copy of Charles Friedman’s passport photo, together with some things Karen had supplied him. The phrases “1966 Emberglow Mustang. GT. Pony interior. Greenwich, Connecticut.” Some place called Ragtops, in Florida, where Charles had purchased it. The Greenwich Concours Rallye, where he sometimes showcased his car. A few of what Karen remembered as Charlie’s favorite car sites. And finally a few favorite expressions he might use, like, “Lights out.” Or “It’s a home run, baby.”

“You must think just because you elbowed a few firemen out of the crease who were trying to knock the shit out of me I really owe you, huh?”

“It was more than a few, Joe.” Hauck smiled.

“A ’66 Mustang. Pony interior. Can’t you just log onto eBay for one of these things, Ty?” Velko grinned.

“Yeah, but this is far sexier,” Hauck replied. “Look, the guy may be in the Caribbean, or maybe Central America. And Joe…this is gonna come out in your search, so I might as well tell you up front now-the person I’m looking for is supposedly dead. In the Grand Central bombing.”

“Supposedly dead? As opposed to really dead?”

“Don’t make me go into it, partner. I’m just trying to find him for a friend.”

Velko slid the paper back inside the envelope. “Three hundred billion bits of data crossing the Internet every day, the city’s security squarely in our hands, and I’m looking at an Amber Alert for a dead guy’s ’66 Mustang.”

“Thank you, guy. I appreciate whatever turns up.”

“A wide goddamn hole in the Patriot Act”-Velko cleared his throat-“That’s what the hell’s going to turn up. We’re not exactly a missing-persons search system here.” He looked at Hauck, reacting to the marks on his face and neck and the stiffness in his reach.

“You still skating?”

Hauck nodded. “Local team up there. Over-forty league now. Mostly a bunch of Wall Street types and mortgage salesmen. You?”

“No.” Velko tapped his head. “They won’t let me anymore. They seem to think my brain is good for something other than getting knocked around. Too risky on the new job. Michelle is, though. You should see her. She’s a goddamn little bruiser. She plays on the boys’ team for her school.”

“I’d like to,” Hauck said with a fond smile. When Marilyn died, Michelle had been nine and Bonnie six. Hauck had organized a benefit game for them against a team of local celebrities. Afterward Joe’s family came onto the ice and received a team jersey signed by the Rangers and the Islanders.

“I know I’ve said this, Ty, but I always appreciated just what you did.”

Hauck shot Joe a wink.

“Anyway, I better get on these, right? Top secret-specialized and classified. Joe stood up. “Is everything okay?”

Hauck nodded. His side still ached like hell. “Everything’s okay.”

“Whatever turns up,” Joe said, “I can still find you up at your office in Greenwich?”

Hauck shook his head. “I’m taking a little time. My cell number’s in the package. And Joe…I’d appreciate it if you kept this entirely between us.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” Joe raised the envelope and rolled his eyes. “Taking a little time…” As Velko backed away toward the police building, he cocked Ty a wary smile.

“What the hell are you getting yourself involved in, Ty?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

After his meeting with Velko, Hauck went to the office of Media Publishing, located on the thirtieth floor of a tall glass building at Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue.

The publishers of Mustang World.

It took Hauck’s flashing his badge first to the receptionist and then to a couple of junior marketing people to finally get him to the right person. He had no authority here. The last thing he wanted was to have to call in yet another old friend from the NYPD. Fortunately, the marketing guy he finally got him in front of seemed eager to help and didn’t ask him to come back with a warrant.

“We’ve got two hundred and thirty-two thousand subscribers,” the manager said, as if overwhelmed. “Any chance you can narrow it down?”

“I only need a list of those who’ve come aboard within the past year,” Hauck told him.

He gave the guy a card. The manager promised he’d get to it as soon as he could and e-mail the results to Hauck’s departmental address.

On the ride back home, Hauck mapped out what he would do. Hopefully, this Mustang search would yield something. If not, he still had the leads he’d taken from Dietz’s office.

The Major Deegan Expressway was slow, and Hauck caught some tie-up near Yankee Stadium.

On a hunch he fumbled in his pocket for the number of the Caribbean bank he’d found at Dietz’s. On St. Kitts. As he punched in the overseas number on his cell, he wasn’t sure just how smart this was. The guy could be on Dietz’s payroll for all he knew. But as long as he was playing long shots…

After a delay a sharp ring came on. “First Caribbean,” answered a woman with a heavy island accent.

“Thomas Smith?” Hauck requested.

“Please hold da line.”

After a short pause, a man’s voice answered, “This is Thomas Smith.”

“My name is Hauck,” Hauck said. “I’m a police detective with the Greenwich police force, in Greenwich, Connecticut. In the States.”

“I know Greenwich,” the man responded brightly. “I went to college nearby at the University of Bridgeport. How can I help you, Detective?”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Hauck explained. “He’s a U.S. citizen. The only name I have for him is Charles Friedman. He may have an account on record there.”

“I’m not familiar with anyone by the name of Charles Friedman having an account here,” the bank manager replied.

“Look, I know this is a bit unorthodox. He’s about five-ten. Brown hair. Medium stature. Wears glasses. It’s possible he’s transferred money into your bank from a corresponding bank in Tortola. It’s possible that Friedman is not even the name he’s currently using now.”

“As I said, sir, there is no account holder on record here by that name. And I haven’t seen anybody who might fit that description. Nevis is a small island. And you can understand why I would be reluctant to give you that information even if I did.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Smith. But it is a police matter. If you would maybe ask around and check…”

“I don’t need to check,” the manager answered. “I have already.” What he told Hauck made him flinch. “You are the second person from the States who’s been looking for this man in the past week.”