He quickly went back down to the front desk. A young female clerk examined his shield and summoned security. A thin, almost frail-looking man who looked about twenty-five emerged from a door behind registration, wearing gray slacks, a blue blazer, and regimental striped tie. Fisk guessed that Sunday mornings were the training shifts for new hires.

This guy had a clip-on ball microphone on his lapel, the black wire running from the back of his neck to an ear bud. He took a look at Fisk’s credentials a beat longer than he needed to, and pretended not to be intimidated.

“What can I do for you, Detective Fisk?”

“You have a master key, right?”

“Of course.”

“Gersten, Krina. Twenty-sixth floor. Under her name, or maybe registered to NYPD or the mayor’s office.”

The clerk found it and looked up. “Twenty-six forty-two.”

“She didn’t check out, anything like that?”

“No, sir. And the room hasn’t been cleaned yet.”

“Last accessed?”

“Last room card read was . . . twelve-oh-seven A.M., this morning.”

“Let’s go,” said Fisk, starting back to the elevators at a brisk pace.

The young security guard followed close behind. “Can I ask what this is about?”

Fisk ignored the question until they were alone aboard an up elevator with the doors closed.

“You know who is registered on twenty-six?”

“Yes. The airline heroes. The Six.”

“A detective assigned to their security detail is . . . is missing.” The word bumped Fisk. It was difficult for him to say. Was she missing? If Fisk walked into her room and she was sacked out in bed—who would be more embarrassed, Gersten or him?

“When you say missing . . .”

“I don’t know if she’s missing. She missed her ride this morning, I know that much. And I have very little time. So let’s go see, okay?”

The guard picked up on Fisk’s anxiety and just nodded. As they watched the numbers rise, something occurred to him. “I have to let somebody know what I’m doing,” said the guard suddenly. “That okay?”

Fisk nodded. “Sure.”

The guard tilted his head toward his lapel mic. “This is Bascomb. I am keying into room . . .”

“Twenty-six forty-two.”

“Twenty-six forty-two. I am with an NYPD officer—I mean, detective—at his request.” Bascomb turned toward the corner camera. “Yes, George. I saw the man’s badge. Fisk. Intelligence Division. I’m not sure.” The doors opened, Bascomb following Fisk down the hallway. “I’ll let you know. Not at this time. I will advise.”

At the door, Bascomb pulled out the master key card attached to his belt by a lanyard. He slid it through the slot, and the interior lock whirred, the light turning green. Fisk opened the door, Bascomb stepping back to allow him to enter first.

Fisk stopped a few steps inside. He did a preliminary scan of the room, then realized he was looking at this as a crime scene.

The bed had been roughed up, the pillows dented. It looked slept in. No lights on, windows closed, television off. No sign of a struggle or anything amiss. Just an empty hotel room.

Still, Fisk had a tight feeling in his gut. A psychic scent. The feeling that something bad had happened here.

Fisk took a few more steps inside. Bascomb appropriately hung back. On the dresser to Fisk’s left was a handful of change next to a half-empty bottle of designer water from the minibar. A metal corkscrew sat on the desk blotter.

“You don’t have any gloves, do you?” Fisk asked, hating these words as they left his mouth. But he was a cop, and any enclosed space had the potential to become a crime scene. And too many cases were lost forever due to the arriving officer’s clumsy first steps.

“No,” said Bascomb, a note of worry in his voice.

“Fuck,” said Fisk, more about the general situation than the lack of gloves. “Do me a favor, Bascomb, and stay right where you are, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Gloves or no gloves, Fisk went to the dresser. He opened the six drawers one at a time. Gersten’s underwear and two unopened packages of panty hose lay in the first one. A sweater, a folded white blouse, and a pair of blue jeans lay in the second. The rest were empty.

Fisk found her carry-on suitcase in the closet, closed but unzipped. He pawed through it quickly, finding nothing of note.

He walked to the side of the bed, studying the carpet for signs of disturbance or staining. Nothing.

On the nightstand was the usual iPod dock and digital radio combination alarm clock. He opened the drawer in the nightstand, finding a Bible and various table tents advertising hotel services. He had seen Gersten do that before, gathering up the triangle brochures upon check-in and stuffing them into a drawer, out of sight. Seeing this familiarity gave Fisk a burst of optimism.

Inside the bathroom, he found a stack of fresh towels on the rack. No used ones on the floor. Clean water in the bowl. He recognized the flowered pouch Gersten used for her cosmetics and toiletries.

No puddles of water on the counter, the sink, the shower floor. Everything was dry. The bathroom showed no sign of having been used that morning.

That was troubling. Where would she go without washing her face or her hands first?

Fisk came back into the main room, avoiding Bascomb’s curious gaze. Fisk decided to change it up for a moment, focusing on what he had not yet found.

Her shield. Her weapon. Her phone.

He pulled his cell and checked for messages from her. He dialed her again, hoping he would hear a ring if her device was somewhere in the room.

No ring. And the call went right to voice mail.

He put away his phone. His hand was shaking a little. He stood still in the center of the room. He didn’t want to give in to panic, but this wasn’t right. He had no evidence of foul play—none whatsoever—but Gersten was no flake.

He had always considered the fact that, in their line of business, he might have to face something like this someday, a professional incident that would cross into personal territory.

Don’t get ahead of yourself. He forced himself to think like a cop.

Was this connected to everything else that had gone on that weekend? It had to be. This was too large of a coincidence.

But—as with everything else—how? What was the link? Was there something about this antiterror case that could have blown back on Gersten? Was it indeed a threat to The Six? Had she discovered something last night?

No—she would have followed up on it. She would have taken it to him, to Intel. She would not have gone off half-cocked. Unless . . .

Unless she had stumbled upon it unknowingly.

Fisk turned to the security guard standing just inside the closed door. “Bascomb. Here’s what’s going to happen. I need you to alert your security group to initiate a search of the entire hotel. Start with the construction areas and any closed floors. This is going to mean inconveniencing people. This is a New York Police Department detective you’re looking for. Have your group dial 911 as well so we can get some uniforms in here.”

Bascomb nodded and turned to his microphone. Fisk gave him a brief description of Gersten to repeat.

When he finished, Fisk said, “Now you and I are going to open every door on this floor and check every room.”

Chapter 68

Traffic heading south through Manhattan was horrible, even with NYPD motorcycle escorts. The gridlock was such that there was nowhere for them to go. Nothing to do but wait for the clots to work themselves through.

They crawled down Seventh Avenue past Penn Station, affording everyone a look at the still-closed block on West Twenty-eighth where the terrorist Baada Bin-Hezam had been gunned down.

Then past the Fashion Institute, across Twenty-third, across Fourteenth, into Greenwich Village where Manhattan Island narrowed into the thumb of the old town. As they left behind the cool shadows of the midtown skyscrapers, the heroes became aware of the magnificence of the morning. The sky was Magritte blue, almost fairy-tale perfect. Sidewalk pedestrians wore sun hats, ball caps, and shorts, watching the Suburbans roll by with cups of iced coffee in their hands.