Katy kept staring at the card.

"What's the matter?"

Katy read it again. Then she looked up at me. "Sheila Rogers?"

"Yes."

"Your girlfriend's name was Sheila Rogers?"

"Yeah, why?"

Katy shook her head and put down the card.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," she said.

"Don't give me that. Did you know her?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing." Katy's voice was firmer this time. "Just drop it, okay?"

The phone rang. I waited for the machine. Through the speaker I heard Squares say, "Pick it up."

I did.

Without preamble, Squares said, "You believe the mother? About Sheila having a daughter?"

"Yes."

"So what are we going to do about it?"

I had been thinking about it since I first heard the news. "I have a theory," I said.

"I'm a-listening."

"Maybe Sheila's running away had something to do with her daughter."

"How?"

"Maybe she was trying to find Carly or bring her back. Maybe she learned that Carly was in trouble. I don't know. But something."

"Sounds semi-logical."

"And if we can trace Sheila's steps," I said, "maybe we can find Carly."

"And maybe we'll end up like Sheila."

"A risk," I agreed.

There was a hesitation. I looked over at Katy. She was staring off, plucking her lower lip.

"So you want to continue," Squares said.

"Yes, but I don't want to put you in danger."

"So this is the part where you tell me I can step away at any time?"

"Right, and then this is the part where you say you'll stick with me to the end."

"Cue the violins," Squares said. "Now that we're past all that, Roscoe via Raquel just called me. He may have come up with a serious lead on how Sheila ran. You game for a night ride?"

"Pick me up," I said.

26

Philip McGuane saw his old nemesis on the security camera. His receptionist buzzed him.

"Mr. McGuane?"

"Send him in," he said.

"Yes, Mr. McGuane. He's with "

"Her too."

McGuane stood. He had a corner office overlooking the Hudson River near the isle of Manhattan 's southwestern tip. In the warmer months, the new mega-cruise ships with their neon decor and atrium lobbies glided by, some climbing as high as his window. Today nary a stir. McGuane kept flicking the remote on the security camera, keeping up with his federal antagonist Joe Pistillo and the female underling he had in tow.

McGuane spent a lot on security. It was worth it. His system employed eighty-three cameras. Every person who entered his private elevator was digitally recorded from several angles, but what really made the system stand out was that the camera angles were designed to shoot in such a way that anyone entering could be made to look as though they were also leaving. Both the corridor and elevator were painted spearmint green. That might not seem like much it was, in effect, rather hideous but to those who understood special effects and digital manipulation, it was key. An image on the green background could be plucked out and placed on another background.

His enemies felt comfortable coming here. This was, after all, his office. No one, they surmised, would be brazen enough to kill someone on his own turf. That was where they were wrong. The brazen nature, the very fact that the authorities would think the same thing and the fact that he could offer up evidence that the victim had left the facility unharmed made it the ideal spot to strike.

McGuane pulled out an old photograph from his top drawer. He had learned early that you never underestimate a person or a situation. He also realized that by making opponents underestimate him, he could finagle the advantage. He looked now at the picture of the three seventeen-year-old boys Ken Klein, John "the Ghost" Asselta, and McGuane. They'd grown up in the suburb of Livingston, New Jersey, though McGuane had lived on the opposite side of town from Ken and the Ghost. They hooked up in high school, drawn to each other, noticing or perhaps this was giving them all too much credit a kinship in the eyes.

Ken Klein had been the fiery tennis player, John Asselta the psycho wrestler, McGuane the wow-'em charmer and student council president. He looked at the faces in the photograph. You would never see it. All you saw were three popular high school kids. Nothing beyond that facade. When those kids shot up Columbine a few years back, McGuane had watched the media reaction with fascination. The world looked for comfortable excuses. The boys were outsiders. The boys were teased and bullied. The boys had absent parents and played video games. But McGuane knew that none of that mattered. It may have been a slightly different era, but that could have been them Ken, John, and McGuane because the truth is, it does not matter if you are financially comfortable or loved by your parents or if you keep to yourself or fight to stay afloat in the mainstream.

Some people have that rage.

The office door opened. Joseph Pistillo and his young protegee entered. McGuane smiled and put away the photograph.

"Ah, Javert," he said to Pistillo. "Do you still hunt me when all I did was steal some bread?"

"Yeah," Pistillo said. "Yeah, that's you, McGuane. The innocent man hounded."

McGuane turned his attention to the female agent. "Tell me, Joe, why do you always have such a lovely colleague with you?"

"This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher."

"Charmed," McGuane said. "Please have a seat."

"We'd rather stand."

McGuane shrugged a suit-yourself and dropped into his chair. "So what can I do for you today?"

"You're having a tough time, McGuane."

"Ami?"

"Indeed."

"And you're here to help? How special."

Pistillo snorted. "Been after you a long time."

"Yes, I know, but I'm fickle. Suggestion: Send a bouquet of roses next time. Hold the door for me. Use candlelight. A man wants to be romanced."

Pistillo put two fists on the desk. "Part of me wants to sit back and watch you get eaten alive." He swallowed, tried to hold something deep inside him in check. "But a bigger part of me wants to see you rot in jail for what you've done."

McGuane turned to Claudia Fisher. "He's very sexy when he talks tough, don't you think?"

"Guess who we just found, McGuane?"

"Hoffa? About time too."

"Fred Tanner."

"Who?"

Pistillo smirked. "Don't play that with me. Big thug. Works for you."

"I believe he's in my security department."

"We found him."

"I didn't know he was lost."

"Funny."

"I thought he was on vacation, Agent Pistillo."

"Permanently. We found him in the Passaic River."

McGuane frowned. "Howunsanitary."

"Especially with two bullet holes in the head. We also found a guy named Peter Appel. Strangled. He was an ex-army sharpshooter."

"Be all that you can be."

Only one strangled, McGuane thought. The Ghost must have been disappointed that he'd had to shoot the other.

"Yeah, well, let's see," Pistillo went on. "We have these two men dead. Plus we have the two guys in New Mexico. That's four."

"And you didn't use your fingers. They're not paying you enough, Agent Pistillo."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Very much," McGuane said. "I admit it. I killed them all. Happy?"

Pistillo leaned over the desk so that their faces were inches apart. "You're about to go down, McGuane."

"And you had onion soup for lunch."

"Are you aware," Pistillo said, not backing off, "that Sheila Rogers is dead too?"

"Who?"

Pistillo stood back up. "Right. You don't know her either. She doesn't work for you."

"Many people work for me. I'm a businessman."

Pistillo looked over at Fisher. "Let's go," he said.

"Leaving so soon?"