"Let's try a little cage-rattling first," Fierenzo said, pulling out his phone and consulting his notebook. Punching in Whittier's cell number, he gestured Powell over where they could both hear.

The phone was answered on the second ring. "Hello?" a tight voice answered.

"Mr. Whittier?" Fierenzo asked.

There was a slight pause; and when the voice came back it was subtly different. "Yes?"

"This is Sergeant Thomas Fierenzo of the NYPD," Fierenzo identified himself. "We're investigating a break-in at your apartment this afternoon."

"A break-in?"

"That's right," Fierenzo said. "I thought you might be able to help us."

Another brief pause. "Yes, of course," Whittier said. "What can I do?"

"First of all, is your wife there with you?"

"No, she's—not here."

"What about your friend Melantha?"

The pause this time was noticeably longer. Fierenzo strained his ears, listening to the rumbling he could hear in the background. A subway car, he tentatively identified it. "I don't understand,"

Whittier said at last.

"I just want to know whether Melantha's with you or with your wife, that's all," Fierenzo said, keeping his own voice casual.

"Sorry. I don't know anyone by that name."

"I see," Fierenzo said, cocking an eyebrow at Powell. His partner nodded, a knowing look on his face. It was the correct response from an innocent man, only it was about five seconds too late.

"Where exactly are you, Mr. Whittier?"

"Why?" Whittier countered, his voice suddenly suspicious.

"We'll need a statement as part of the investigation," Fierenzo said.

"Oh," Whittier said. "I... where do I need to go?"

"We're out of the 24th Precinct," Fierenzo said. "One-fifty-one West 100th. When can you come by?"

"I'm kind of tied up right now," Whittier said evasively. "How about tomorrow morning?"

"Tonight would be better," Fierenzo said, mentally flipping a coin and deciding not to push. He didn't want the man rabbiting before he'd even figured out what the hell was going on here. "I'll be here until nine o'clock."

"I'm sorry, but tomorrow is the soonest I can make it."

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Fierenzo said, trying to sound as if it didn't much matter to him either way. "Good-bye."

He shut off his phone. "He doesn't want to talk to us, that's for sure," Powell commented. "And he never once asked if anything had been taken."

"Because he knew they weren't after any of his worldly goods." Turning, Fierenzo gazed across the living room at the city lights twinkling beyond the balcony, an icy tightness settling into his gut. If there was one thing guaranteed to capture his full attention, it was the thought of innocent blood flowing in his streets, whether from serial killers, gang warfare, or terrorism. "Let's go talk to the store manager and find out just how much of a hurry Mrs. Whittier was in," he decided. "If someone's after the girl, she wouldn't have risked waiting for a bus or subway."

"Which means a cab," Powell said, nodding. "So we call the cab companies and see who picked up a woman and girl on that block at that time."

"Right," Fierenzo said. "We also have Smith and Hill take Umberto down to the station house and put him together with Carstairs. Maybe we can get a decent sketch of these intruders of his."

"We might also want to play the answering machine back for him," Powell suggested. "See if he recognizes Cyril's voice."

Umberto was still waiting when they returned to the hall, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"These officers are going to have you listen to an answering machine message and see if you recognize the voice," Fierenzo told him. "After that, we'd like you to go to the station with them and describe these intruders for a police artist."

The other swallowed. "Yes, sir. Anything I can do to help."

"One last question," Fierenzo said. "How long had these people been gone before Officers Smith and Hill showed up?"

Umberto frowned in concentration. "Half an hour. Maybe a little more."

"And in all that time it didn't occur to you to call the police?"

"Sure it did," Umberto said, sounding a little indignant. "After a break-in? Of course I thought of it."

"Then why didn't you?"

Umberto opened his mouth... closed it again. "I don't know," he said at last. "I guess because he told me not to."

Fierenzo felt his lip twist. "I see," he said. "Well, at least you had a good reason."

Jerking his head at Powell, he headed down the hall toward the elevators.

11

It had been a long time since Roger had ventured into Queens, and as he stepped off the train he remembered why that was. After the towering buildings of Manhattan, something about the borough always felt a little quaint to him.

But it was modern enough to have a compact mall within walking distance of this particular station.

Tonight, that was all he cared about.

He went through the mall at a fast walk, zigzagging between stores and levels, trying to spot the tails he still suspected his new acquaintances had put on him. But he couldn't see anyone, and began to hope that his tangled journey through the New York City subway system over the past couple of hours had thrown them off the scent.

Nevertheless, he kept up his pace for another ten minutes before slipping into one of the mall's department stores. Ten minutes later, wearing a new hat and reversible jacket and trying to navigate through the blurring of a set of horn-rimmed reading glasses, he left the mall and headed back to the subway station.

His timing was perfect. Thirty seconds after he arrived, the next train to Manhattan pulled out, with him aboard.

He found a stray newspaper and spent the trip with it held in front of him, pretending to read as he peered over the top at the people moving into and out of his car. It wasn't quite as sparse a group as he had expected for a train running against the general rush-hour flow, and it finally occurred to him that on a Friday night more people than usual would be heading in to sample the city's night life.

He hunched down in his seat as the train rattled along. He was tired, he had a headache from the reading glasses, and he was growing increasingly resentful of the situation Melantha had pushed them into. The minute the girl had reappeared on their balcony, he knew, he should have grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and hauled her down to the police station. If he had, he and Caroline would be sitting comfortably in their kitchen eating dinner right now.

But of course, Caroline and her weakness for underdogs would never have let that happen. She would have insisted Melantha stay, and he wouldn't have had the backbone to stand up to her. And nothing about the situation would have changed.

He got off at Grand Central, wondering if he should take a few more trips around Manhattan. But he was too tired to bother. Besides, if they'd been able to follow him through everything else he'd done, it would probably be a waste of time. Catching a northbound train, he headed for Yorkville.

It was another chilly October evening, and again the streets were largely empty as he left his final subway station of the day and trudged the five blocks to the Youngs' apartment. There were still a few people out and about, but most of the neighborhood's residents seemed to be already home from the day's activities. He spotted a couple of shadowy figures in the park across the street as he climbed the steps of the apartment building, but they were too far away to worry about. Pulling out the play program, he stepped into the entryway alcove and punched the number Caroline had given him into the shiny new electronic lock.

It clicked open with a gratifying lack of fuss, and he continued on into the welcome warmth of the hallway and the aroma of a rosemary pork roast from somewhere in the building. Climbing the steps to the third floor, he punched the second number into the keypad on the Youngs' door and went inside.