Long Lost

1

"YOU don't know her secret," Win said to me.

"Should I?"

Win shrugged.

"It's bad?" I asked.

"Very," Win said.

"Then maybe I don't want to know."

Two days before I learned the secret she'd kept buried for a decade-the seemingly personal secret that would not only devastate the two of us but change the world forever-Terese Collins called me at five AM, pushing me from one quasi-erotic dream into another. She simply said, "Come to Paris."

I had not heard her voice in, what, seven years maybe, and the line had static and she didn't bother with hello or any preamble. I stirred and said, "Terese? Where are you?"

"In a cozy hotel on the Left Bank called d'Aubusson. You'll love it here. There's an Air France flight leaving tonight at seven."

I sat up. Terese Collins. Imagery flooded in-her Class-B-felony bikini, that private island, the sun-kissed beach, her gaze that could melt teeth, her Class-B-felony bikini.

It's worth mentioning the bikini twice.

"I can't," I said.

" Paris," she said.

"I know."

Nearly a decade ago we ran away to an island as two lost souls. I thought that we would never see each other again, but we did. A few years later, she helped save my son's life. And then, poof, she was gone without a trace-until now.

"Think about it," she went on. "The City of Lights. We could make love all night long."

I managed a swallow. "Sure, yeah, but what would we do during the day?"

"If I remember correctly, you'd probably need to rest."

"And vitamin E," I said, smiling in spite of myself. "I can't, Terese. I'm involved."

"With the 9/11 widow?"

I wondered how she knew. "Yeah."

"This wouldn't be about her."

"Sorry, but I think it would."

"Are you in love?" she asked.

"Would it matter if I said yes?"

"Not really."

I switched hands. "What's wrong, Terese?"

"Nothing's wrong. I want to spend a romantic, sensual, fantasy-filled weekend with you in Paris."

Another swallow. "I haven't heard from you in, what, seven years?"

"Almost eight."

"I called," I said. "Repeatedly."

"I know."

"I left messages. I wrote letters. I tried to find you."

"I know," she said again.

There was silence. I don't like silence.

"Terese?"

"When you needed me," she said, "really needed me, I was there, wasn't I?"

"Yes."

"Come to Paris, Myron."

"Just like that?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been all this time?"

"I will tell you everything when you get here."

"I can't. I'm involved with someone."

That damn silence again.

"Terese?"

"Do you remember when we met?"

It had been on the heels of the greatest disaster of my life. I guess the same was true for her. We had both been pushed into attending a charity event by well-meaning friends, and as soon as we saw each other, it was as if our mutual misery were magnetic. I'm not a big believer in the eyes being the windows of the soul. I've known too many psychos who could fool you to rely on such pseudoscience. But the sadness was so obvious in Terese's eyes. It emanated from her entire being really, and that night, with my own life in ruins, I craved that.

Terese had a friend who owned a small Caribbean island not far from Aruba. We ran off that very night and told no one where we were going. We ended up spending three weeks there, making love, barely talking, vanishing and tearing into each other because there was nothing else.

"Of course I remember," I said.

"We both had been crushed. We never talked about it. But we both knew."

"Yes."

"Whatever crushed you," Terese said, "you were able to move past it. That's natural. We recover. We get damaged and then we rebuild."

"And you?"

"I couldn't rebuild. I don't even think I wanted to rebuild. I was shattered and maybe it was best to keep me that way."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Her voice was soft now. "I didn't think-check that, I still don't think-that I would like to see what my world would look like rebuilt. I don't think I would like the result."

"Terese?"

She didn't reply.

"I want to help," I said.

"Maybe you can't," she said. "Maybe there's no point."

More silence.

"Forget I called, Myron. Take care of yourself."

And then she was gone.

2

"AH," Win said, "the delectable Terese Collins. Now that's a top-quality, world-class derriere."

We sat in the rickety pullout stands in the Kasselton High School gymnasium. The familiar whiffs of sweat and industrial cleaner filled the air. All sounds, as in every similar gymnasium across this vast continent, were distorted, the strange echoes forming the audio equivalent of a shower curtain.

I love gyms like this. I grew up in them. I spent many of my happiest moments in similar airless confines with a basketball in my hand. I love the sound of the dribbling. I love the sheen of sweat that starts popping up on faces during warm-ups. I love the feel of the pebbly leather on your fingertips; that moment of neo-religious purity when your eyes lock on the front rim and you release the ball and it backspins and there is nothing else in the entire world.

"Glad you remember her," I said.

"Top-quality, world-class derriere."

"Yeah, I got that the first time."

Win had been my college roommate at Duke and was now my business partner and, along with Esperanza Diaz, my best friend. His real name was Windsor Horne Lockwood III, and he looked like it: thinning blond locks parted by a deity; ruddy complexion; handsome patrician face; golfer's V-neck burn; eyes the blue of ice. He wore overpriced khakis with a crease to rival the hair part, a blue Lilly Pulitzer blazer with a pink and green lining, a matching pocket hanky that puffed out like a clown's water-squirting flower.

Effete wear.

"When Terese was on TV," Win said, his snooty prep-school accent sounding as though he were explaining the obvious to a somewhat slow child, "you couldn't tell the quality. She was sitting behind the anchor desk."

"Uh-huh."

"But then I saw her in that bikini"-for those keeping score, that would be the Class-B-felony one I told you about earlier-"well, it is a wonderful asset. Wasted as an anchorwoman. It's a tragedy when you think about it."

"Like the Hindenburg," I said.

"Hilarious reference," Win said. "And oh so timely."

Win's expression was permanently set on haughty. People looked at Win and would see elitist, snobby, Old-World money. For the most part, they'd be right. But the part where they'd be wrong… that could get a man seriously maimed.

"Go on," Win said. "Finish your story."

"That's it."

Win frowned. "So when do you leave for Paris?"

"I'm not going."

On the basketball court, the second quarter began. This was fifth-grade boys' basketball. My girlfriend-the term seems rather lame but I'm not sure "lady love," "significant other," or "love monkey" really apply-Ali Wilder has two children, the younger of whom played on this team. His name is Jack, and he wasn't very good. I say that not to judge or predict future success-Michael Jordan didn't start for his high school team until his junior year-but as an observation. Jack is big for his age, husky and tall, and with that often comes lack of speed and coordination. There was a plodding quality to his athleticism.

But Jack loved the game, and that meant the world to me. Jack was a sweet kid, deeply geeky in the absolute best way, and needy, as befit a boy who lost his father so tragically and prematurely.

Ali couldn't get here until halftime and I am, if nothing else, supportive.

Win was still frowning. "Let me get this straight: You turned down spending a weekend with the delectable Ms. Collins and her world-class derriere in a boutique hotel in Paris?"

It was always a mistake talking relationships with Win.

"That's right," I said.

"Why?" Win turned toward me. He looked genuinely perplexed. Then his face relaxed. "Oh, wait."

"What?"

"She's put on weight, hasn't she?"

Win.

"I have no idea."

"So?"

"You know, so. I'm involved, remember?"

Win stared at me as if I were defecating on the court.

"What?" I said.

He sat back. "You're such a very big girl."

The game horn sounded, and Jack pulled on his goggles and lumbered toward the scorer's table with that wonderfully goofy half-smile. The Livingston fifth-grade boys were playing their archrivals from Kasselton. I tried not to smirk at the intensity-not so much the kids' as the parents' in the stands. I try not to generalize but the mothers usually broke down into two groups: the Gabbers, who used the occasion to socialize, and the Harried, who lived and died each time their offspring touched the ball.

The fathers were often more troublesome. Some managed to keep their anxiety under wraps, muttering under their breaths, biting nails. Other fathers screamed out loud. They rode refs, coaches, and kids.

One father, sitting two rows in front of us, had what Win and I had nicknamed "Spectator Tourette's," spending the entire game seemingly unable to stop himself from berating everyone around him out loud.

My perspective on this is clearer than most. I had been that rare commodity-the truly gifted athlete. This came as a shock to my entire family since the greatest Bolitar athletic accomplishment before I came around was my uncle Saul winning a shuffleboard tournament on a Princess Cruise in 1974. I graduated from Livingston High School as a Parade All-American. I was a star guard for Duke, where I captained two NCAA championship teams. I had been a first-round draft pick of the Boston Celtics.

And then, kaboom, it was all gone.

Someone yelled, "Substitution."

Jack adjusted his goggles and ran onto the court.

The coach of the opposing team pointed at Jack and shouted, "Yo, Connor! You got the new man. He's big and slow. Drive around him."

Tourette's Dad bemoaned, "It's a close game. Why are they putting him in now?"

Big and slow? Had I heard right?

I stared at the Kasselton head coach. He had highlight-filled, mousse-spiked hair and a dark goatee neatly trimmed so that he resembled an aging boy-band bass. He was tall-I'm six four and this guy had two inches on me, plus, I would guess, twenty to thirty pounds.

" ' He's big and slow'?" I repeated to Win. "Can you believe the coach just yelled that out loud?"

Win shrugged.

I tried to shake it off too. Heat of the game. Let it go.

The score was tied at twenty-four when disaster struck. It was right after a time-out and Jack's team was inbounding the ball under the opposing team's hoop. Kasselton decided to throw a surprise press at them. Jack was free. The ball was passed to him, but for a moment, with the defense on him, Jack got confused. It happens.

Jack looked for help. He turned toward the Kasselton bench, the one closest to him, and Big Spiky-Haired Coach yelled, "Shoot! Shoot!" and pointed to the basket.

The wrong basket.

"Shoot!" the coach yelled again.

And Jack, who naturally liked to please and who trusted adults, did.

The ball went in. To the wrong hoop. Two points for Kasselton.

The Kasselton parents whooped with cheers and even laughter. The Livingston parents threw up their hands and moaned over a fifth grader's mistake. And then the Kasselton coach, the guy with the spiky hair and boy-band goatee, high-fived his assistant coach, pointed at Jack, and shouted, "Hey, kid, do that again!"

Jack may have been the biggest kid on the court, but right now he looked as if he were trying very hard to be as small as possible. The goofy half-smile fled. His lip twitched. His eyes blinked. Every part of the boy cringed and so did my heart.

A father from Kasselton was whooping it up. He laughed, cupped his hands into a flesh megaphone, and shouted, "Pass it to the big kid on the other team! He's our best weapon!"

Win tapped the man on the shoulder. "You will shut up right now."

The father turned to Win, saw the effete wear and the blond hair and the porcelain features. He was about to smirk and snap a comeback, but something-probably something survival basic and reptilian brained-made him think better of it. His eyes met Win's ice blues and then he lowered them and said, "Yeah, sorry, that was out of line."

I barely heard. I couldn't move. I sat in the stands and stared at the smug, spiky-haired coach. I felt the tick in my blood.

The buzzer sounded, signaling halftime. The coach was still laughing and shaking his head in amazement. One of his assistant coaches walked over and shook his hand. So did a few of the parents and spectators.

"I must depart," Win said.

I did not respond.

"Should I stick around? Just in case?"

"No."

Win gave a curt nod and left. I still had my gaze locked on that Kasselton coach. I rose and started down the rickety stands. My footsteps fell like thunder. The coach started for the door. I followed. He headed into the bathroom grinning like the idiot he undoubtedly was. I waited for him by the door.

When he emerged, I said, "Classy."

The words "Coach Bobby" were sewn in script onto his shirt. He stopped and stared at me. "Excuse me?"

"Encouraging a ten-year-old to shoot at the wrong basket," I said. "And that hilarious line about 'Hey, kid, do it again' after you help humiliate him. You're a class act, Coach Bobby."

The coach's eyes narrowed. Up close he was big and broad and had thick forearms and large knuckles and a Neanderthal brow. I knew the type. We all do.

"Part of the game, pal."

"Mocking a ten-year-old is part of the game?"

"Getting in his head. Forcing your opponent to make a mistake."

I said nothing. He sized me up and decided that, yeah, he could take me. Big guys like Coach Bobby are sure they can take pretty much anyone. I just stared at him.

"You got a problem?" he said.

"These are ten-year-old kids."

"Right, sure, kids. What are you-one of those namby-pamby, touchy-feely daddies who thinks everyone should be equal on the court? No one should get their feelings hurt, no one should win or lose… hey, maybe we shouldn't even keep score, right?"

The Kasselton assistant coach came over. He had on a matching shirt that read "Assistant Coach Pat." "Bobby? Second half's about to start."

I took a step closer. "Just knock it off."

Coach Bobby gave me the predictable smirk and reply. "Or what?"

"He's a sensitive boy."

"Boo hoo. If he's that sensitive, maybe he shouldn't play."

"And maybe you shouldn't coach."

Assistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. "Well, well, well."

Coach Bobby said, "What?"

"Do you know who this guy is?"

"Who?"

"Myron Bolitar."

You could see Coach Bobby working the name, as if his forehead had a window and the squirrel running on the little track was picking up speed. When the synapses stopped firing, Coach Bobby's grin practically ripped the boy-band goatee at the corners.

"That big 'superstar'"-he actually made quotation marks with his fingers-"who couldn't hack it in the pros? The world-famous first-round bust?"

"The very one," Assistant Coach Pat added.

"Now I get it."

"Hey, Coach Bobby?" I said.

"What?"

"Just leave the kid alone."

The brow thickened. "You don't want to mess with me," he said.

"You're right. I don't. I want you to leave the kid alone."

"Not a chance, pal." He smiled and moved a little closer to me. "You got a problem with that?"

"I do, very much."

"So how about you and me discuss this further after the game? Privately?"

Flares started lighting up my veins. "Are you challenging me to a fight?"

"Yep. Unless, of course, you're chicken. Are you chicken?"

"I'm not chicken," I said.

Sometimes I'm good with the snappy comebacks. Try to keep up.

"I got a game to coach. But then you and me, we settle this. You got me?"

"Got you," I said.

Again with the snappy. I'm on a roll.

Coach Bobby put his finger in my face. I debated biting it off-that always gets a man's attention. "You're a dead man, Bolitar. You hear me? A dead man."

"A deaf man?" I said.

"A dead man."

"Oh, good, because if I were a deaf man, I wouldn't be able to hear you. Come to think of it, if I were a dead man, I wouldn't be able to either."

The horn sounded. Assistant Coach Pat said, "Come on, Bobby."

"Dead man," he said one more time.

I cupped my hand to my ear, hard-of-hearing style, and shouted, "What?" but he had already spun away.

I watched him. He had that confident, slow swagger, shoulders back, arms swaying a tad too much. I was going to yell out something stupid when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Ali, Jack's mother.

"What was that all about?" Ali asked.

Ali had these big green eyes and this cute, wide-open face I found fairly irresistible. I wanted to pick her up and smother her with kisses, but some might deem this the wrong venue.

"Nothing," I said.

"How did the first half go?"

"We're down by two, I think."

"Did Jack score?"

"I don't think so, no."

Ali studied my face for a moment and saw something she didn't like. I turned away and headed back up the stands. I sat. Ali sat next to me. Two minutes into the game, Ali said, "So what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

I shifted in the uncomfortable bleacher.

"Liar," Ali said.

"Just getting into the game."

"Liar."

I glanced over at her, at the lovely, open face, at the freckles that shouldn't be there at this age but made her damn adorable, and saw something too. "You look a little distracted yourself."

Not just today, I thought, but for the past few weeks things had not been great between us. Ali had been distant and troubled and wouldn't talk about it. I had been pretty busy with work myself so I hadn't pushed it.

Ali kept her eyes on the court. "Did Jack play well?"

"Fine," I said. Then I added, "What time is your flight tomorrow?"

"Three."

"I'll drive you to the airport."

Ali's daughter, Erin, was matriculating at Arizona State. Ali, Erin, and Jack were flying out for the week to get the freshman settled.

"That's okay. I already hired a car."

"I'd be happy to drive."

"It'll be fine."

Her voice cut off any further discussions on that issue. I tried to settle back and watch the game. My pulse still raced. A few minutes later, Ali asked, "Why do you keep staring at the other coach?"

"Which coach?"

"The one with the bad cable-show dye job and Robin Hood facial hair."

"Looking for grooming tips," I said.

She almost smiled.

"Did Jack play a lot in the first half?"

"Usual amount," I said.

The game ended, Kasselton winning by three. The crowd erupted. Jack's coach, a good guy by all counts, had chosen not to play him at all in the second half. Ali was a tad perturbed by this-the coach was usually good about giving kids equal time-but she decided to let it go.

The teams disappeared into corners for the postgame spiel. Ali and I waited outside the gym door, in the school corridor. It didn't take long. Coach Bobby started toward me, the same swagger, though now his hands had tightened into fists. He had three other guys with him, including Assistant Coach Pat, all big and overweight and not nearly as tough as they thought they were. Coach Bobby stopped about a yard short of yours truly. His three compadres spread out and folded their arms and stared at me.

For a moment no one spoke. They just gave me the hard eyes.

"Is this the part where I pee in my pants?" I asked.

Coach Bobby started with the finger again. "Do you know the Landmark Bar in Livingston?"

"Sure," I said.

"Tonight at ten. Back parking lot."

"That's past my curfew," I said. "And I'm not that kind of date. Dinner first. Maybe bring flowers."

"If you don't show"-he moved in closer with the finger-"I will find some other way to get satisfaction. You get me?"

I didn't but before I could ask for clarification he stomped off. His buddies followed suit. They looked back at me. I gave them all a five-finger toodle-loo wave. When one of them let his stare linger past the comfort zone, I blew him a kiss. He turned away as if he'd been slapped.

Blowing a kiss-my favorite rile-up-the-homophobe move.

I turned to Ali, saw her face, thought Uh-oh…

"What the hell was that?"

"Something happened during the game before you got here," I said.

"What?"

I told her.

"So you confronted the coach?"

"Yes."

"Why?" she asked.

"What do you mean, why?"

"You made it worse. He's a blowhard. The kids get that."

"Jack was practically in tears."

"Then I'll handle it. I don't need your macho posturing."

"It wasn't macho posturing. I wanted him to stop picking on Jack."

"No wonder Jack didn't get to play in the second half. His coach probably saw your idiotic display and was smart enough not to fan the flames. Do you feel better now?"

"Not yet, no," I said, "but after I smash his face in at the Landmark, yeah, I think I will."

"Don't even think about it."

"You heard what he said."

Ali shook her head. "I can't believe this. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I was sticking up for Jack."

"That's not your place. You have no right here. You're…"

She stopped.

"Say it, Ali."

She closed her eyes.

"You're right. I'm not his father."

"That's not what I was going to say."

It was, but I let it go. "Maybe it's not my place, if it was about that-except that wasn't it. I would have gone after that guy even if he said it about another kid."

"Why?"

"Because it's wrong."

"And who are you to make that call?"

"What call? There's wrong. There's right. He was wrong."

"He's an arrogant ass. Some people are. That's life. Jack understands that, or he will with experience. That's part of growing up-dealing with asses. Don't you see that?"

I said nothing.

"And if my son was so gravely wounded," Ali said between clenched teeth, "who do you think you are to not tell me? I even asked why you two were talking at halftime, remember?"

"I do."

"You said it was nothing. What were you thinking-humble the little lady?"

"No, of course not."

Ali shook her head and stopped talking.

"What?" I asked.

"I let you get too close to him," she said.

I felt my heart nose-dive.

"Damn," she said.

I waited.

"For a wonderful guy who is usually so damn perceptive, you can be pretty obtuse sometimes."

"Maybe I shouldn't have gone after him, okay? But if you'd been there when he yelled at Jack to do it again, if you'd seen Jack's face…"

"I'm not talking about that."

I stopped, considered. "Then you're right. I am obtuse."

I'm six four, Ali a foot shorter. She stood close and looked way up at me. "I'm not going to Arizona to get Erin settled. Or at least not just for that. My parents live there. And his parents live there."

I knew who his referred to-her late husband, the ghost I've learned to accept and even, at times, embrace. The ghost never leaves. I'm not sure that he ever should, though there are times I wish he would and of course that's a horrible thing to think.

"They-I mean, both sets of grandparents-want us to move out there. So we can be near them. It makes sense when you think about it."

I nodded because I didn't know what else to do.

"Jack and Erin and, heck, me too, we need that."

"Need what?"

"Family. His parents need to be part of Jack's life. They can't handle the cold weather up here anymore. Do you understand that?"

"Of course I understand."

My words sounded funny in my own ears, as if someone else were saying them.

"My parents found a place they want us to look at," Ali said. "It's in the same condo development as theirs."

"Condos are nice," I said, babbling. "Low maintenance. You pay that one monthly fee and that's it, right?"

Now she said nothing.

"So," I said, "to put it right out there, what does this mean for us?"

"Do you want to move to Scottsdale?" she asked.

I hesitated.

She put a hand on my arm. "Look at me."

I did. And then she said something I never saw coming:

"We're not forever, Myron. We both know that."

A group of kids rushed past us. One bumped into me and actually said, "Excuse me." A ref blew a whistle. A horn sounded.

"Mom?"

Jack, bless his little heart, appeared around the corner. We both snapped out of it and smiled toward him. He did not smile back. Usually, no matter how awful he'd played, Jack came bounding out like a born-again puppy, offering up smiles and high fives. Part of the kid's charm. But not today.

"Hey, kiddo," I said, because I wasn't sure what to say. Lots of times I hear people in similar situations say, "Good game," but kids know that it's a lie and that they're being patronized and that just makes it worse.

Jack ran over to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my chest, started to sob. I felt my heart crack anew. I stood there, cupping the back of his head. Ali was watching my face. I didn't like what I saw.

"Tough day," I said. "We all have them. Don't let it get to you, okay? You did your best, that's all you can do." Then I added something the boy would never understand but was absolutely true: "These games aren't really that important."

Ali put her hands on her son's shoulder. He let go of me, turned to her, buried his face again. We stood there like that for a minute, until he calmed down. Then I clapped my hands and forced up a smile.

"Anyone up for ice cream?"

Jack rebounded fast. "Me!"

"Not today," Ali said. "We need to pack and get ready."

Jack frowned.

"Maybe another time."

I expected Jack to give an "awww, Mom," but maybe he heard something in her tone too. He tilted his head and then turned back to me without another word. We knuckled up-that was how we said hello and good-bye, the fist-knuckle salute-and Jack started for the door.

Ali gestured with her eyes for me to look right. I followed the gesture to Coach Bobby. "Don't you dare fight him," she said.

"He challenged me," I said.

"The bigger man steps away."

"In the movies maybe. In places filled with pixie dust and Easter Bunnies and pretty fairies. But in real life, the man who steps away is considered a big-time wuss."

"Then for me, okay? For Jack. Don't go to that bar tonight. Promise me."

"He said if I didn't show, he'd get satisfaction or something."

"He's a blowhard. Promise me."

She made me meet her eyes.

I hesitated but not for long. "Okay, I won't show."

She turned to walk away. There was no kiss, not even a buss on the cheek.

"Ali?"

"What?"

The corridor suddenly seemed very empty.

"Are we breaking up?"

"Do you want to live in Scottsdale?"

"You want an answer right now?"

"No. But I already know the answer. So do you."

3

I'M not sure how much time passed. Probably a minute or two. Then I headed out to my car. The skies were gray. A drizzle coated me. I stopped for a moment, closed my eyes, raised my face to the heavens. I thought about Ali. I thought about Terese in a boutique hotel in Paris.

I lowered my face, took two more steps-and that was when I spotted Coach Bobby and his buddies in a Ford Expedition.

Sigh.

All four of them were there: Assistant Coach Pat drove, Coach Bobby was in the passenger seat, the other two slabs of beef sat in the back. I took out my mobile phone and hit the speed-dial button one. Win answered on the first ring.

"Articulate," Win said.

That's how he always answers the phone, even when he can clearly see on the caller ID that it's me, and yes, it is annoying.

"You better circle back," I said.

"Oh," Win said, his voice kid-on-Christmas-morning happy, "goodie, goodie."

"How long will it take?"

"I'm just down the street. I suspected something like this might occur."

"Don't shoot anyone," I said.

"Yes, Mother."

My car was parked near the back of the lot. The Expedition followed slowly. The drizzle picked up a bit. I wondered what their plan was-something moronically macho, no doubt-and decided to just play it as it lays.

Win's Jag appeared and waited in the distance. I drive a Ford Taurus, aka The Chick Trawler. Win hates my car. He won't sit in it. I took out my keys and hit the remote. The car made that little ding noise and unlocked. I slipped inside. The Expedition made its big move then. It raced forward and stopped directly behind the Taurus, blocking me in. Coach Bobby jumped out first, petting his goatee. His two buddies followed.

I sighed and watched their approach in my rearview mirror.

"Something I can do for you?" I said.

"Heard your girl chewing you out," he said.

"Eavesdropping is considered rude, Coach Bobby."

"I figured maybe you'd change your mind and wouldn't show. So I thought we could settle this now. Right here."

Coach Bobby leaned his face right into mine.

"Unless you're chicken."

I said, "Did you have tuna for lunch?"

Win's Jaguar pulled up next to the Expedition. Coach Bobby took a step back and narrowed his eyes. Win got out. The four men looked at him and frowned.

"Who the hell is he?"

Win smiled and raised his hand as if he'd just been introduced on a talk show and wanted to acknowledge the applause of the studio audience. "Nice to be here," he said. "Thank you very much."

"He's a friend," I said. "Here to even up the odds."

"Him?" Bobby laughed. His chorus joined in. "Oh yeah, sure."

I got out of the car. Win moved a little closer to the three buddies.

Coach Bobby said, "I'm so gonna kick your ass."

I shrugged. "Take your best shot."

"Too many people around. There's a clearing in the woods right behind that field," he said, pointing the way. "No one will bother us there."

Win asked, "How, pray tell, do you know about this clearing?"

"I went to high school here. Kicked a lot of ass back there." He actually puffed out his chest as he added: "I was also captain of the football team."

"Wow," Win said in a perfect monotone. "Can I wear your varsity jacket to the prom?"

Coach Bobby pointed a beefy finger in Win's direction. "You'll be using it to soak up blood, you don't shut up."

Win tried very hard not to look overly giddy.

I thought about my promise to Ali. "We're two mature adults," I said. Each word felt like I was spitting out broken glass. "We should be above resorting to fisticuffs, don't you think?"

I looked past him toward Win. Win was frowning. "Did you really use the term 'fisticuffs'?"

Coach Bobby moved into my personal space. "You chicken?"

Again with the chicken.

But I was the bigger man-and the bigger man's the one who walks away. Sure, right.

"Yes," I said, "I'm chicken. Happy?"

"You hear that guys? He's chicken."

I winced but stayed strong. Or weak, depending on how you want to look at it. Yep, the bigger man. That was me.

I don't think I have ever seen Win look so crestfallen.

"Do you mind moving your car now so I can go?" I asked.

"Okay," Coach Bobby said, "but I warned you."

"Warned me about what?"

He was back in my personal space. "You don't want to fight, fine. But then it's hunting season on your boy out there."

I felt a rush of blood in my ears.

"What are you talking about?"

"The spastic kid who shot in the wrong basket? The rest of the season he's a target. We have a chance at a cheap shot, we take it. We see an opportunity to get in his head, we go for it."

My mouth may have dropped open, I'm not sure. I looked toward Win to make sure I heard right. Win no longer looked so crestfallen. He rubbed his hands together.

I turned back to Coach Bobby. "Are you serious?"

"Like a heart attack."

I replayed my promise to Ali, looking for a loophole. After my career-ending basketball injury I needed to prove to the world that I was just fine, thank you very much. So I attended law school-at Harvard. Myron Bolitar, the complete package-scholar-athlete, overeducated-though-debonair attorney. I had a law degree. And that meant I could find loopholes.

What had I actually promised to do here? I thought about Ali's exact words: "Don't go to the bar tonight. Promise me."

Well, this wasn't a bar, was it? It was a wooded area behind a high school. Sure, I might be defying the intent of the law, but not the letter. And the letter was key here.

"Let's do this," I said.

The six of us started toward the woods. Win practically skipped. About twenty yards into the trees, there was an opening. The ground was littered with cigarette butts and beer cans. High school. It never changes.

Coach Bobby took his place in the center of the opening. He lifted his right arm and beckoned for me to join him. I did.

"Gentlemen," Win said, "a moment of your time before they commence."

All eyes turned to him. Win stood with Assistant Coach Pat and the two bruisers near a large maple tree.

"I would feel remiss," Win continued, "if I failed to offer up this important advisory."

"What the hell are you babbling about?" Coach Bobby said.

"I'm not speaking to you. This advisory is for your three chums." Win's gaze traveled over their faces. "You may be tempted to step in and help Coach Bobby at some point. That will be a huge mistake. The first one of you who takes even one step in their direction will be hospitalized. Note I did not say stopped, hurt, or even harmed. Hospitalized."

They all just looked at him.

"That's the end of my advisory." He turned back toward Coach Bobby and me. "We now return you to our regularly scheduled brawl."

Coach Bobby looked at me. "This guy for real?"

But I was in the zone right now and it wasn't a good one. Rage was consuming me. That's a mistake when you fight. You need to slow things down, keep your pulse from racing, keep your adrenaline rush from paralyzing you.

Bobby looked at me and for the first time I saw doubt in his eyes. But now I remembered how he laughed, how he pointed to the wrong basket, what he'd said:

"Hey, kid, do that again!"

I took a deep breath.

Coach Bobby put up his fists like a boxer. I did likewise, though my stance was far less rigid. I kept my knees flexed, bounced a bit. Bobby was a very big guy and local-neighborhood tough and used to intimidating opponents. But he was out of his league.

A few quick facts about fighting. One, the cardinal rule: You never really know how it is going to go. Anyone can land a lucky blow. Overconfidence is always a mistake. But the truth was, Coach Bobby had virtually no chance. I don't say this to sound immodest or repetitive. Despite what the parents in those rickety stands want to believe with their private coaches and overly aggressive third-grade travel league schedules, athletes are mostly created in the womb. Yes, you need the hunger and the training and the practice, but the difference, the big difference, is natural ability.

Nature over nurture every time.

I had been gifted with ridiculously quick reflexes and hand-eye coordination. That's not bragging. It's like your hair color or your height or your hearing. It just is. And I'm not even talking here about the years of training I did to improve my body and to learn how to fight. But that's there too.

Coach Bobby did the predictable thing. He stepped in and threw a wild roundhouse. A roundhouse isn't an effective punch against a seasoned fighter. You learn quickly that when it counts, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You are better off throwing blows with that knowledge.

I slid a little to the right. Not a lot. Just enough so that I could deflect the blow with my left hand and stay close enough to counter. I stepped inside Bobby's exposed defense. Time had slowed down now. I could hit one of several soft targets.

I chose the throat.

I bent my right arm and smashed my forearm into the Adam's apple.

Coach Bobby made a squawking noise. The fight was over right there. I knew that. Or at least I should have. I should have stepped back and let him gasp to the ground.

But that mocking voice was still in my head…

"Hey, kid, do that again… The rest of the season he's a target… We have a chance at a cheap shot, we take it… Chicken!"

I should have let him fall. I should have asked him if he'd had enough and ended it that way. But the anger was out now. I couldn't harness it. I bent my left arm and began to spin full force counterclockwise. I planned on landing an elbow blow directly to the big man's face.

It would be, I realized as I spun, a devastating blow. The kind of blow that caves in the bones of a face. The kind of blow that leads to surgery and months of pain meds.

At the last second, I came just enough to my senses. I didn't stop, but I pulled back a little. Instead of landing square, my elbow careened across Bobby's nose. Blood spurted. There was a sound like someone had stepped on dried twigs.

Bobby fell hard to the ground.

"Bobby!"

It was Assistant Coach Pat. I turned toward him, put up my palms, and shouted, "Don't!"

But it was too late. Pat took a step forward, his fist cocked.

Win's body barely moved. Just his leg. He snapped a kick at Coach Pat's left knee. The joint bent sidewise, in a way it was never supposed to. Pat screamed and dropped to the dirt as though he'd been shot.

Win smiled and arched his eyebrow toward the other two men. "Next?"

Neither man did so much as breathe.

My rage dissipated all at once. Coach Bobby was on his knees now, cradling his nose as if it were a wounded animal. I looked down at him. It amazed me how much a beaten man looks like a little boy.

"Let me help you," I said.

Blood poured from his nose through his fingers. "Get away from me!"

"You need to put pressure on that. Stop the bleeding."

"I said, stay away!"

I was about to say something in my defense, but I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Win. He shook his head as if to say, No use. He was right.

We left the woods without another word.

When I got home an hour later, there were two voice mails. Both were short and very much to the point. The first was hardly a surprise. Bad news travels fast in small towns.

Ali said, "I can't believe you broke your promise."

That was it.

I sighed. Violence doesn't solve anything. Win would make a face when I said that, but the truth was, whenever I resorted to violence, which used to be fairly frequently, it never just ended there. Violence ripples and reverberates. It echoes and really never seems to go silent.

The second message on the voice mail came from Terese:

"Please come."

Any attempt at hiding the desperation was gone.

Two minutes later my cell vibrated. The caller ID told me it was Win.

"We have a small situation," he said.

"What's that?"

"Assistant Coach Pat, he of the need for orthopedic surgery?"

"What about him?"

"He is a police officer in Kasselton. A captain, in fact, though I won't ask to wear his varsity jacket to the prom."

"Oh," I said.

"Apparently they are thinking of making arrests."

"They started it," I said.

"Oh yes," Win said, "and I'm certain that everyone in town will take our word over a local police captain's and three lifelong residents."

He had a point.

"But I was thinking," he went on, "that we might enjoy a few weeks in Thailand whilst my attorney works this out."

"Not a bad idea."

"I know of a new gentlemen's club in Bangkok off Patpong Street. We could begin our journey there."

"I don't think so," I said.

"Such a prude. But either way, you should probably make yourself scarce too."

"That's my plan."

We hung up. I called Air France. "Any room left on tonight's flight to Paris?"

"Your name, sir?"

"Myron Bolitar."

"You're already booked and ticketed. Would you like a window or an aisle seat?"

4

I used my frequent flier miles to get an upgrade. I don't need the free booze or better meal, but the legroom meant a great deal to me. When I'm in coach I always get the middle seat between two ginormous bruisers with space issues, and in front of me, without fail, is a tiny old lady whose feet don't even touch the ground but she has to put her seat back as far as humanly possible, getting a nearly sexual thrill as she hears it crunch against my knees, tilting back far enough so that I can spend the entire flight looking for dandruff flakes in her scalp.

I didn't have Terese's phone number, but I remembered the Hotel d'Aubusson. I called and left a message that I was on my way. I got onto the plane and jammed the iPod buds into my ear. I quickly slipped into that airplane half-sleep, thinking about Ali, the first time I had dated a woman with children, a widow no less, the way she turned away after she said, "We're not forever, Myron…"

Was she right?

I tried to imagine life without her.

Did I love Ali Wilder? Yes.

I had loved three women in my life. The first was Emily Downing, my college sweetheart from Duke. She had ended up dumping me for my college rival from North Carolina. My second love, the closest thing I've had to a soul mate, was Jessica Culver, a writer. Jessica had also crushed my heart like it was a Styrofoam cup-or maybe in the end I had crushed hers. It was hard to know anymore. I had loved her with everything I had, but it had not been enough. She was married now. To a guy named Stone. Stone. I kid you not.

The third, well, Ali Wilder. I had been the first man she dated after her husband died in the North Tower on 9/11. Our love was strong, but it was also calmer and more mature and maybe love wasn't supposed to be like that. I knew the ending would sting but it wouldn't be devastating. I wondered if that too came with maturity, or if after years of getting the heart crushed, you naturally start being protective.

Or maybe Ali was right. We weren't forever. Simple as that.

There is an old Yiddish phrase I find apropos-but not by choice: "Man plans, God laughs." I am a prime example. My life was pretty much laid out for me. I was a basketball star my entire childhood, destined to be an NBA player for the Boston Celtics. But in my very first preseason game, Big Burt Wesson slammed into me and ruined my knee. I tried gamely to come back, but there is a big difference between gamely and effectively. My career was over before I hit the parquet floor.

I was also destined to be a family man like the man I most admired in the world: Al Bolitar, my father. He had married his sweetheart, my mom, Ellen, and they moved to the suburb of Livingston, New Jersey, and raised a family and worked hard and threw barbecues in the backyard. That was supposed to be my life-supportive spouse, two-point-six children, afternoons sitting in those rickety stands watching my own offspring, a dog maybe, a rusted hoop in the driveway, visits to the Home Depot and Modell's Sporting Goods on Saturdays. You get the idea.

But here I am, north of forty now, and still unmarried with no family.

"Would you care for a beverage?" the flight attendant asked me.

I'm not much of a drinker but I asked for a scotch and soda. Win's drink. I needed something to numb me a little, help me sleep. I closed my eyes again. Back to blocking. Blocking was good.

So where did Terese Collins, the woman I was flying across an ocean to see, fit in?

I never thought of Terese in terms of love. Not like that anyway. I thought about her supple skin and the smell of cocoa butter. I thought about the grief coming off her in waves. I thought about the way we made love on that island, two shipwrecks. When Win finally came via yacht to bring me home, I was stronger from our time together. She was not. We said our good-byes, but that hadn't been the end of us. Terese helped me when I needed it most, eight years ago, and then she vanished back into her hurt.

Now she was back.

For eight years, Terese Collins had been gone not only from me but from public view. In the nineties, she had been a popular TV personality, CNN's top anchorwoman, and then, poof, gone.

The plane landed and taxied to the gate. I grabbed my bag-no need to check luggage when it was for only a couple of nights- and wondered what awaited me. I was the third off the plane, and with my long stride I quickly took the number one spot as we headed for the customs and immigration line. I had hoped to breeze through but three other flights had just landed and there was a logjam.

The line snaked through roped-off areas Disney World-style. It moved fast. The agents were mostly just waving people through, giving each passport little more than a cursory glance. When it was my turn, the female immigration officer looked at my passport, then at my face, then back at the passport, then back at me. Her eyes lingered. I smiled at her, keeping the Bolitar Charm setting on Low. I didn't want the poor woman disrobing right there at customs.

The agent turned away as if I'd said something rude. She nodded at a male agent. When she turned back to me, I figured I should up my game. Widen the smile. Turn the charm setting from Low to Stun.

"Step to the side, please," she said with a frown.

I was still grinning like an idiot. "Why?"

"My colleague will take care of your case."

"I'm a case?" I said.

"Please step to the side."

I was holding up the line and the passengers behind me were not pleased about it. I stepped to the side. The other uniformed agent said, "Please follow me."

I didn't like this, but what choice did I have? I wondered, why me? Maybe there was a French law against being this charming because-snap-there should be.

The agent led me into a small windowless room. The walls were beige and bare. There were two hooks behind the door with hangers on them. The seats were molded plastic. There was a table in the corner. The officer took my bag and put it on the table. He started rummaging through it.

"Empty your pockets, please. Put everything in this bowl. Remove your shoes."

I did. Wallet, BlackBerry, loose change, shoes.

"I need to search you."

He was pretty thorough. I was going to make a joke about him enjoying it or maybe say a boat ride on the Bateau Mouche would be nice before he felt me up, but I wondered about the French sense of humor. Wasn't Jerry Lewis an icon here? Maybe a sight gag would be more appropriate.

"Please sit."

I did. He left, taking the bowl with my belongings with him. For thirty minutes I sat there alone-cooling my heels, as they say. I didn't like this.

Two men stepped into the room. The first was younger, late twenties maybe, good-looking with sandy hair and that three-day growth pretty boys use to look more rugged. He wore jeans and boots and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the start of the elbow. He leaned his back against a wall, folded his arms across his chest, and chewed a toothpick.

The second man was midfifties with oversize wire-rimmed glasses and tired gray hair that was dangerously close to a comb-over. He was drying his hands on a paper towel as he entered. His windbreaker looked like something Members Only sold in 1986.

So much for Frenchmen and their haute couture.

The older man did the talking. "What is the purpose of your visit to France?"

I looked at him, then at the toothpick chewer, then back to him. "And you are?"

"I'm Captain Berleand. This is Officer Lefebvre."

I nodded at Lefebvre. He chewed the toothpick some more.

"Purpose of your visit?" Berleand asked again. "Business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure."

"Where will you be staying?"

"In Paris."

"Where in Paris?"

"At the Hotel d'Aubusson."

He didn't write it down. Neither of them had pen or paper.

"Will you be by yourself?" Berleand asked.

"No."

Berleand was still wiping his hands on the paper towel. He stopped, used one finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. When I still hadn't said anything else, he shrugged a "Well?" at me.

"I'm meeting a friend."

"The friend's name?"

"Is that necessary?" I asked.

"No, Mr. Bolitar, I'm nosy and am asking for no apparent reason."

The French are into sarcasm.

"The name?"

"Terese Collins," I said.

"What is your occupation?"

"I'm an agent."

Berleand looked confused. Lefebvre, it seemed, didn't speak English.

"I represent actors, athletes, writers, entertainers," I explained.

Berleand nodded, satisfied. The door opened. The first officer handed Berleand the bowl with my belongings. He put it on the table next to my bag. Then he started wiping his hands again.

"You and Ms. Collins didn't travel together, did you?"

"No, she is already in Paris."

"I see. How long do you plan on staying in France?"

"I'm not sure. Two, three nights."

Berleand looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre nodded, peeled himself off the wall, headed for the door. Berleand followed.

"Sorry for any inconvenience," Berleand said. "I hope you have a pleasant stay."

5

TERESE Collins was waiting for me in the lobby.

She hugged me but not too hard. Her body leaned against mine for support, but again not that much, not a total collapse or anything. We were both reserved in our first greeting in eight years. Still, as we held each other, I closed my eyes and thought I could smell the cocoa butter.

My mind flashed to the Caribbean island, but mostly it flashed-let's be honest here-to the thing that truly defined us: the soul-piercing sex. That desperate clawing and shredding that makes you understand, in a totally non-sadomasochistic way, how pain-emotional pain-and pleasure not only intermingle but amplify each other. Neither of us had an interest in words or feelings or false comforts or hand-holding or even, well, reserved hugs-as if all that stuff were too tender, as if a gentle caress might pop this fragile bubble that temporarily protected us both.

Terese pulled back. She was still knee-knockingly beautiful. There had been aging, but on some women-maybe most women in this era of too much facial tucking-a little aging works.

"So what's wrong?" I asked.

"That's your opening line after all these years?"

I shrugged.

"I opened with 'Come to Paris,' " Terese said.

"I'm working on dialing back the charm," I said, "at least until I know what's wrong."

"You must be exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"I got a room for us. A duplex. Separate sleeping areas so we can have that option."

I said nothing.

"Man." Terese managed a smile. "It's so good to see you."

I felt the same. Maybe it had never been love, but it was there, strong and true and special. Ali said we weren't forever. With Terese, well, maybe we weren't everyday, but it was something, something hard to define, something you could put on a nearby shelf for years and forget about and take for granted and maybe that was how it should be.

"You knew I'd come," I said.

"Yes. And you know the same is true if you'd been the one to call."

I did. "You look great," I said.

"Come on. Let's get something to eat."

The doorman took my suitcase and sneaked an admiring glance at Terese before giving me the universal man-to-man smirk that said, Lucky bastard.

The Rue Dauphine is a narrow road. A white van had double-parked next to a taxi, taking up nearly the entire street. The driver of the taxi was screaming what I could only assume were French obscenities but it might have just been a particularly aggressive way of asking for directions.

We turned right. It was nine in the morning. New York City might be in full swing by that hour, but strolling Parisians were still rousing themselves from their beds. We reached the Seine River at the Pont Neuf. In the distance on our right, I could see the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. Terese started down the river walk in that direction, past the green boxes that were famous for selling antique books but seemed more intent on pushing chintzy souvenirs. Across the river, a giant fortress with a gorgeous mansard roof rose, to quote Springsteen, bold and stark.

As we got closer to Notre Dame, I said, "Would you be embarrassed if I rounded my shoulders, dragged my left leg, and shouted, 'Sanctuary!'"

"Some might mistake you for a tourist," Terese said.

"Good point. Maybe I should buy a beret with my name stenciled on the front."

"Yeah, then you'd blend right in."

Terese still had that incredible walk, head held high, shoulders back, perfect posture. One more thing I just realized about all the women in my life: They all have great walks. I find confident walks sexy, the near prowl-like way certain women enter a room as if they already own it. You can tell a lot by the way a woman walks.

We stopped at an outdoor bistro on Saint Michel. The sky was still gray but you could see the sun fighting to take control. Terese sat and studied my face for a very long time.

"Uh, do I have something stuck in my teeth?" I asked.

Terese managed a smile. "God, I've missed you."

Her words hung in the air. I didn't know if she was doing the talking now or this city. Paris was like that. Much has been written about its beauty and splendors, and sure, that was true. Every building was a mini architectural wonder, a feast for the eyes. Paris was like the beautiful woman who knew she was beautiful, liked the fact that she was beautiful and, ergo, didn't have to try so hard. She was fabulous and you both knew it.

But more than that, Paris makes you feel-for lack of a better term-alive. Check that. Paris makes you want to feel alive. You want to do and be and savor when you are here. You want to feel, simply feel, and it doesn't matter what. All sensation is heightened. Paris makes you want to cry and laugh and fall in love and write a poem and make love and compose a symphony.

Terese reached her hand across the table and took mine.

"You could have called," I said. "You could have let me know you were okay."

"I know."

"I haven't moved," I said. "My office is still on Park Avenue. I still share Win's apartment at the Dakota."

"And you bought your parents' house in Livingston," she added.

It wasn't a slip of the tongue. Terese knew about the house. She knew about Ali. Terese wanted me to know that she'd been keeping tabs on me.

"You just disappeared," I said.

"I know."

"I tried to find you."

"I know that too."

"Can you stop saying 'I know'?"

"Okay."

"So what happened?" I asked.

She took back her hand. Her eyes drifted toward the Seine. A young couple walked by us. They were fighting in French. The woman was outraged. She picked up a crushed soda can and hurled it at her boyfriend's head.

"You wouldn't understand," Terese said.

"That's worse than 'I know.' "

Her smile was so sad. "I'm damaged goods. I would have taken you down with me. I cared too much about you to let that happen."

I understood. And I didn't. "No offense, but that sounds like a load of self-rationalization."

"It's not."

"So where have you been, Terese?"

"Hiding."

"From what?"

She shook her head.

"So why am I here?" I asked. "And please don't tell me it's because you missed me."

"It isn't. I mean, I do miss you. You have no idea how much. But you're right, that's not why I called."

"So?"

The waiter appeared in a black apron and white shirt. Terese ordered for both of us in fluent French. I don't speak a word of French so for all I know she ordered me diaper rash on whole wheat.

"A week ago I got a call from my ex-husband," she said.

I hadn't even known she'd been married.

"I hadn't spoken to Rick in nine years."

"Nine years," I repeated. "That would be right around the time we met."

She looked at me.

"Don't be dazzled by my mathematical prowess," I said. "Math is one of my hidden talents. I try not to brag."

"You're wondering if Rick and I were still married when we ran off to that island," she said.

"Not really."

"You're so damn proper."

"No," I said, thinking again about the soul piercing on that island, "I'm not."

"As I can attest?"

"Again," I said, "hidden talents-I try not to brag."

"Good thing. But let me set your mind at ease. Rick and I weren't together when we met."

"So what did ex-husband Rick want?"

"He said he was in Paris. He said it was urgent I come."

"To Paris?" I asked.

"No, to Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey. Of course Paris."

She closed her eyes. I waited.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled-for."

"Nah, I like you snarky. What else did your ex say?"

"He told me to stay at the Hotel d'Aubusson."

"And?"

"And that's it."

I shifted in the chair. "That was the entire phone call? 'Hi, Terese, it's Rick, your ex-husband whom you haven't spoken to in nearly a decade, come to Paris immediately, and stay at the Hotel d'Aubusson, and oh, it's urgent'? "

"Something like that."

"You didn't ask him why it was so urgent?"

"Are you being intentionally dense? Of course I asked."

"And?"

"He wouldn't tell me. He said he needed to see me in person."

"And you just dropped everything and came?"

"Yes."

"After all these years, you just…" I stopped. "Wait a second. You told me you were in hiding."

"Yes."

"Were you hiding from Rick too?"

"I was hiding from everyone."

"Where?"

"In Angola."

Angola? I just let that go for now. "So how did Rick find you?"

The waiter arrived. He brought two cups of coffee and what looked like an open ham and cheese sandwich.

"They're called Croque Monsieurs," she said.

I knew that. Open-face ham and cheese, but with a fancy name.

"Rick worked with me at CNN," she said. "He's probably the best investigative reporter in the world, but he hates being on air, so he stays behind the scenes. He tracked me down, I guess."

Terese was paler, of course, than she'd been on that sun-blessed island. The blue eyes had less sparkle, but I could still see the gold ring around each pupil. I have always preferred dark-haired women, but her lighter locks had won me over.

"Okay," I said. "Go on."

"So I did as he asked. I got here four days ago. And I haven't heard a word from him."

"You called him?"

"I don't have a number. Rick was very specific. He told me he'd contact me when I arrived. So far he hasn't."

"And that's why you called me?"

"Yes," she said. "You're good at finding people."

"If I'm so good at finding people, how come I couldn't find you?"

"Because you didn't look that hard."

That could be true.

She leaned forward. "I was there, remember?"

"I do."

She didn't add the obvious. She had helped me back then, when a life very important to me hung in the balance. Without her, I would have failed.

"You don't even know if your ex is missing," I said.

Terese didn't reply.

"He could've just been looking to exact a little payback. Maybe this is Rick's twisted idea of a joke. Or maybe whatever it was, it wasn't really that important. Maybe he changed his mind."

She just looked at me some more.

"And if he's missing, I'm not sure how I can help. Yeah, okay, I can do some stuff at home. But we're in a foreign country. I don't speak a word of the language. There's no Win to help me, no Esperanza or Big Cyndi."

"I'm here. I speak the language."

I looked at her. There were tears in her eyes. I had seen her devastated, but I had never seen her look like that. I shook my head.

"What aren't you telling me?"

She closed her eyes. I waited.

"His voice," she said.

"What about it?"

"Rick and I started dating my first year of college. We were married for ten years. We worked together nearly every day."

"Okay."

"I know everything about him, his every mood, you know what I mean?"

"I guess."

"We'd spent time in war zones. We discovered torture chambers in the Middle East. In Sierra Leone we saw things no human being should ever see. Rick knew how to keep personal perspective. He was always even, always kept his emotions in check. He hated the hyperbole that naturally came with TV news. So I have heard his voice under every kind of circumstance."

Terese closed her eyes again. "But I never heard him sound like that."

I reached my hand back across the table, but she didn't take it.

"Like what?" I said.

"There was a tremor that had never been there before. I thought… I thought maybe he'd been crying. He was beyond terrified-this from a man I never saw remotely scared before. He said he wanted me to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

Her eyes were wet now. Terese clasped her hands prayerlike, resting her fingertips on the bridge of her nose. "He said what he was going to tell me would change my entire life."

I sat back, frowned. "He used that exact phrase-change your entire life?"

"Yes."

Terese was not one for hyperbole either. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

"So where does Rick live?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Could he live in Paris?"

"He could."

I nodded. "Did he remarry?"

"I don't know that either. Like I said, we haven't talked in a long time."

This was not going to be easy.

"Do you know if he still works for CNN?"

"I doubt it."

"Maybe you could give me a list of friends and family, something to start with."

"Okay."

Her hand shook as she picked up the coffee cup and brought it to her lips.

"Terese?"

She kept the cup up, as though using it for protection.

"What could your ex-husband possibly tell you that could change your entire life?"

Terese looked away.

Red double-decker buses flowed along the Seine, loaded up with sightseers. All the buses had this department-store ad of an attractive woman wearing an Eiffel Tower on her head. It looked ridiculous and uncomfortable. The Eiffel Tower hat appeared heavy, tottering on the woman's skull, held in place by a skimpy ribbon. The model's swan neck was bending as though in mid-snap. Who thought this was a good way to advertise fashion?

Foot traffic was picking up. The girl who'd hurled the crushed can was now making out with her target. Ah, the French. A traffic officer started gesturing for a white van to stop blocking traffic. I turned and waited for Terese to answer. She put down her coffee.

"I can't imagine."

But there was a catch in her throat. A tell, if you were playing cards with her. She wasn't lying. I was pretty sure of that. But she wasn't telling me everything either.

"And there's no chance your ex is just being vindictive?"

"None."

She stopped, looked off, tried to gather herself.

It was time, I knew, to take the big step. I said, "What happened to you, Terese?"

She knew what I meant. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, but a small smile played on her lips.

"You never told me either," she said.

"Our unspoken island rule."

"Yes."

"But we're off that island now."

Silence. She was right. I had never told her what had led me to that island either-what had devastated me. So maybe I should go first.

"I was supposed to protect someone," I said. "I messed up. She died because of me. And to complicate things, I reacted badly."

Violence, I thought again. The undying echo.

"You said 'she,' " Terese said. "It was a woman you were supposed to protect?"

"Yes."

"You visited her grave site," Terese said. "I remember."

I said nothing.

It was Terese's turn now. I sat back and let her get ready. I remembered what Win had told me about her secret, about it being very bad. I felt nervous. My eyes darted about and that was when I saw something that made me pause.

The white van.

You get used to living this way after a while. On guard, I guess. You look around and you start to see patterns and you wonder. This was the third time I had spotted the same van. Or at least I thought it was the same van. It had been outside the hotel when we left. And more to the point, the last time I saw it, the traffic cop was asking it to move.

Yet it was in the exact same place.

I turned back to Terese. She saw the look on my face and said, "What?"

"The white van may be following us."

I didn't add, "Don't look," or any of that. Terese would know better.

"What should we do?" she asked.

I thought about it. Pieces started to fall into place. I hoped that I was wrong. For a moment I imagined that this could all be over in a matter of seconds. Ex-hubby Rick was driving the van, spying on us. I go over, I open the door, I rip him out of the front seat.

I stood up and looked directly at the van's driver-side window. No point in playing games if I was right. There was a reflection but I could still make out the unshaven face and, more to the point, the toothpick.

It was Lefebvre from the airport.

He didn't try to hide himself. The door opened and he stepped out. From the passenger side, the older agent, Berleand, stumbled into view. He pushed up his glasses and smiled almost apologetically.

I felt like an idiot. The plainclothes at the airport. That should have tipped me off. Immigration officers wouldn't be in plainclothes. And the irrelevant questioning. A stall. I should have seen it.

Both Lefebvre and Berleand reached into their pockets. I thought that they'd pull out guns, but both produced red arm-bands with the word "police" written on them. They slipped them up to their biceps. I looked left and saw uniformed cops heading toward us.

I did not move. I kept my hands to the sides where they could clearly see them. I had little idea what was happening here, but this was no time for sudden moves.

I kept my eyes on Berleand's. He approached our table, looked down at Terese, and said to both of us, "Will you please come with us?"

"What's this about?" I asked.

"We can talk about that at the station."

"Are we under arrest?" I asked.

"No."

"Then we're not going anywhere until we know what this is about."

Berleand smiled. He looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre smiled through the toothpick. I said, "What?"

"Do you think this is America, Mr. Bolitar?"

"No, but I think this is a modern democracy with certain inalienable rights. Or am I wrong?"

"We don't have Miranda rights in France. We don't have to charge you to take you in. In fact, I can hold you both for forty-eight hours on little more than a whim."

Berleand got closer to me, pushed up the glasses again, wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. "Now again I ask: Will you please come with us?"

"Love to," I said.

6

THEY separated Terese and me right there on the street.

Lefebvre escorted her to the van. I started to protest, but Berleand gave me a bored look that indicated my words would be superfluous at best. He led me to a squad car. A uniformed officer drove. Berleand slipped into the backseat with me.

"How long's the ride?" I asked.

Berleand looked at his wristwatch. "About thirty seconds."

He may have overestimated. I had, in fact, seen the building before-the "bold and stark" sandstone fortress sitting across the river. The mansard roofs were gray slate, as were the cone-capped towers scattered through the sprawl. We could have easily walked. I squinted as we approached.

"You recognize it?" Berleand said.

No wonder it had grabbed my eye before. Two armed guards moved to the side as our squad car pulled through the imposing archway. The portal looked like a mouth swallowing us whole. On the other side was a large courtyard. We were surrounded now on all sides by the imposing edifice. Fortress, yeah, that did fit. You felt a bit like a prisoner of war in the eighteenth century.

"Well?"

I did recognize it, mostly from books by Georges Simenon and because, well, I just knew it because in law-enforcement circles it was legendary.

I had entered the courtyard of 36 quai des Orfévres-the renowned French police headquarters. Think Scotland Yard. Think Quantico.

"Soooo," I said, stretching the word out, gazing through the window, "whatever this is, it's big."

Berleand turned both palms up. "We don't process traffic violations here."

Count on the French. The police headquarters was fortress solid and intimidating and gigantic and absolutely gorgeous.

"Impressive, no?"

"Even your police stations are architectural wonders," I said.

"Wait until you see the inside."

Berleand, I quickly learned, was being sarcastic again. The contrast between the faзade and what lay inside was whiplash stark. The outside had been created for the ages; the interior held all the charm and personality of a public toilet along the New Jersey Turnpike. The walls were off-white, or maybe they'd been white but had yellowed over the years. They had no paintings, no wall hangings of any kind, but enough scuff marks to make me wonder if someone had maybe run across them with dress shoes. The floors were made up of linoleum that would have been deemed too dated for tract housing in 1957.

There was no elevator as far as I could tell. We trudged up a wide staircase, the French version of a perp walk. The climb seemed to take a long time.

"This way."

Exposed wires crisscrossed the ceiling, looking like central casting for a fire hazard. I followed Berleand down a corridor. We passed a microwave oven sitting on the floor. There were printers and monitors and computers lining the walls.

"You guys moving?"

"No."

He led me to a holding cell, maybe six by six. Just one. It had glass where there might normally be bars. Two benches attached to the walls formed a Vin the corner. The mattresses were thin and blue and looked suspiciously like the wrestling mats I remembered from junior high school gym class. A threadbare blanket of burnt orange, like something a bad airline had used for too long, lay folded on the bench.

Berleand spread his arm like a maоtre d' welcoming me to Café Maxim's.

"Where's Terese?"

Berleand shrugged.

"I want a lawyer," I said.

"And I want to take a bubble bath with Catherine Deneuve," he countered.

"Are you telling me I don't have the right to have a lawyer present during questioning?"

"That's correct. You can talk to one beforehand, but he will not be present during questioning. And I will be honest with you. It makes you look guilty. It also makes me grumpy. So I would advise against it. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable."

He left me alone. I tried to think it through, not making any rash moves. The wrestling-mat mattress was sticky and I didn't want to know from what. The smell in here was rancid-that horrible combo of sweat and fear and, uh, other bodily fluids. The stench climbed into my nostrils and hung tight. An hour passed. I heard the microwave. A guard brought me food. Another hour passed.

When Berleand came back, I was leaning against a somewhat clean spot I'd found on the glass wall.

"I trust your stay was comfortable."

"The food," I said. "I expected better food, this being a Parisian jail and all."

"I will speak to the chef personally."

Berleand unlocked the glass door. I followed him down the corridor. I expected him to take me to an interrogation room, but that wasn't the case. We stopped in front of a door with a little sign next to it that read GROUPE BERLEAND. I looked at him.

"Your first name is Groupe?"

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

We entered. I figured Groupe probably meant "Group" and judging by what was inside the room I guess I was right. Six desks were crammed into an office that wouldn't be called spacious if there had been only one. We must have been on the top floor because the mansard roof caused the ceiling to slant across most of the room. I had to duck when I walked in.

Four of the six desks were currently taken by what I assumed were other officers, part of Groupe Berleand. There were old-fashioned computer monitors, the kind that took up nearly half the desk space. Family pictures, banners of favorite sports teams, a poster for Coke, a calendar with hot women-the whole atmosphere was less a top-level police headquarters and more a muffler shop backroom in Hoboken.

"Groupe Berleand," I said. "So you're the chief?"

"I'm a captain in the Brigade Criminelle. This is my team. Sit."

"What, here?"

"Sure. That's Lefebvre's desk. Use his chair."

"No interrogation room?"

"You keep thinking you're in America. We conduct all interviews in the team office."

The other officers seemed oblivious to our doings. Two were enjoying coffees and chatting. The other typed at his desk. I sat. There was a box of wipes on his desk. Berleand plucked one out and started with the hand cleaning again.

"Tell me about your relationship with Terese Collins," he said.

"Why?"

"Because I enjoy being up to date on the latest gossip." There was steel beneath the quasi-humor. "Tell me about your relationship."

"I haven't seen her in eight years," I said.

"And yet here you two are."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"She called and invited me to spend a few days in your city."

"And you just dropped everything and flew over?"

My reply was a simple eyebrow arch.

Berleand smiled. "I almost blew another French stereotype, eh?"

"You're worrying me, Berleand."

"So you came for a romantic rendezvous?"

"No."

"Then?"

"I didn't know why she wanted me to come. I just sensed that she was in trouble."

"And you wanted to help?"

"Yes."

"Did you know what she needed help with?"

"Before I arrived? No."

"And now?"

"I do, yes."

"Would you mind telling me?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked.

"Not really, no."

"Her ex-husband is missing. He called her, said he had something urgent to discuss with her, and then he vanished."

Berleand seemed surprised by either my answer or the fact that I was being so cooperative. I had my suspicions which.

"So Ms. Collins called you to, what, help find him?"

"Exactly."

"Why you?"

"She thinks I'm good at that sort of thing."

"I thought you told me you were an agent. That you represented entertainers. How does that make you good at finding missing people?"

"My business is a rather personal one. I'm called on to do a lot of bizarre things for my clients."

"I see," Berleand said.

Lefebvre came in. He still had the toothpick. He stroked his facial growth and stood to my right and stared nails at me. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Bad Cop. I looked at Berleand as if to say, Is this really necessary? He shrugged.

"You care about Ms. Collins, don't you?"

"Yes."

Lefebvre, playing his role to the hilt, stared more nails at me. He slowly took the toothpick out of his mouth and said, "Lying sheet!"

"Excuse me?"

"You," he said with an angry, thick French accent. "You are a lying sheeet!"

"And you," I countered, "are a lying pillowcase."

Berleand just stared at me.

"Sheet," I said. "Pillowcase. Get it?"

Berleand looked mortified. Couldn't blame him.

"Do you love Terese Collins?" he asked.

I stayed on the truth train. "I don't know."

"But you're close?"

"I haven't seen her in years."

"That doesn't change anything, does it?"

"No," I said. "I guess not."

"Do you know Rick Collins?"

For some reason, hearing him say it, I was surprised Terese took his name, but of course, they met in college. It would be natural, I guess. "No."

"Never met him?"

"Never."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not a damn thing."

Lefebvre put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed just a little. "Lying sheeet."

I looked back at him. "Please tell me that's not the same toothpick from the airport. Because if it is, we are talking seriously unsanitary."

Berleand said, "Is Ms. Collins correct?"

I turned back to him. "About what?"

"Are you good at finding people?"

I shrugged. "I think I know where Rick Collins is."

Berleand looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre stood a little straighter.

"Oh? Where is he?"

"A nearby morgue," I said. "Somebody murdered him."

7

BERLEAND took me out of the Groupe Berleand office and turned right.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

He wiped his hands on his pants legs and said, "Just follow me."

We walked in a corridor with an opening that dropped down five floors. A steel net covered the space.

"What's up with the net?" I asked.

"Two years ago we brought in a terrorist suspect. A woman, as a matter of fact. When we walked her down this hallway, she grabbed one of the guards and tried to throw them both over the railing."

I looked down. It was a long drop.

"They die?"

"No, another officer grabbed them by the ankles. But now we have the netting."

He took two steps up into what appeared to be the attic. "Watch your head," Berleand said to me.

"Terrorist suspect?"

"Yes."

"You guys do terrorism?"

"Terrorism, homicide, the boundaries are no longer so clear. We do a little of everything."

He entered the attic space. I had to duck big-time now. There were clothes on a drying line. "You guys do your laundry up here?"

"No."

"So whose clothes?"

"Victims. That's where we hang them."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No."

I stopped and looked at them. A dark blue shirt was ripped and covered with bloodstains. "Do these belong to Rick Collins?"

"Follow me."

He opened a window and stepped outside onto the roof. He turned and looked back for me to follow.

Again I said, "You're kidding, right?"

"One of the great views of Paris."

"From the roof of 36 quai des Orfévres?"

I stepped out onto the slate-and wow, was he right about the view. Berleand lit a cigarette, sucked in a breath so deep I thought the entire cigarette might turn to ash, released it in a long stream through his nose.

"Do you often interrogate up here?"

"To be honest, this is a first," he said.

"You could threaten to push someone off."

Berleand shrugged. "Not my style."

"So why are we here?"

"We are not allowed to smoke indoors and I desperately need a cigarette."

He took another deep breath.

"I used to be okay with it, you know? Smoking outside only. I would jog up and down the five flights of stairs as my way of exercising. But then I'd be so out of breath from the cigarettes."

"It would cancel each other out," I said.

"Exactly."

"You might have considered quitting."

"But then I wouldn't have a reason to run down the stairs and so I wouldn't exercise. Follow me?"

"As much as I'd like to, Berleand."

He sat down and looked out. He gestured for me to do the same. So there I was, on the roof of one of the world's most famous police stations, staring at the most breathtaking view of Notre Dame.

"And look that way."

He pointed over his right shoulder. I looked over the Seine and there it was-the Eiffel Tower. I know how touristy it is to be awestruck by the Eiffel Tower, but I just stared for a moment.

"Amazing, no?" he said.

"Next time I get arrested, I need to bring a camera."

He laughed.

"Your English is really good," I said.

"We are taught here from a young age. I also spent a semester at Amherst College in my youth and worked two years in an exchange program with Quantico. Oh, and I have the entire Simpsons collection on DVD in English."

"That will do it."

He took another hit from the cigarette.

"How was he murdered?" I asked.

"Shouldn't I say something like, 'Aha, how do you know he's been murdered?' "

I shrugged. "Like you said, you don't process parking violations here."

"What can you tell me about Rick Collins?"

"Nothing."

"How about Terese Collins?"

"What do you want to know?"

"She's quite beautiful," he said.

"That's what you want to know?"

"I did a little research. We have CNN over here, of course. I remember her."

"So?"

"So about a decade ago she was at the top of her profession. Suddenly she quits and there isn't a Google mention of her again. I checked. There is no sign of employment. I can't get a residence, nothing."

I didn't reply.

"Where has she been?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"Because right now, I'm asking you."

"I told you. I haven't seen her in eight years."

"And you had no idea where she was?"

"I didn't."

He smiled and wagged his finger at me.

"What?"

"You said 'didn't.' Past tense. That implies you now know where she was."

"Your good English," I said. "It has come back to haunt me."

"So?"

" Angola," I said. "Or at least, that's what she told me."

He nodded. A police or French siren went off. The French have a different siren than we do-more insistent, horrible, like the love child of a cheap car alarm and the wrong-answer buzzer on Family Feud. We let it shatter our silence and waited for it to fade away.

I said, "You made some calls, didn't you?"

"A few."

"And?"

He didn't say anything else.

"You know I didn't kill him. I wasn't even in the country."

"I know."

"But?"

"May I offer another scenario?"

"Shoot."

"Terese Collins murdered her ex-husband," Berleand said. "She needed a way to dispose of the body-someone she could trust to help clean up the mess. She called you."

I frowned. "And when I answered, she said, 'I just killed my ex-husband in Paris, please help me'? "

"Well, she might have just told you to fly here. She might have told you the purpose after you arrived."

I smiled. This had gone on long enough. "You know she didn't tell me that."

"How would I know that?"

"You were listening in," I said.

Berleand didn't face me then. He just kept smoking the cigarette and looked out at the view.

"When you stopped me at the airport," I continued, "you put a bug on me somewhere. My shoes maybe. Probably my cell phone."

It was the only thing that made sense. They found the body, maybe checked Rick Collins's cell phone or whatever, found out his ex-wife was in town, put a tap on her phone, saw that she called me, held me up at the airport long enough to put on a bug and start surveillance.

That was why I had been so forthcoming with Berleand-he already knew all these answers. I'd been hoping to win his trust.

"Your cell phone," he answered. "We replaced the battery with a listening device that holds the same charge. It's very new technology, quite cutting edge."

"So you know Terese thought her ex was missing."

He tilted his head back and forth. "We know that's what she told you."

"Come on, Berleand. You heard her tone. She was genuinely distraught."

"She seemed to be," he agreed.

"So?"

He crushed out the cigarette. "You could also hear that she was holding back," Berleand said. "She's lying to you. You know it, I know it. I hoped that maybe you'd work it out of her, but you spotted the van." He thought about it. "And that's when you realized that you were bugged."

"So we're both very clever," I said.

"Or not as clever as we think."

"Have you notified his next of kin?"

"We're trying."

I aimed for subtle, but then again I thought we were somewhat past that. "Who is the next of kin?"

"His wife."

"Do you have a name?"

"Please don't push it," Berleand said.

He took out another cigarette, stuck it between his lips, let it dip down as he lit it with a hand that had done this many times before.

"There was blood found at the scene," he said. "Lots of it. Most belonged to the victim, of course. But preliminary tests tell us that there is at least one more person's blood in the mix. So we have gathered a blood sample from Terese Collins, and we will run the proper DNA test."

"She didn't do it, Berleand."

He said nothing.

"There's something else you aren't telling me," I said.

"There is a lot I'm not telling you. You, alas, are not part of Groupe Berleand."

"Can't I be deputized or something?"

He made that mortified face again. Then: "It can't be a coincidence," he said. "Him being murdered right after his ex-wife arrives."

"You heard what she told me. Her ex sounded scared. He'd probably gotten himself into some kind of mess-that's why he called her in the first place."

We were interrupted by the trill of his cell phone. Berleand unfolded it, put it to his ear, and listened. He probably made a hell of a poker player, my new friend Berleand, but something crossed his face and stayed there. He barked out something in French, clearly annoyed or puzzled. Then he went silent. After a few moments, he snapped the phone closed, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood.

"Problem?" I said.

"Take one last look." Berleand brushed off his pants with both hands. "We don't let a lot of tourists up here."

I did. Some might find it odd, this police headquarters with its spectacular view. I decided to take the moment and look out and remember why murder was such an abomination.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"The lab received preliminary results on the DNA from the blood."

"Already?"

He shrugged a little too theatrically. "We French are about more than wine, food, and women."

"Pity. So what's it show?"

"I think," he began, ducking back inside through the window, "that we should talk to Terese Collins."

8

WE found her in the same holding cell where I'd been half an hour earlier.

Her eyes were red and swollen. When Berleand unlocked the door, all pretense of strength fled. She grabbed on to me, and I held her. She sobbed against my chest. I let her. Berleand stood there. I met his eye. He did the big shrug again.

"We are going to release you both," he said, "if you will agree to surrender your passports."

Terese pulled away, looked at me. We both nodded.

"I have a few more questions before you leave," Berleand said. "Is that okay?"

"I realize that I'm a suspect," Terese said. "Ex-wife in the same city after all these years, the phone calls between us, whatever. Doesn't matter-I just want you to nail whoever killed Rick. So ask whatever you want, Inspector."

"I appreciate your candor and cooperation." He seemed so tentative now, almost too deliberate. Something he had heard during that phone call on the roof had thrown him. I wondered what was up.

"Are you aware that your ex-husband had remarried?" Berleand asked.

Terese shook her head. "I didn't know, no. When?"

"When what?"

"Was he remarried?"

"I don't know."

"May I ask his wife's name?"

" Karen Tower."

Terese almost smiled.

"You know her?"

"I do."

Berleand nodded and did the hand rub again. I expected him to ask how she knew Karen Tower, but he let that go.

"We have some preliminary blood tests back from the lab."

"Already?" Terese looked surprised. "I just gave the sample, what, an hour ago?"

"Not on yours, no. Those will take some more time. This is the blood we found at the murder scene."

"Oh."

"Something curious."

We both waited. Terese swallowed as if she were preparing for a blow.

"Most of the blood-nearly all of it, really-belonged to the victim, Rick Collins," Berleand said. His voice was measured now, as if he were trying to wade his way through whatever he was about to tell us. "That's hardly a surprise."

We still said nothing.

"But there was another patch of blood found on the carpet, not far from the body. We're not exactly sure how it got there. Our original theory was also the most obvious: There was a struggle. Rick Collins put up a fight and injured his killer."

"And now?" I said.

"First off, we found blond hairs with the blood. Long blond hair. Like you'd find on a female."

"Females kill."

"Yes, of course."

He stopped.

"But?" I said.

"But it still seems impossible for the blood to be the killer's."

"Why's that?"

"Because, according to the DNA testing, the blood and blond hair belong to Rick Collins's daughter."

Terese didn't scream. She just let out a moan. Her knees buckled. I moved fast, grabbing her before she hit the floor. I looked a question at Berleand. He was unsurprised. He was studying her, gauging this reaction.

"You don't have children, do you, Ms. Collins?"

All color had drained from her face.

"Can you give us a second?" I said.

"No, I'm fine," Terese said. She regained her footing and looked hard at Berleand. "I have no children. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

Berleand did not reply.

"Bastard," she said to him.

I wanted to ask what was going on, but maybe this was a time for shutting up and listening.

"We haven't been able to reach Karen Tower yet," Berleand said. "But I suppose that this daughter was hers too?"

"I suppose," Terese said.

"And you, of course, knew nothing about her?"

"That's right."

"How long have you and Mr. Collins been divorced?"

"Nine years."

I'd had enough. "What the hell is going on here?"

Berleand ignored me. "So even if your ex-husband married almost immediately, this daughter really couldn't be more than, what, eight years old?"

That quieted the room.

"So," Berleand continued, "now we know that Rick's young daughter was at the murder scene and was injured. Where do you suppose she is now?"

WE chose to walk back to the hotel.

We crossed the Pont Neuf. The water was muddy green. Bells from a church pealed. People stopped on the bridge midspan and took pictures. One man asked me to snap one of him and what I guessed was his girlfriend. They snuggled in close and I counted to three and took the picture and then they asked if I minded taking one more and I counted to three again and did and then they thanked me and moved on.

Terese had not said a word.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"We need to talk."

"Okay."

She never broke stride across the Pont Neuf, onto the Rue Dauphine, through the hotel lobby. The concierge behind the desk offered up a very friendly "Welcome back!" but she blew past him with a quick smile.

Once the elevator doors closed, she turned to me and said, "You wanted to know my secret-what brought me to that island, why I've been on the run all these years."

"If you want to tell me," I said in a way that sounded patronizing even in my own ears. "If I can help."

"You can't. But you need to know anyway."

We got off on the fourth floor. She opened the door to the room, let me pass, closed the door behind her. The room was average size, small by American standards, with a spiral stairway leading to what I assumed was the loft. It looked very much like what it was supposed to-a sixteenth-century Parisian home, albeit with a wide-screen TV and built-in DVD player.

Terese moved toward the window so that she was as far away from me as possible.

"I'm going to tell you something now, okay? But I want you to promise me something first."

"What?"

"Promise me you won't try to comfort me," she said.

"I'm not following."

"I know you. You'll hear this story and you'll want to reach out. You'll want to hug me or hold me or say the right thing because that's the way you are. Don't. Whatever you do, it will be the wrong move."

"Okay," I said.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

She cringed even deeper into the corner. The heck with after-I wanted to hold her now.

"You don't have to do this," I said.

"Yeah, I do. I'm just not sure how."

I said nothing.

"I met Rick during my freshman year at Wesleyan. I came in from Shady Hills, Indiana, and I was the perfect cliché-the prom queen dating the quarterback, most likely to succeed, sweet as sugar. I was that annoying, pretty girl who studied too hard and got all anxious she was going to fail and then she finishes the test early and starts putting those reinforcements in her notebook. You remember those little white things-looked like flat peppermint Life Savers?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Yes."

"I was also that pretty girl who wanted everyone to dig beneath the surface to see I was more than just pretty-but the only reason you'd want to dig was because I was pretty. You know the deal."

I did. To some this might sound immodest. It wasn't. It was honest. Like Paris, Terese was not blind to her looks, nor would she pretend otherwise.

"So I dyed my blond hair dark so I would look smarter and went to this small liberal arts college in the Northeast. I arrived, like so many girls, with my chastity belt firmly attached and only my high school quarterback had the key. He and I were going to be the exception-we were going to make a long-distance relationship last."

I remembered those girls from my Duke days too.

"How long do you think that lasted?" she asked me.

"Two months?"

"More like one. I met Rick. He was just this whirlwind. So smart and funny and sexy in a way I had never seen before. He was the campus radical, complete with the curly hair, the piercing blue eyes, and the beard that scratched when I kissed him…"

Her voice drifted off.

"I can't believe he's dead. This is going to sound corny, but Rick was such a special soul. He was genuinely kind. He believed in justice and humanity. And someone killed him. Someone intentionally ended his life."

I said nothing.

"I'm stalling," she said.

"No rush."

"Yeah, there is. I need to get this over with. If I slow down, I'll stop and I'll fall apart and you'll never get it out of me. Berleand, he probably knows this already. It's why he let me go. So let me give you the abridged version. Rick and I graduated, we got married, we worked as reporters. Eventually we ended up at CNN, me in front of the camera, Rick behind it. I told you that part already. At some stage we wanted to start a family. Or at least I did. Rick, I think, was more uncertain-or maybe he sensed what was coming."

Terese moved toward the window, gently pushed the curtain to the side, and looked out. I moved a foot closer to her. I don't know why. I just somehow needed to make that gesture.

"We had fertility problems. It's not uncommon, I'm told. Many couples have them. But when you're in the throes of it, it seems as though every woman you meet is pregnant. Fertility is also one of those problems that grows exponentially with time. Every woman I met was a mother, and every mother was happy and fulfilled and it all seemed to come so naturally. I started avoiding friends. My marriage suffered. Sex became only about procreation. You become so single-minded. I remember I did a story on unwed mothers in Harlem, these sixteen-year-old girls getting pregnant so easily, and I started to hate them because, really, was that cosmically fair?"

Her back was to me. I sat on the corner of the bed. I wanted to see her face, just part of it anyway. From my new vantage point, I was getting a sliver, maybe quarter-moon view.

"I'm still stalling," she said.

"I'm here."

"Maybe I'm not stalling. Maybe I need to tell it this way."

"Okay."

"We saw doctors. We tried everything. It was all pretty horrible. I was shot up with Pergonal and hormones and Lord knows what. It took us three years, but finally we conceived-what everyone called a medical miracle. At first, I was scared to even move. Every ache, every pang, I thought I was miscarrying. But after a while, I loved being pregnant. Doesn't that sound antifeminist? I always found those women who go on and on about their wonderful pregnancy to be so irritating, but I was as bad as any of them. I loved the rushes. I glowed. There was no nausea. Pregnancy would never happen for me again-this was my one miracle-and I relished it. The time flew by and before I knew it, I had a six-pound, fourteen-ounce daughter. We named her Miriam after my late mother."

A cold gust blew across my heart. I knew now where this had to end.

"She would be seventeen," Terese said, her voice sounding very far away.

There are moments in your life when you feel everything inside of you go quiet and still and fragile. We just stayed there like that, Terese and I and no one else.

"I don't think a day has gone by in the last ten years when I don't try to imagine what she'd be like right now. Seventeen. Finishing up her senior year of high school. Finally past the rebellious teen years. The awkward adolescent stage would be over, and she'd be beautiful. She'd be my friend again. She'd be getting ready to start college."

Tears filled my eyes. I moved a little more to my left. Terese's eyes were dry. I started to stand. Her head snapped in my direction. No, no tears. Something worse. Total devastation, the kind that makes tears seem quaint, impotent. She held up her palm in my direction as if it were a cross and I a vampire she needed to ward off.

"It was my fault," she said.

I started shaking my head, but her eyes squeezed shut as if my gesture were too strong a burst of light. I remembered my promise and backed away and tried to make my face neutral.

"I wasn't supposed to be working that night but at the last minute they needed someone to anchor at eight o'clock. So I was home. We lived in London then. Rick was in Istanbul. But the eight PM hour-man, I wanted that coveted time period. I couldn't pass that up, now could I? Even if Miriam was asleep. Career, right? So I called a good friend-Miriam's godmother actually-and asked if I could drop her off for a few hours. She said no problem. I woke Miriam up, and I stuck her in the back of the car. The clock was ticking and I needed to be in makeup. So I drove too fast. The roads were wet. Still, we were almost there-quarter of a mile away at the most. They say you don't remember a big accident, especially when you lose consciousness. But I remember it all. I remember seeing the headlights. I spun the wheel to the left. Maybe it would have been better if I had just gone headfirst. Killed me and spared her. But, no, it was side impact. Her side. I even remember her scream. It was short, more like an intake. The last sound she ever made. I was in a coma for two weeks, but because God has a sick sense of humor, he let me live. Miriam died on impact."

Nothing.

I was afraid to move now. The room was still, as though even the walls and furniture were holding their breath. I didn't mean to, but I took a step toward her. I wonder if that's part of comforting-that it's often selfish, that the comforter often needs as much, if not more, than the comfortee.

"Don't," she said.

I stopped.

"Please leave me alone," she said. "Just for a little while, okay?"

I nodded but she wasn't looking at me. "Sure," I said, "whatever you need."

She didn't respond, but then again she had made her wishes pretty clear. So I moved to the door and let myself out.

9

I walked back out onto the Rue Dauphine, numb.

I turned left and found a spot where five streets met and sat at yet another outdoor café called Le Buci. Normally I liked to people-watch, but it was hard to concentrate. I thought about Terese's life. I got it now. Rebuild your life so it looks like… what exactly?

I took out my cell, and because I knew it would distract me, I called my office. Big Cyndi picked it up on the second ring.

"MB Reps."

The M stands for Myron. The B stands for Bolitar. The Reps is because we represent people. I came up with this name on my own and yet I managed to remain modest about my marketing skills. When we repped athletes only, I called the agency MB SportsReps. Now it is MB Reps. I will pause until the applause dies down.

"Hmm," I said. "Modern Madonna, complete with that British accent?"

"Bingo."

Big Cyndi could vocally impersonate nearly anyone or any accent. I say "vocally" because when a woman is north of six five and three hundred pounds, it is hard to get away with your killer Goldie Hawn impression in person.

"Esperanza in?"

"Please hold."

Esperanza Diaz, still best known by her professional wrestling moniker Little Pocahontas, was my business partner. Esperanza picked up the phone and said, "You getting any?"

"No."

"Then you better have a damn good reason for being there. You had meetings lined up for today."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Look, I need you to dig up all you can on Rick Collins."

"Who is he?"

"Terese's ex."

"Man, you have the weirdest romantic rendezvous."

I told her what had happened. Esperanza went quiet and I knew why. She worries about me. Win is the rock. Esperanza is the heart. When I finished explaining, she said, "So right now Terese isn't a suspect?"

"I don't know for sure."

"But it looks like a murder and a kidnapping or something?"

"I guess."

"So I'm not sure why you need to be involved. It isn't connected to her."

"Of course it's connected."

"How?"

"Rick Collins called her. He said it was urgent and it would change everything and now he's dead?"

"So what exactly do you plan on doing here? Hunt down his killer? Let that French cop do it. Either get some-or get home."

"Just do a little digging. That's all. Find out about the new wife and kid, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever. You care if I tell Win?"

"Nope."

"'Either get some-or get home,'" she said. "That's pretty good."

"It should be a bumper sticker," I said.

We hung up. So now what? Esperanza was right. This wasn't my business. If I could somehow help Terese, okay, maybe then this would make sense. But other than to keep her out of trouble on this-other than making sure she didn't take the fall for a murder she didn't commit-I couldn't see how I could help. Berleand was not the type to railroad her.

In my peripheral vision I saw someone sit next to me at the table.

I turned and saw a man with a stubble-covered shaved head. There were scars on the top of his skull. His skin was olive dark, and when he smiled I saw a gold tooth that matched the gold chain dangling from his neck, urban bling-bling style. Handsome probably, in a dangerous, bad-boy way. He wore a wifebeater white T under an unbuttoned gray short-sleeve shirt. His sweatpants were black.

"Look under the table," he said to me.

"Are you going to show me your wee-wee?"

"Look-or die."

His accent was not French-something smoother and more refined. Nearly British or maybe Spanish, almost aristocratic. I tilted my chair back and looked. He was holding a gun on me.

I left my hands on the lip of the table and tried to keep my breath steady. My eyes lifted and met his. I checked the surroundings. There was a man with sunglasses standing on the corner for absolutely no reason, trying very hard to pretend that he wasn't watching us.

"Listen to me or I will shoot you dead."

"As opposed to alive?"

"What?"

"Shoot someone dead versus shoot someone alive," I said. Then: "Never mind."

"Do you see the green vehicle on the corner?"

I did-not far from the sunglassed man who was trying not to look at us. It looked like a minivan or something. Two men sat in the front. I memorized the license plate and began to plan my next move.

"I see it."

"If you don't want to be shot, follow my instructions exactly. We are going to get up slowly, and you are going to get in the back of the vehicle. You will not make a fuss-"

And that was when I smashed the table into his face.

The moment he sat next to me I had started to consider the alternatives. Now I knew: This was a kidnapping. If I got into the vehicle, I would be cooked. Have you ever heard that when someone is missing the first forty-eight hours are most crucial? What they don't tell you-maybe because it's so obvious-is that every second that passes makes finding the victim that much less likely.

The same works here. If they get me in the car, the chance I will be found plummets. The moment I get up and start following him to the car, my odds diminish. He isn't expecting an early strike. He figures I'm listening to him right now. I am a nonthreat. He is still working on his quasi-rehearsed speech.

So I work the element of surprise.

He had glanced away too, just for a second, to make sure the vehicle was still in place. That was all I needed. I already had my hands gripping the table. My leg muscles tightened. I exploded up like out of a power squat.

The table landed flush on his face. At the same time I turned to the side, just in case he got a shot off.

No chance.

I kept the torque in my torso and shot up and over. If there had just been Scar Head to worry about, my next step would be clear: disable him. Maim or hurt or just end his ability to fight in some way. But there were at least three other men here. My hope was that they would scatter, but I couldn't count on that.

Good thing too. Because they didn't.

My eyes searched for the gun. As I expected, he had dropped it on impact. I landed hard on top of my adversary. The table was still pressed against his face. The back of his head hit the pavement with a thud.

I went for the gun.

People screamed and scattered. I rolled off and toward the gun, picked it up, continued to roll. I made it to one knee and aimed it at the sunglassed guy who'd been waiting on the corner.

He had a gun too.

"Freeze!" I shouted.

He raised the gun in my direction. I did not hesitate. I shot him in the chest.

The moment I pulled the trigger I rolled toward the wall. The green minivan was racing toward me. Shots were fired. Not a handgun this time.

Machine-gun fire raking the wall.

More screams.

Oh man, I hadn't counted on that. My calculations were all about me. There were pedestrians-and I was dealing with complete lunatics who seemed okay with hurting any and all bystanders.

I saw the first man, Scar Head, who got whacked with the table, stirring. Sunglasses was down. Blood rushed in my ears. I could hear my own breath.

Had to move.

"Stay down!" I shouted to the passing crowd, and then because you think of weird things even at times like this, I wondered how you'd say that in French or if they would be able to translate or if, hey, the machine-gun fire would clue them in.

Keeping low, I ran in the direction opposite the van's movement, toward where it had been parked. I heard a screech of tires. More gunfire. I turned the corner and kept my legs pumping. I was back on Rue Dauphine. The hotel was only about a hundred yards in front of me.

So what?

I risked a glance behind me. The van had backed up and was making the turn. I looked for a road or alley to turn down.

Nothing. Or maybe…?

There was a small road on the other side of the street. I debated dodging across, but then I'd be even more exposed. The van was speeding toward me now. I saw the barrel of a weapon sticking out the window.

I was too out in the open.

My legs pumped. I kept my head low, as if that would really make me a smaller target. There were people on the street. Some figured out what was going on and dispersed. Others I bumped into, sending them sprawling.

"Get down!" I kept yelling because I had to yell something.

Another blast of gunfire. I literally felt a bullet pass over my head, could feel the air tickle my hair.

Then I heard sirens.

It was that awful French siren again, the short shrill blast, and I never thought I would so welcome that horrid sound.

The van stopped. I moved to the side and flattened myself against the wall. The van flew back in reverse, heading back to the corner. I held the gun in my hand and debated taking a shot. The van was probably too far away-and there were too many pedestrians in the way. I had already been reckless enough.

I didn't like the idea of them getting away, but I didn't want the streets riddled with more gunfire.

The back of the minivan slid open. I saw a man pop out. Scar Head was up now. There was blood on his face and I wondered if I'd broken his nose. Two days, two broken noses. Nice work if you could get paid for it.

Scar Head needed help. He looked down the street in my direction, but I was probably too far away to see. I resisted the temptation to wave. I heard the sirens again, getting closer. I turned and two police cars came toward me.

The cops jumped out and pointed weapons at me. For a moment I was surprised, ready to explain that I was the good guy here, but then it all came clear. I was holding a gun in my hand. I had shot someone.

The cops yelled something that I assume was a command to freeze and raise my hands and I did just that. I let the weapon drop to the pavement and got on one knee. The cops ran toward me.

I looked back toward the minivan. I wanted to point it out to the cops, tell them to go after it, but I knew how any sudden move would appear. The police were shouting instructions at me, and I didn't understand any of them so I stayed perfectly still.

And then I saw something that made me want to go for the gun again.

The minivan door was open. Scar Head was rolling in. The other man jumped in behind him and began to close the doors as the van started to move. The angle changed and for just a second-less time really, maybe half a second-I was able to see into the back of the van.

I was also a good distance away, probably seventy to eighty yards, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't seeing what I thought I was seeing.

Panic took over. I couldn't help it-I started to stand back up. I was that desperate. I was ready to jump for the gun and start firing at the tires. But the cops were on me now. I don't know how many. Four or five. They leapt on me, pounding me back to the pavement.

I struggled and felt something sharp, probably the butt end of a club, dig into my kidney. I didn't stop.

"The green van!" I shouted.

There were too many of them. I felt my arms being twisted behind my back.

"Please"-I could hear the near-crazed fear in my voice, tried to quell it-"you have to stop them!"

But my words were having no effect. The minivan was gone.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure back the memory of that half a second. Because what I did see in the back-or what I thought I saw-right before the van doors closed and swallowed her whole, was a girl with long blond hair.

10

TWO hours later, I was back in my stinky holding cell at 36 quai des Orfévres.

The police questioned me for a very long time.

I kept my narrative simple and begged them to find Berleand for me. I tried to keep my voice steady as I told them to find Terese Collins at the hotel-I was worried that whoever had gone after me might be interested in her too-and mostly I repeated the van's license plate number and said that there might be a kidnap victim in the back.

First they kept me out on the street, which was odd but also made sense. I was cuffed and had two officers, one holding each elbow, with me at all times. They wanted me to point out what had happened. They walked me back to Café Le Buci on the corner. The table was still overturned. There was a smear of blood on it. I explained what I had done. No witness had seen Scar Head holding the gun, of course, just my counterattack. The man I had shot had been rushed off in an ambulance, which I hoped meant he was alive.

"Please," I said for the hundredth time, "Captain Berleand can explain everything."

If you were trying to read their body language, you'd conclude that the cops were both skeptical of everything I said and rather bored. But you can't judge by the body language. I had learned that over the years. Cops are always skeptical-plus they get more information that way. They always act like they don't believe you so you keep talking, trying to defend and explain and blurting out things that maybe you shouldn't.

"You need to find the van," I said again, repeating the license plate number mantralike.

"My friend is staying at the d'Aubusson." I pointed down the Rue Dauphine, gave Terese's name and room number.

To all of this, the cops nodded and responded with questions that had nothing to do with what I had just said. I answered the questions and they continued to stare at me as though every word out of my mouth were a complete fabrication.

Then they dumped me back into this holding cell. I don't think anyone had cleaned it since my last visit. Or since de Gaulle died. I was worried about Terese. I was also a tad worried about yours truly. I had shot a man in a foreign country. That was provable. What was not provable-what would be difficult, if not impossible, to corroborate-was my account of the incident.

Did I have to shoot that guy?

No question. He had a gun out.

Would he have fired at me?

You don't wait to find out. So I fired first. How would that play here in France?

I wondered if anyone else had been shot. I had seen more than one ambulance. Suppose someone innocent got hit by the machine-gun fire. That was on me. Suppose I had just gone with Scar Head. I could be with the blond girl now. Talk about terrified. What was that girl thinking and feeling, in the back of that van, probably injured since there had been blood at her father's murder scene?

Had she witnessed her father's murder?

Whoa, let's not get ahead of ourselves.

"Next time, I suggest you hire a private guide. Too many tourists try to do Paris on their own and get into trouble."

It was Berleand.

"I saw a blond girl in the back of the van," I said.

"So I heard."

"And I left Terese at the hotel," I said.

"She left about five minutes after you did."

I stayed behind the glass door, waiting for him to unlock it. He didn't. I thought about what he had just said. "Did you have us under surveillance?"

"I don't have the manpower to follow you both," he said. "But tell me: What did you make of her story about the car accident?"

"How…?" Now I saw it. "You bugged our room?"

Berleand nodded. "You're not getting much action."

"Very funny."

"Or pathetic," he countered. "So what did you make of her story?"

"What do you mean what did I make of it? It's horrible."

"You believed her?"

"Of course. Who'd make up something like that?"

Something crossed his face.

"Are you telling me it's not true?"

"No, it all seems to check out. Miriam Collins, age seven, died in the accident off the A-Forty highway in London. Terese was seriously hurt. But I'm having the entire file sent to my office for review."

"Why? It was ten years ago. It doesn't have anything to do with this."

He didn't reply. He just pushed the glasses back up his nose. I felt a tad on display in this Plexiglas holding cell.

"I assume your colleagues from the crime scene filled you in on what happened," I said.

"Yes."

"You guys need to find that green van."

"We already did," Berleand said.

I moved closer to the Plexiglas door.

"The van was a rental," Berleand said. "They dumped it at CDG Airport."

"Rented with a credit card?"

"Under an alias, yes."

"You need to stop all flights out."

"Out of the largest airport in the country?" Berleand frowned. "Any other crime-stopping tips?"

"I'm just saying-"

"It's been two hours. If they flew out, they're gone."

Another cop came into the room, handed Berleand a piece of paper, and left. Berleand studied it.

"What's that?" I asked.

I ignored Berleand's lame attempt at humor. "You know this isn't a coincidence," I said. "I saw a blond girl in the back of that van."

He was still reading the sheet of paper. "You mentioned that, yes."

"It could have been Collins's daughter."

"Doubtful," Berleand said.

I waited.

"We reached the wife," Berleand said. " Karen Tower. She's fine. She didn't even know her husband was in Paris."

"Where did she think he was?"

"I don't know all the details yet. They live in London now. Scotland Yard delivered the news. Apparently there have been some marital difficulties."

"And what about the daughter?"

"Well, that's the thing," Berleand said. "They don't have a daughter. They have a four-year-old son. He's home safe and sound with his mother."

I tried to process that one. "The DNA test showed the blood definitely belonged to Rick Collins's daughter," I began.

"Yes."

"No doubts?"

"No doubts."

"And the long blond hair was tied to the blood?" I asked.

"Yes."

"So Rick Collins has a daughter with long blond hair," I said more to myself than him. It didn't take time to come up with an alternate scenario. Maybe it was because I was in France, supposed land of the mistress. Even the former president openly had one, didn't he?

"A second family," I said.

Of course it wasn't just the French. There was that New York politician who got caught drunk driving on his way to visit his second family. Men have kids with their mistresses all the time. Add in Berleand's belief that there were marriage difficulties between Rick Collins and Karen Tower and it added up. Of course, there were still major holes to fill-like why Collins would call Terese, his first wife, and tell her it was urgent to see him in Paris -but one step at a time.

I started explaining my theory to Berleand, but I could see that he wasn't buying so I stopped the sell.

"What am I missing?" I asked.

His cell phone trilled. Again Berleand spoke in French, leaving me totally in the dark. I'd have to take a Berlitz course or something when I got home. When he hung up, he quickly unlocked the holding cell and waved for me to come out. I did. He started down the corridor at a hurried pace.

"Berleand?"

"Come on. I need to show you something."

We headed back into the Groupe Berleand room. Lefebvre was there. He looked at me as if I'd just dropped out of his worst enemy's anus. He was hooking up another monitor to the computer, flat screen and maybe thirty inches wide.

"What's going on?" I asked.

Berleand sat at the keyboard. Lefebvre backed off. There were two other cops in the room. They too stood back by the wall. Berleand looked at the monitor, then at the keyboard. He frowned. On his desk was the dispenser for towelettes. He pulled one out and started wiping down the keyboard.

Lefebvre said something in French that sounded like a complaint.

Berleand snapped something back, gesturing to the keyboard. He finished wiping it down and then started typing.

"The blond girl in the van," Berleand said to me. "How old would you say she was?"

"I don't know."

"Think."

I tried, shook my head. "All I saw was long blond hair."

"Sit down," he said.

I pulled up a chair. He opened an e-mail and downloaded a file.

"More video will be coming in," he said, "but this still-frame is the clearest."

"Of what?"

"Surveillance camera from the de Gaulle airport lot."

A color photograph came up-I'd expected something grainy and black-and-white, but this one was fairly clear. Tons of cars-duh, it's a parking lot-but people too. I squinted.

Berleand pointed to the upper right. "Is that them?"

The camera was unfortunately so far away that the subjects could only be seen at a great distance. There were three men. One was covering his face with something white, a shirt maybe, staving off the blood. Scar Head.

I nodded.

The blond girl was there too, but now I understood his question. From this angle-a back shot-I couldn't really tell her age but she certainly wasn't six or seven or even ten or twelve, unless she was unusually tall. She was full grown. The clothing suggested a teenager, someone young, but nowadays it is hard to know for certain.

The blonde walked between the two healthier men. Scar Head was on the far right.

"It's them," I said. Then I added: "What did we figure the daughter would have had to be? Seven or eight. The blond hair, I guess. It threw me. I overreacted."

"I'm not so sure."

I looked at Berleand. He took off his glasses, placed them on the table, and rubbed his face with both hands. He barked out something in French. The three men, including Lefebvre, left the room. We were alone.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked.

He stopped rubbing his face and looked at me. "You are aware that no one at the café saw the other man pull a gun on you."

"Of course they didn't. It was under the table."

"Most people would have put up their hands and gone quietly. Most people would not have thought to smash the man's face with a table, grab his gun, and shoot his accomplice in the middle of the boulevard."

I waited for him to say more. When he didn't, I added: "What can I say? I'm the balls."

"The man you shot-he was unarmed."

"Not when I shot him. His cohorts took the gun when they fled. You know this, Berleand. You know I didn't just make this up."

We sat there for another minute. Berleand stared at the monitor.

"What are we waiting for?"

"Video to come in," he said.

"Of?"

"The blond girl."

"Why?"

He didn't reply. It took another five minutes. I peppered him with questions. He ignored me. Finally his e-mail dinged and a very short video from the parking lot arrived. He clicked the Play button and sat back.

We could see the blond girl clearer now. She was indeed a teenager-maybe sixteen, seventeen years old. She had long blond hair. The vantage point was still from too great a distance to see the features up close, but there was something familiar about her, about the way she held her head up, the way her shoulders stayed back, the perfect posture…

"We ran a preliminary DNA test on that blood sample and the blond hair," Berleand said.

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. I wrested my eyes away from the screen and looked at him.

"It isn't just his daughter," Berleand said, gesturing toward the blonde on the screen. "It's also Terese Collins's."

11

IT took me a while to find my voice.

"You said preliminary."

Berleand nodded. "The final DNA test will take a few more hours."

"So it could be wrong."

"Unlikely."

"But there have been cases?"

"Yes. I had one case where we grabbed a man based on a preliminary like this. It turns out it was his brother. I also know about a paternity case where a woman sued her boyfriend for child custody. He claimed that the baby wasn't his. The preliminary DNA test was a dead match-but when the lab looked closer, it turned out that it was the boyfriend's father."

I thought about it.

"Does Terese Collins have any sisters?" Berleand asked.

"I don't know."

Berleand made a face.

"What?" I said.

"You two really have a special relationship, don't you?"

I ignored the jab. "So what's next?"

"We need you to call Terese Collins," Berleand said. "So we can question her some more."

"Why don't you call her yourself?"

"We did. She won't pick up."

He handed me back my cell phone. I turned it on. One missed call. I didn't click to see who it was from just yet. There was what appeared to be junk mail, the subject reading: When Peggy Lee sang, "Is that all there is?" was she talking about your trouser snake? Your Small Pee-Pee Needs Viagra at 86BR22.com.

Berleand read it over my shoulder. "What does that mean?"

"One of my old girlfriends has been talking out of school."

"Your self-deprecation," Berleand said. "It's very charming."

I hit Terese's number. It rang for a while and then the voice mail picked up. I left her a message and hung up.

"Now what?"

"Do you know anything about tracing cell phone locations?" Berleand asked.

"Yes."

"And you probably know that as long as the phone is on, even if no call is being made, we can triangulate coordinates and know where she is."

"Yes."

"So we weren't worried about following Ms. Collins. We have that technology. But about an hour ago, she turned her phone off."

"Maybe she ran out of battery," I said.

Berleand frowned at me.

"Or maybe she just needed downtime. You know how hard it must have been to tell me about her car accident."

"So she-what?-turned her phone off to get away from it all?"

"Sure."

"Instead of just silencing the ringer or whatever," he went on, "Ms. Collins turned the phone all the way off?"

"You don't buy it?"

"Please. We can still run her call logs-see who called her or whom she called. About an hour ago, Ms. Collins received her only call of the day."

"From?"

"Don't know. The number bounced to some phone in Hungary and then a Web site and then we lost it. The call lasted two minutes. After that, she turned off her phone. At the time she was at the Rodin Museum. Now we have no idea where she is."

I said nothing.

"Do you have any thoughts?"

"About Rodin? I love The Thinker."

"You're killing me, Myron. Really."

"Are you going to hold me?"

"I have your passport. You can go, but please stay in your hotel."

"Where you can listen in," I said.

"Think of it this way," Berleand said. "If you finally get lucky, maybe I can pick up a few pointers."

The processing to release me took about twenty minutes. I started back down the Quai des Orfévres toward the Pont Neuf. I wondered how long it would take. There was a chance, of course, that Berleand already had me under surveillance, but I considered it unlikely.

Up ahead was a car with the license plate 97 CS 33.

The code, of course, couldn't have been simpler. The junk e-mail read 86 BR 22. Just add one to each one. Eight becomes a nine. B becomes a C. As I approached the car a piece of paper dropped out of the driver's-side window. The piece of paper was attached to a coin so it wouldn't blow away.

I sighed. First the overly simple code, now this. Would James Bond go so low tech?

I picked up the note.

1 RUE DU PONT NEUF, FIFTH FLOOR. TOSS PHONE IN CAR BACK WINDOW.

I did. The car took off, phone on and in tow. Let them track that. I turned right. It was the Louis Vuitton Building, the one with the glass dome on the top. The Kenzo department store was on the bottom floor, and I felt hopelessly unhip just opening the door. I stepped into the glass elevator and saw that the fifth floor was a restaurant called Kong.

When the elevator stopped, a hostess in black greeted me. She was over six feet tall, dressed in tourniquet-tight black and looked about as fat as your average lamp cord. "Mr. Bolitar?" she said.

"Yes."

"Right this way."

She led me up a staircase that glowed fluorescent green and into the glass dome. I would call Kong "ultra-hip" but it was almost beyond that-like postmodern ultra-hip. The décor was futuristic geisha. There were plasma TVs with sleek Asian women winking as you passed. The chairs were acrylic and see-through except for the printed faces of beautiful women with strange hairstyles. The faces actually glowed, as though there were a light in each one. The effect was kind of eerie.

Above my head was a giant tapestry of a geisha. The patrons were dressed like, well, the hostess-trendy and black. What made the place work though, what threw it all together, was the killer view of the Seine, almost as great as the one at police headquarters-and there, at the front table with the absolute best view, was Win.

"I ordered you foie gras," he said.

"Someone's going to catch on to our old trick one of these days."

"They haven't yet."

I sat across from him. "This place looks familiar."

"It was featured in a French film with Franзois Cluzet and Kristin Scott Thomas," Win said. "They sat at this very table."

"Kristin Scott Thomas in a French film?"

"She's lived here for years and speaks fluent French."

Win knows stuff like this, I don't know how.

"Anyway," Win continued, "perhaps that's why the restaurant is causing-to remain in our French environs-déjа vu."

I shook my head. "I don't watch French films."

"Or," Win said with a deep sigh, "perhaps you recall Sarah Jessica Parker eating here in the series finale of Sex and the City."

"Bingo," I said.

The foie gras-goose liver for the uninitiated-arrived. I was indeed starving and dug in. I know the animal-rights people would crucify me, but I can't help it. I love foie gras. Win had red wine already poured. I took a sip. I'm no expert, but it tasted like a deity had personally squeezed the grapes.

"So I assume you now know Terese's secret," Win said.

I nodded.

"I told you it was a doozy."

"How did you learn about it?"

"It wasn't that hard to discover," Win said.

"Let me rephrase. Why did you learn about it?"

"Nine years ago you ran away with her," Win said.

"So?"

"You didn't even tell me you were going."

"Again I say, so?"

"You were vulnerable, so I did a background check."

"Not your place," I said.

"Probably not."

We ate some more.

"When did you arrive?" I asked.

"Esperanza called after you spoke. I turned the plane around and headed this way. When I got to your hotel, you'd just been arrested. I made some calls."

"Where is Terese?"

I figured that Win had been the one to call her to get her off the grid.

"We'll meet up with her soon enough. Fill me in."

I did. He said nothing, steepling his fingers. Win always steepled his fingers. On me it looks ridiculous. On him, with those manicured nails, it somehow works. When I finished, Win said, "Yowza."

"Nice summation."

"How much do you know about her car accident?" he asked.

"Just what I told you now."

"Terese never saw the body," Win said. "That is rather curious."

"She was unconscious for two weeks. You can't keep a body out of the ground for that long."

"Still." Win bounced his fingertips. "Didn't her now-deceased ex say that whatever he had to tell her would change everything?"

I had thought about that too. I had thought about the strange tone in his voice, his near panic.

"There has to be some other explanation. Like I said, the DNA tests are preliminary."

"You realize, of course, that the cops let you go in the hopes you'd lead them to Terese."

"I know."

"But that won't happen," Win said.

"I know that too."

"So what next?" Win asked.

That surprised me. "You're not going to try to talk me out of helping her?"

"Would it help if I did?"

"Probably not."

"It may be fun then," Win said. "And there is one more big reason to continue this quest."

"That being?"

"I'll tell you later. So where to now, kemosabe?"

"I'm not sure. I'd like to question Rick Collins's wife-she lives in London -but Berleand has my passport."

Win's cell phone chirped. He picked it up and said, "Articulate."

I hate when he says that.

He hung up. " London it is then."

"I just told you-"

Win stood. "There is a tunnel in the basement of this building. It leads to the Samaritaine Building next door. I have a car waiting. My plane is at a small airport near Versailles. Terese is there. I have IDs for you both. Please hurry."

"What happened?"

"My big reason for wanting to continue this quest. The man you shot a few hours ago just died. The police want to pick you up for murder. I think perhaps we need to be proactive in clearing your name."

12

WHEN I told Terese about the DNA test, I expected a different reaction.

Terese and I sat in the lounge area on Win's plane, a Boeing Business Jet he'd recently purchased from a rap artist. The seats were leather and oversize. There was a wide-screen TV, a couch, plush carpeting, wood trim. The jet also had a dining room and in the back a separate bedroom.

In case you didn't figure it out, Win is loaded.

He earned his money the old-fashioned way: He inherited it. His family owned Lock-Horne Investments, still one of the leading lights on Wall Street, and Win had taken its billions and par-layed them into more billions.

The "flight attendant"-I put that in quotes because I doubt she's had much safety training-was stunning, Asian, young, and, if I knew Win, probably very limber. Her name tag read "Mee." Her attire looked like something out of a Pan Am ad from 1968, with the tailored suit, fitted puffy blouse, even the pillbox hat.

When we started to board, Win said, "The pillbox hat."

"Yeah," I said. "It really throws the whole look together."

"I like her to wear the pillbox hat all the time."

"Please don't go into any more details," I said.

Win grinned. "Her name is Mee."

"I read the name tag."

"As in, it's not just about you, Myron, it's about Mee. Or, I enjoy having carnal knowledge alone with Mee."

I just looked at him.

"Mee and I will stay in the back so you and Terese can have some privacy."

"In the back, as in the bedroom?"

Win slapped my back. "Feel good about yourself, Myron. After all, I feel good about Mee."

"Please stop."

I boarded behind him. Terese was there. When I told her about being jumped and the ensuing shoot-out, she was obviously concerned. When I segued into the DNA test vis-а-vis her being the blond girl's mother-first using words like "preliminary" and "incomplete" to the point where I feared it might cause an eye roll-she shocked me.

She barely reacted.

"You're saying that the blood test shows I could be the girl's mother?"

In fact, the preliminary DNA test showed that she was the girl's mother, but maybe that was a bit much to state at this point. So I simply said, "Yes."

Again it didn't seem to be reaching her. Terese squinted as though she were having trouble hearing. There was a small and nearly imperceptible wince in the eyes. But that was about it.

"How can that be?"

I said nothing, gave a little shrug.

Never underestimate the power of denial. Terese shook it off, snapped into reporter mode, and peppered me with follow-up questions. I told her everything I knew. Her breathing grew shallow. She was trying to hold it together, so much so that I could see the quake in her lips.

But there were no tears.

I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I couldn't. I'm not sure why. So I sat there and waited. Neither of us said it, as if the very words might burst that particularly fragile bubble of hope. But it was there, the proverbial elephant in the room, and we both saw it and avoided it.

Sometimes Terese's questions seemed too pointed, anger slipping through over what perhaps her ex, Rick, had done here or maybe simply to stave off the hope. Finally she leaned back and bit down on her bottom lip and blinked.

"So where are we going now?" she asked.

" London. I thought maybe we should talk to Rick's wife."

"Karen."

"You know her?"

"Knew her, yes." She looked at me. "Remember I told you I was dropping Miriam off at a friend's house when I got in the car accident?"

"Yes." Then: " Karen Tower was that friend?"

She nodded.

The plane had reached its cruising level. The pilot made an announcement to that effect. I had a million more questions, but Terese closed her eyes. I waited.

"Myron?"

"Yes."

"We don't say it. Not yet. We both know it's here with us. But we don't voice it, okay?"

"Okay."

She opened her eyes and looked away. I understood. The moment was too raw even for eye contact. As if on cue, Win opened the bedroom door. Mee, the flight attendant, had on her pillbox hat and everything else. Win was also fully dressed and waved for me to join him in the bedroom.

"I like the pillbox hat," he said.

"So you said."

"It suits Mee."

I looked at him. He led me into the bedroom and closed the door. The room had tiger-print wallpaper with zebra-skin bedding. I looked at Win. "You channeling your inner Elvis?"

"The rapper decorated the room. It's growing on me."

"Did you want something?"

Win pointed to the TV set. "I was watching you talk to her."

I looked up. Terese was on the screen sitting in the chair.

"That's how I knew it would be a good time for me to interject." He opened a drawer and reached in. "Here."

It was a BlackBerry cell phone.

"Your number still works-all your calls will come in, but they will be untraceable. And if they try to track you down, they'll end up someplace in southwest Hungary. By the way, Captain Berleand left you a message."

"Is it safe to call him back?"

Win frowned. "What part of 'untraceable' confuses you?"

Berleand answered on the first ring. "My colleagues want to lock you up."

"But I'm such a charming fellow."

"That's what I told them, but they're not convinced that charm trumps a murder charge."

"But charm is in such short supply." Then: "I told you, Berleand. It was in self-defense."

"So you did. And we have courts and lawyers and investigators who may eventually come to that conclusion too."

"I really don't have the time to waste."

"So you won't tell me where you are?"

"I won't."

"I find the Kong restaurant a tad touristy," he said. "Next time I will take you to this little bistro off Saint Michel that serves only foie gras. You'll love it."

"Next time," I said.

"Are you still in my jurisdiction?"

"No."

"Pity. May I request a favor?"

"Sure," I said.

"Does your new cell phone have the capability to view photographs?"

I looked at Win. He nodded. I told Berleand that it did.

"I'm sending you a photograph as we speak. Please tell me if you recognize the man in it."

I handed the phone to Win. He pressed a Home key and then found the photograph. I took a good hard look, but I knew right away.

"It's probably him," I said.

"The man you hit with the table?"

"Yes."

"You're positive?"

"I said probably."

"Make sure."

I took a longer look. "I'm assuming this is an old photograph. The guy I hit today is at least ten years older than the one in this picture. There are changes-the head shaven, the nose is different. But overall, I'd say I'm fairly positive."

Silence.

"Berleand?"

"I would really like you to come back to Paris."

I didn't like the way he said that.

"No can do, sorry."

More silence.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"This is not something you can handle on your own," he said.

I looked over at Win. "I have some help."

"It won't be enough."

"You wouldn't be the first to underestimate us."

"I know who you're with. I know his wealth and reputation. It's not enough. You may be good at finding people or helping athletes in trouble with the law. But you're not equipped to handle this."

"If I were less of a tough guy," I said, "you might be scaring me right now."

"If you were less of a head case, you'd listen to me. Be careful, Myron. Stay in touch."

He hung up. I turned to Win. "Maybe we can forward this picture to someone back home, someone who can tell us who he is."

"I have a contact at Interpol," Win said.

But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking over my shoulder. I turned to follow his gaze. He was watching the TV monitor again.

Terese was there, but her resolve was gone. She was doubled over, sobbing. I tried to make out her words, but they were garbled by the anguish. Win took the remote and turned up the volume. Terese was repeating the same thing over and over, and as she slid off the couch I finally thought I could make out what she was saying:

"Please," Terese begged to some higher power. "Please let her be alive."

13

IT was late by the time we arrived at the Claridge's hotel in the center of London. Win had rented the Davies penthouse. There was a spacious sitting room and three huge bedrooms, all with four-poster king-size beds and those wonderfully deep marble tubs and showerheads the size of manhole covers. We threw open the French windows. The terrace offered up a wonderful view of the London rooftops, but frankly I'd had my fill of views. Terese stood out there in dead-woman-walking mode. She went from numb to emotional. She was devastated, sure, but there was hope. I think hope scared her the most.

"Do you want to come back inside?" I asked.

"Give me a minute."

I'm not necessarily an expert on body language but every muscle in her being seemed coiled and locked in a protective stance. I waited near the French windows. Her bedroom was sunflower yellow 'n' blue. I looked at the four-poster bed, and maybe it was wrong, but I wanted to pick her up and carry her to that beautiful bed and make love to her for hours.

Okay, no "maybe." It was wrong. But.

When I say stuff like this out loud, Win calls me a little girl.

I stared now at her bare shoulder and I remembered a day after we had come from that island, after she came to New Jersey and helped me and she smiled, really smiled, for the first time since I had known her, and I thought that I might be falling for her. Usually I go into relationships like, well, a girl, thinking long-term. This time it sneaked up on me and she smiled and we made love differently that night, a little more tenderly, and when we were done I kissed that bare shoulder and then she cried, also for the first time. Smiled and cried for the first time with me.

A few days later, she was gone.

Terese turned and looked at me, and it was as though she could tell what I was thinking. We finally moved into the sitting room with barrel-vaulted ceilings and crisp wooden floors. The fireplace crackled. Win, Terese, and I took our places in the plush surroundings and coldly discussed our next steps.

Terese dived right in. "We need to figure out how to exhume the body in my daughter's grave-if there is a body."

She said it just like that. No tears, no hesitation.

"We should a hire a lawyer," I said.

"A solicitor," Win said, correcting me. "We're in London. We don't use the term 'lawyer,' Myron. We say solicitor."

I just looked at him, refraining from asking, How about the term "anal douche bag"? Do we use that in London?

"I will have my people look into it first thing in the morning."

Lock-Horne Investments had a London branch on Curzon Street.

"We should also start looking into the accident," I said. "See if we can get ahold of the police file, talk to the investigating officers, that kind of thing."

Everyone agreed. The conversation continued like this, as if we were in a boardroom launching a new product instead of wondering if Terese's daughter who had "died" in a car crash might still be alive. Crazy to even think it. Win started making calls. We found out that Karen Tower, Rick Collins's wife, still lived in the same house in London. Terese and I would go by in the morning and talk to her.

After a while, Terese took two Valiums, headed into her room, and closed the door. Win opened a cabinet. I was exhausted, what with the jet lag and the day I'd had. It was hard to think that I had landed in Paris that very morning. But I didn't want to leave the room. I love sitting with Win like this. He had a snifter of cognac in his hand. I usually favored a chocolate drink called Yoo-hoo, but tonight I stuck with Evian. We ordered up some room service munchies.

I loved the normalcy.

Mee popped her head into the room and looked at Win. He mouthed a no in her direction. Her pretty face vanished.

Win said, "It's not yet Mee time."

I shook my head.

"What specifically is your problem with Mee?"

"Mee as in the stewardess, right?"

"Flight attendant," he said-again with the terminology. "Like with solicitor."

"She looks young."

"She's almost twenty." Win gave a small laugh. "I so love when you don't approve."

"I'm not in the judging business," I said.

"Good, because I'm trying to make a point here."

"About?"

"About you and Ms. Collins on the plane. You, my dear friend, see sex as an act that requires an emotional component. I don't. For you, the act itself, no matter how physically mind-blowing, is not enough. But I view it from another perspective."

"One that usually involves several camera angles," I said.

"Good one. But let me continue. For me, the act of two people 'making love'-to use your terminology, because I'm happy with 'boink' or 'boff' or 'screw'-for me, that sacred act is wonderful. More than that, it is everything. In fact, I believe the act is at its best-at its purest, if you will-when it is all, the end-all and be-all, when there is no emotional baggage to sully it. Do you see?"

"Uh-huh," I said.

"It's a choice. That's all. You see it one way, I see it another. One is not superior to the other."

I looked at him. "Is that your point?"

"On the plane, I was watching you talk to Terese."

"So you said."

"So you wanted to hold her, didn't you? After you dropped the bombshell. You wanted to reach out and comfort her. That emotional component we just discussed."

"I'm not following."

"When you two were alone on that island, the sex was amazing and purely physical. You barely knew each other. Yet those days on the island soothed and comforted and tore into you and cured you. Now here, when the emotional has entered the picture, when you want to blend those feelings with something as physically benign as an embrace, you can't do it." Win tilted his head and smiled. "Why?"

He had a point. Why hadn't I reached out? More than that, why couldn't I?

"Because it would have hurt," I said.

Win turned away as if that said everything. It didn't. I know that there were many who concluded that Win used misogyny to protect himself, but I never really bought it. It was too pat an answer.

He checked his watch. "One more drink," Win said. "And then I will go in the other room because-oh, you'll love this-Mee so horny."

I shook my head. The hotel phone rang. Win picked it up, talked for a moment, hung up.

"How tired are you?" he asked me.

"Why, what's up?"

"The officer who investigated Terese's automobile accident is a retired policeman named Nigel Manderson. One of my people informs me that he is currently getting soused at a pub off Coldharbour Lane, if you want to pay him a visit."

"Let's do it," I said.

14

COLDHARBOUR Lane is about a mile long in South London and joins Camberwell to Brixton. The limousine dropped us off at a rather hopping spot called the Suns and Doves near the Camberwell end. The building had a third floor that got only about halfway across the top, like someone had gotten tired and figured, ah, hell, we won't need more space than that.

We headed about a block farther down and turned into an alley. There was a good ol'-fashioned head shop and a health food store that was still open.

"This area has a reputation for gangs and drug dealing," Win said, as though he were a tour guide. "Thus Coldharbour Lane 's nickname is-get this-Crackharbour Lane."

"Known for gangs and drug-dealing," I said, "if not nickname creativity."

"What do you expect from gangs and drug dealers?"

The alley was dark and dingy and I kept thinking Bill Sikes and Fagin were lurking against the dark brick. We reached a grotty pub called the Careless Whisper. I immediately flashed to the old George Michael/Wham! song and those now-famed lyrics where the heartbroken lothario will never be able to dance again because "guilty feet have got no rhythm." Eighties deep. I figured the name had nothing to do with the song and probably everything to do with indiscretion.

But I was wrong.

We pushed open the door, and it was like walking into a past dimension. Madness's classic hit "Our House" poured out onto the streets along with two couples, both with their arms around each other, more to keep themselves upright than out of affection. The smell of sizzling sausage wafted through the air. The floor was sticky. The place was loud and jammed and clearly whatever no-smoking law had taken effect in this country had not stretched down into this alley. I bet few laws had.

The place was New Wave, which was to say Old Wave, and proud of it. A large-screen TV showed a petulant Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club. The waitresses maneuvered through the boisterous crowd clad in black dresses, bright lipstick, slicked-back hair, and nearly Kabuki whiteface. Guitars hung from around their necks. They were supposed to look like the models in that Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video except, well, they were rather, uh, more mature and less attractive. Like the video had been remade with the cast of The Golden Girls.

Madness finished telling us about their house in the middle of the street, and Bananarama came on offering to be our Venus, our fire at our desire.

Win gave me a little jab. "The word 'Venus.' "

"What?" I shouted.

"When I was young," Win said, "I thought they were singing, 'I'm your penis.' It confused me."

"Thanks for sharing."

The trappings might have been eighties New Wave, but this was still a working-class bar, where hardy men and seen-too-much women came after a full day of labor and damned if it wasn't deserved. You couldn't fake belonging here. I might be wearing jeans, but I still didn't come close to fitting in. Win, however, stuck out like a Twinkie at a health club.

Patrons-some wearing shoulder pads and thin leather ties and Terax in their hair-glared daggers at Win. It was how it always was. We know about the obvious prejudices and stereotypes and Win would be the last to ask for sympathy, but people saw him and hated him. We judge by looks-that's no surprise. People saw undeserved privilege in Win. They wanted to hurt him. It had been that way his whole life. Even I don't know the full story-Win's "origin," to use superhero lexicon-but one of those childhood beatings broke him. He didn't want to be afraid anymore. Not ever. So he used his finances and his natural gifts and spent years developing his skills. By the time we met in college, he was already a lethal weapon.

Win walked through the glares with a smile and a nod. The pub was old and run-down, and it looked almost fake, which only made it feel more authentic. The women were big and chesty with rat-nest hair. Many wore those off-one-shoulder Flashdance sweatshirts. One eyed Win. She had several missing teeth. There were little ribbons in her hair that seemed to add nothing, а la "Starlight"-era Madonna, and her makeup looked as though it'd been applied with paintball pellets in a dark closet.

"Well, well," she said to Win. "Ain't you pretty?"

"Yes," Win said. "Yes, I am."

The bartender nodded at us as we approached. He wore a FRANKIE SAY RELAX T-shirt.

"Two beers," I said.

Win shook his head. "He means two pints of lager."

Again with the terminology.

I asked for Nigel Manderson. The bartender didn't blink. I knew this was useless. I turned and shouted out, "Which one of you is Nigel Manderson?"

A man wearing a baroque ruffled white shirt with squared-off shoulders raised his glass. He looked like he'd just walked out of a Spandau Ballet video. "Cheers, mate."

The slurred voice came from down at the end of the bar. Manderson had his hands around his drink as though it were a baby bird that had fallen out of a nest and needed protection. His eyes were rheumy. He had one of those spider veins on his nose, though it looked as if someone had stepped on the spider and squashed it.

"Nice place," I said.

"Ain't it just the maddest? It's a little rough diamond to remind me of the better times. So, now who the hell are you?"

I introduced myself and asked him if he recalled a fatal car accident from ten years ago. I mentioned Terese Collins. He interrupted me midway through.

"I don't remember," he said.

"She was a famous anchorwoman. Her child died in the accident. She was seven years old."

"I still don't remember."

"Did you have a lot of cases where seven-year-old girls ended up dead?"

He turned on his stool to face me. "You calling me a liar?"

I know his accent was legit, the real deal, but it sounded to my tin ear like Dick Van Dyke's in Mary Poppins. I half expected him to call me guv'nor.

I told him the intersection where the accident occurred and the make of her car. I heard a waa-waa sound and glanced to my left. Someone was playing a game of Space Invaders on an arcade machine.

"I'm retired," he said.

I kept at him-patiently repeating all the details I knew. The TV screen was behind him, and I confess that I love the movie The Breakfast Club and it was a little distracting. I don't get why I love the movie. The casting had to be a joke-"a hard-core jock wrestler? How about muscle-free Emilio Estevez? A convincing tough school punk? How about Judd Nelson?" I mean, Judd Nelson. Who came in second place? It would be like, to maintain the Golden Girls analogy, remaking a Marilyn Monroe film with Bea Arthur. And yet Nelson and Estevez worked and the movie worked and I love it and I can say every line.

After a while Nigel Manderson said, "Maybe I remember a little."

He wasn't very convincing. He finished his drink and ordered another. He watched the bartender pour and scooped it up the second it touched the sticky wood in front of him.

I looked at Win. Win's face was as usual unreadable.

The woman with the paintball makeup-hard to say an age, could have been an easy fifty or a hard twenty-five, and I was counting on the latter-said to Win, "I live near here."

Win gave her the superior gaze that made people hate him. "In that alley perhaps?"

"No," she said with a big hearty laugh. Win was such a card. "I have a basement flat."

"Must be divine," Win said in a voice richly marinated in sarcasm.

"Oh, it's nothing special," Paintball said, not picking up on Win's tone. "But it's got a bed."

She pulled up on her pink 'n' purple leg warmers and winked at Win. "A bed," she repeated. In case he wasn't getting the drift.

"Sounds enchanting."

"Want to see it?"

"Madam"-Win faced her full-"I would rather have my semen removed via a catheter."

Another wink. "That a fancy way of saying yes?"

I said to Manderson, "Can you tell me about the accident?"

"Who the hell are you anyway?"

"A friend of the driver's."

"That's a load of bull."

"Why do you say that?"

He took another deep sip. Bananarama ended. Duran Duran's classic ballad "Save a Prayer" came on. A hush fell over the bar. Someone turned down the lights as the clientele lifted lighters and started swaying as if they were at a concert.

Nigel held up his lighter too. "I'm just supposed to take your word for it-that she sent you?"

He had a point.

"And even if you were, so what? That accident was… how long ago did you say?"

I had said it twice. He had heard it twice. "Ten years ago."

"What would she need to know now?"

I started to ask a follow-up question but he hushed me. The lights went lower. Everyone sang that we should not say a prayer right now, but for some reason we should save it till the morning after. The morning after what? They all rocked back and forth from drink and song with their lighters still raised, and I feared with all the big hair this had to be a major fire hazard. Most patrons, including Nigel Manderson, had tears in their eyes.

This was getting us nowhere. I decided to prod a bit. "The accident didn't happen the way your report says."

He barely glanced at me. "So now you're saying I made a mistake?"

"No, I'm saying you lied and covered up the truth."

That made him stop. He lowered the lighter. So did others. He looked around, nodding at friends, looking for support. That wasn't my concern. I kept my eyes on him. Win was already checking out the competition. He was armed, I knew. He didn't show me the weapon and I know that they are supposed to be hard to come by in the UK. But Win had at least one firearm on him.

I didn't think we'd need it.

"Piss off," he said.

"If you lied about something, I'm going to find out what."

"Ten years later? Good luck. Besides, I didn't have anything to do with the report. It had all pretty much been taken care of when I got there."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I wasn't called first, pally."

"Who was?"

He shook his head. "You said Mrs. Collins sent you?"

Suddenly he remembers the name and that she was married. "Yes."

"Well, she'd know. Or maybe ask her friend who called it in."

I let that sink in. Then: "What was her friend's name?"

"Damned if I know. Look, you want to go tilting at windmills? I just signed the report. I don't give a crap anymore. I got my pitiful pension. Nothing they can do to me. Yeah, I remember it, okay? I got to the scene. Her friend, rich girl, I don't remember her name. She called it in to someone at the top. One of my superiors was already there, a pissant maggot named Reginald Stubbs, but don't bother calling him, cancer ate him up three years ago, thank Christ. They carted off the little girl's body. They rushed the mom to the hospital. That was all I know."

"Did you see the girl?" I asked.

He looked up from his drink. "What?"

"You said they carted off the little girl's body. Did you actually see it?"

"It was in a bag, for chrissake," he said. "But judging by the amount of blood, there wouldn't have been much to see even if I looked inside."

15

IN the morning Terese and I headed to Karen Tower 's house while Win met with his "solicitors" to do some of the legal legwork, like getting the car accident's file and-man, I didn't even want to think about this-figuring out how to exhume Miriam's body.

We took a London black taxi, which compared to the rest of the world's cab services is one of life's simple pleasures. Terese looked surprisingly good and focused. I'd filled her in on my conversation with Nigel Manderson at the pub.

"You think the woman who called it in was Karen Tower?" she asked.

"Who else?"

She nodded but said no more. We drove in silence for a few minutes when Terese leaned forward and said, "Drop us off at the next corner."

The driver did. She started down the street. I've been to London only a few times so it wasn't like I knew the area, but this wasn't Karen Tower 's address. Terese stood on the corner. The sun was starting to get strong. She shaded her eyes. I waited.

"This is where the accident happened," Terese said.

The corner could not have been more nondescript.

"I haven't been back here."

I saw no reason that she should have been, but I said nothing.

"I came off of that exit ramp. I took it too fast. A truck floated into my lane right around there." She pointed. "I tried to turn away but…"

I looked around as if there might still be some telltale clue a decade later, strange skid marks or something. There was nothing. Terese started walking down the street. I caught up to her.

"Karen's house-well, I guess it's Rick and Karen's house, right?-it's down the roundabout on the left," she said.

"How do you want to handle it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want me to go alone?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Maybe I can get more out of her."

Terese shook her head. "You won't. Just stay with me, okay?"

"Sure."

There were dozens of people already at the house on Royal Crescent. Mourners. I hadn't really considered that, but of course. Rick Collins was dead. People would come by to comfort the widow and pay their respects. Terese hesitated at the foot of the outside steps, but then she took my hand firmly.

When we first entered, I felt Terese stiffen. I followed her gaze to a dog-a bearded collie; I know because Esperanza has the same kind-curled up on a mat near the corner. The dog looked old and worn and wasn't moving. Terese let go of my hand and bent down to pet the dog.

"Hey, girl," she whispered. "It's me."

The dog's tail wagged as though it took great effort. The rest of the body stayed still. There were tears in Terese's eyes.

"This is Casey," she said to me. "We got her for Miriam when she was five years old."

The dog managed to lift its head. She licked Terese's hand. Terese just stayed there, on her knees. Casey's eyes were milky with cataracts. The old dog tried to get her legs under her and stand. Terese hushed her and found a spot behind the ears. The dog still twisted her head as if she wanted to look into Terese's eyes. Terese moved forward so it would be easier. The moment was tender and I felt like I was intruding.

"Casey used to sleep under Miriam's bed. She would get low and scratch her way underneath and then she'd turn around so just her head was sticking out. Like she was on guard duty."

Terese petted the dog and started to cry. I moved away, shielded them from anyone's view, gave them their time. It took Terese a few minutes to put herself back together. When she did, she took my hand again.

We headed into the living room. There was a line of maybe fifteen people waiting to pay their respects.

The whispers and stares began the moment we stepped fully into the room. I hadn't thought about it, but here was the ex-wife who had been gone for nearly a decade showing up at the home of the current wife. It would make tongues wag, I guess.

People parted and a woman dressed smartly in black-I assumed the widow-came through it. She was pretty, petite, and almost doll-like with big green eyes. A touch of Tuesday Weld, to quote a Steely Dan song. I didn't know what to expect, but her eyes seemed to light up when she saw Terese. Terese's too. The two women smiled sadly at each other, the kind of smile you give to someone you adore but wished you were seeing under better circumstances.

Karen spread her arms. The two women embraced, holding each other, staying very still. I wondered for a moment what sort of friendship these two women shared and figured that it had probably been something pretty profound.

When they finished the embrace, Karen sort of gestured with her head. The two women started out of the room. Terese reached back and grabbed my hand, so I went too. We headed into what the British probably called the "drawing room" and Karen closed the pocket doors. The two women sat on a couch as though they had done it a thousand times and knew their exact spots. No awkwardness.

Terese looked back at me. "This is Myron," she said.

I put out my hand. Karen Tower shook it with her tiny one. "I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

"Thank you." Karen turned back to Terese. "Is he your…?"

"It's complicated," Terese said.

Karen nodded.

I pointed back with my thumb. "Do you guys want me to wait in the other room?"

"No," Terese said.

I stayed where I was. No one was sure how to go on, but I sure as heck wasn't going to take the lead. I stood as stoically as I could.

Karen cut right to it. "Where have you been, Terese?"

"Here and there."

"I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

Silence.

"I wanted to reach you," Karen said. "And explain. About Rick and me."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Terese said.

"That's what Rick said. It happened slowly. You were gone. We started spending time together, for companionship. It took a long time before it became more."

"You don't need to explain," Terese said.

"Yeah, I guess not."

There was no apology in her voice, no waiting for forgiveness or understanding. They both seemed to get it.

Terese said, "I wished it ended better for you both."

"We have a son named Matthew," she said. "He's four years old."

"I heard."

"So how did you hear about the murder?"

"I was in Paris," Terese said.

That made Karen react. She blinked and backed up a bit. "That's where you've been this whole time?"

"No."

"Then I'm not sure I understand."

"Rick called me," Terese said.

"When?"

Terese filled her in on Rick's emergency phone call. Karen's face, already something of a death mask, lost even more color.

"Rick told you to come to Paris?" Karen asked.

"Yes."

"What did he want?"

"I was hoping you might know," Terese said.

Karen shook her head. "We haven't been talking much lately. We were going through a pretty bad spell. Rick had become withdrawn. I was kind of hoping it was just because he was onto a big story. You know how he got then?"

Terese nodded. "How long had he been like that?"

"Three, four months now-since his father died."

Terese stiffened. "Sam?"

"I figured you knew."

"No," Terese said.

"In the winter, yeah. He took a bottle of pills."

"Sam committed suicide?"

"He was sick, something terminal. He kept it from us, for the most part. Rick didn't know how bad it had gotten. I guess it got bad at the end so he decided to speed up the inevitable. Rick went into a funk, but then he started in on some big new investigation. He would disappear for weeks at a time. When I asked where he was, he'd snap and then he'd be sweet, but he wouldn't tell me. Or he'd lie about it."

Terese was still trying to get her bearings.

"Sam was such a sweet man," Terese said.

"I really never got to know him too well," Karen said. "We only visited him a couple of times, and he'd gotten too ill to come over here."

Terese swallowed, tried to get herself back on track. "So Sam commits suicide, and Rick buries himself in his work."

"Something like that, yeah."

"And he wouldn't tell you what he was investigating?"

"No."

"Did you ask Mario?"

"He wouldn't say."

I didn't ask who Mario was. I figured Terese would fill me in later.

Terese continued now, back on a roll. "Do you have any idea what it was Rick was working on?"

Karen studied her friend. "How well hidden were you, Terese?"

"Pretty well."

"Maybe that's what he was working on. Trying to find you."

"It wouldn't have taken him months."

"You're sure?"

"And even if that's what he was doing, why would he?"

"I'm trying not to be a jealous wife here," Karen said. "But I would think something like a father killing himself might make you question your life choices."

Terese made a face. "You think…?"

Karen shrugged.

"No chance," Terese said. "And even if you thought Rick was trying to-I don't know-connect or woo me back, why would he tell me it's an emergency?"

Karen thought about that. "Where were you when he reached you?"

"In a remote spot in northwest Angola."

"And when he said it was urgent, you dropped everything and came, right?"

"Yes."

Karen spread her hands as if that answered everything.

"He wasn't lying to get me to Paris, Karen."

Karen did not look convinced. She had looked sad before we entered. Now she looked deflated. Terese glanced back at me. I nodded.

It was time to kick this up a notch.

Terese said, "We need to ask you about the accident."

The words hit Karen like a stun gun. Her eyes shot up, and they looked dazed now, out of focus. I'd wondered about the use of the word "accident," if she would understand what Terese meant. Clearly she did.

"What about it?"

"You were there. At the scene, I mean."

Karen didn't reply.

"Were you?"

"Yes."

Terese seemed a little startled by the answer. "You never told me that."

"Why would I tell you? Strike that-when would I tell you? We never talked about that night. Not ever. You woke up. It wasn't like I was going to say, 'Hi, how are you feeling, I was at the scene.' "

"Tell me what you remember."

"Why? What difference could it make now?"

"Tell me."

"I love you, Terese. I always will."

Something changed. I could see it in her body language. A stiffening of the spine maybe. The best friend was slipping away. An adversary was coming to the surface.

"I love you too."

"I don't think a day goes by that I don't still think about you. But you left. You had your reasons and your pain and I got it. But you left. I made a life with this man. We were having problems, but Rick was my whole world. Do you get that?"

"Of course."

"I loved him. He was the father of my son. Matthew is only four. And someone murdered his father."

Terese just waited.

"So we're in mourning right now. I'm dealing with that. I'm dealing with trying to keep my life together and protecting my child. So I'm sorry. I'm not going to talk about a car accident from ten years ago. Not today."

She stood. It all made sense and yet something in her tone sounded oddly hollow.

"I'm trying to do the same," Terese said.

"What?"

"I'm trying to protect my child."

Karen had the stun-gun look again. "What are you talking about?"

"What happened to Miriam?" Terese asked.

Karen studied Terese's face. Then she turned to me, as if I might offer a glimmer of sanity. I kept my gaze steady.

"Did you see her that night?"

But Karen Tower didn't reply. She opened those pocket doors and vanished into a pack of mourners.

16

WHEN Karen left the drawing room, I walked around to the desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Snooping," I said.

The desk was rich mahogany with a gold letter opener that doubled as a magnifying glass. Slit envelopes stood vertically in antique holders. I didn't feel great about this, but I didn't feel terrible about it either. I took out my BlackBerry. The one Win gave me had a pretty good camera feature. I started opening envelopes and taking pictures.

I found credit card statements. I didn't have time to go through them all, but all I would need is the account numbers anyway. There were phone bills (that interested me) and energy bills (that didn't). I opened the drawers and started rifling through the contents.

"What are you looking for?" Terese asked.

"An envelope that says 'BIG CLUE INSIDE.'"

I was hoping for a miracle, of course. Something about Miriam. Pictures maybe. Short of that, I had the bills, the credit card, the phone numbers. We should be able to get some information from that. I hoped to find a day planner, but there was none.

I stumbled across a few photographs of people I assumed were Rick, Karen, and their son, Matthew.

"Is this Rick?" I asked.

She nodded.

I didn't know what to make of him. He had a prominent nose, blue eyes, and dirty blond hair that landed someplace between wavy and unruly. A man can't help it-he sees an ex, he sizes him up. I started to do that and then I made myself stop. I put the pictures back where I found them and continued my search. No more pictures. No blond daughter he'd kept hidden for years. No old photographs of Terese.

I turned and saw the laptop on the matching credenza.

"How much more time do you think we have?" I asked.

"I'll stand guard by the door."

I flipped on the MacBook. It came up in seconds. I clicked on the iCal icon on the bottom. His daybook came up. Nothing in the past month. On the right, there was only one To Do note. It read:

OPAL

HHK

4714

I had no idea what that meant, but the priority was listed as High.

"What?" Terese said.

I read off the To Do and asked her if she had any idea what it meant. She didn't. Time was still a factor here. I debated e-mailing the iCal contents to Esperanza, but that might get noticed. Then again, so what? Win, of course, had several anonymous e-mail addresses. I sent copies of the data on both the calendar and address book to him. Then I went into the Sent file and deleted them so no one would see.

Ain't I clever?

Here I was, rummaging through the belongings of a man who'd recently been murdered while his widow and son mourned in the other room. I felt quite the hero. Maybe on the way out, I should kick good ol' Casey.

"Who is the Mario you two talked about?" I asked her.

"Mario Contuzzi," Terese said. "He was Rick's best friend and assistant producer. They worked on everything together."

I looked up his name in Address Book. Bingo. I plugged both his home and cell number into my phone.

Again with the clever.

"Do you know where Wilsham Street is?" I asked.

"It's walking distance. Does Mario still live there?"

I nodded and dialed Mario's home phone number. A man with an American accent answered and said, "Hello?" I hung up.

"He's home," I said.

I hope the amateur detectives out there are taking notes.

"We should head over."

I quickly opened up iPhoto. There were plenty of pictures but nothing that stood out. I couldn't e-mail all of them out. That would take forever. The pictures were normal, which is to say, heartbreaking. Karen looked happy next to her man. Rick looked happy too. Their faces beamed as they held their son. IPhoto has this feature that allows you to put the cursor over an Event and the pictures fly by in a rapid slide show. I watched the MATTHEW IS BORN! Event and FIRST BIRTHDAY and a few others. Again heart-breakingly normal.

I stopped at one very recent shot under DAD'S SOCCER FINALS. Rick and Matthew were in matching Manchester United soccer uniforms. Rick had a big smile and held his son close to his side. The sweat was dripping off him. You could almost tell that he was out of breath and ecstatic about it. Four-year-old Matthew huddled against him, wearing goalie gear-the oversize gloves and that little black eye makeup-and trying to look serious, and I thought that this kid will now grow up without that smiling father and I thought about Jack, another boy who had to grow up without his father-and I thought about my own father, how much I loved and still needed him, and then I closed the file.

We slipped toward the front door without saying good-bye. I looked behind me and spotted little Matthew slumped in a chair in the corner. He was wearing a dark suit.

Four-year-olds don't belong in dark suits. Four-year-olds belong in goalie uniforms next to their dads.

MARIO Contuzzi answered the door without asking who it was. He was thin and wiry and reminded me of a Weimaraner dog. He jabbed a narrow face in Terese's direction.

"You have some nerve."

"Nice to see you too, Mario."

"I just got a call from a friend at Karen's. He says you popped in unannounced. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"What were you thinking?" Mario's head snapped toward me. "And why would you bring this asswipe, of all people?"

"Do I know you?" I asked.

Mario wore those tortoiseshell glasses I always thought were trying too hard. He was wearing suit pants and a white dress shirt that he had been in the midst of buttoning. "I don't have time for this. Please leave."

"We need to talk," Terese said.

"Too late."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He spread his arms. "You left, Terese, remember? You had your reasons, maybe. That's fine. Your choice. But you left and now that he's dead you finally want to have a little chitchat? Forget it. I have nothing to say to you."

"That was a long time ago," she said.

"Precisely my point. Rick waited for you to come back. Did you know that? For two years, he waited. You were distraught and depressed-we all understood that-but that didn't stop you from shacking up with Mr. Basketball here."

He pointed at me with his thumb. I was Mr. Basketball here.

"Rick knew about that?" Terese asked.

"Of course. We thought you were devastated, vulnerable maybe. We kept an eye on you. I think Rick hoped you'd come back. Instead you go off to some little island for a private orgy with Hoop Head."

He pointed at me with the thumb again. Now I was Hoop Head.

Terese said, "You were following me?"

"We were keeping an eye on you, yes."

"For how long?"

He didn't reply. Suddenly his sleeve needed to be unrolled.

"How long, Mario?"

"We always knew where you were. I'm not saying we discussed it anymore and you've been at that refugee center for the past six years so it's not like we checked all the time. But we knew. That's why I'm surprised to see you with Bozo the SuperJock here. We thought you dumped this meathead years ago."

He waved his thumb in my face again.

"Mario?" I said.

He looked at me.

"Point that thumb at me again and it will end up mid-colon."

"Physical threats from the big man on campus," he said, a smirk splitting the narrow face. "It's like I'm back in high school."

I was about to get into it with him, but I didn't think that would help. "We have some questions for you," I said.

"And I'm supposed to answer them? You don't get it, do you? She was married to my best friend and then she shacks up with you on some deserted island. You know how that made him feel?"

"Bad?" I said.

That stopped him. He turned back to Terese. "Look, I don't mean to come on like a raging ass, but you don't belong here. Rick and Karen had a good thing. You gave this up long ago."

I looked at Terese. She was trying very hard to hold it together.

"Did he blame me?" she asked.

"For what?"

She said nothing.

Mario's shoulder deflated along with, I assumed, his anger. His voice softened. "No, Terese, he never blamed you. Not for any of it, okay? I did, I guess, for the leaving-him part-and yeah, that's not my place. But he never blamed you, not for a second."

She said nothing.

"I have to get ready," Mario said. "I'm helping Karen with the arrangements. Arrangements. Like it's a choral piece. What a dumb-ass word."

Terese still seemed a little dazed, so I stepped in. "Do you have any thoughts on who might have killed him?"

"What are you, Bolitar, some kind of cop now?"

"We were in Paris when he was killed," I said.

He turned toward Terese. "You saw Rick?"

"I never got the chance."

"But he called you?"

"Yes."

"Damn." Mario closed his eyes. He still hadn't invited us in, but I sort of pressed myself into the doorway, and he stepped back. I expected a bachelor pad-I'm not sure why-but there were toys on the floor and a Pack 'n Play in the corner. Empty baby bottles were lined up on the counter.

"I married Ginny," he said to Terese. "You remember her?"

"Of course. I'm glad to hear you're happy, Mario."

He took a beat, reassessing, calming down. "We have three kids. We keep saying we're going to buy a bigger place, but we like it here. And real estate is ridiculous in London."

We stood there.

"So Rick called you," Mario said to Terese.

"Yes."

He shook his head.

I broke the silence. "Was there anybody who'd want to kill Rick?"

"Rick was one of the best investigative reporters in the world. He pissed off a lot of people."

"Anybody specific?"

"Not really, no. I still don't get what this has to do with either one of you."

I wanted to explain, but I knew that we didn't have the time. "Could you just humor us for another moment?"

"Humor you? Like this is funny?"

Terese said, "Please, Mario. It's important."

"Because you say it is?"

"You know me," she said. "You know if I'm asking it's important."

He thought about that.

"Mario?"

"What do you want to know?"

"What was Rick working on?" she asked.

He looked off, his upper teeth working his lower lip. "A few months ago he started investigating a charitable entity called Save the Angels."

"What about them?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure. They started out as an evangelical group, a classic right-to-life group, protesting abortion clinics, Planned Parenthood, stem cell research, the whole deal. But they broke away. He was obsessed with learning all he could about them."

"What did he find?"

"Not much that I could see. The money structure seemed a little odd. We couldn't trace it down. Basically they were against abortion, against stem cell research, and really into adoptions. Truth was, I thought they seemed like a pretty solid group. I don't want to get into a pro-life versus pro-choice argument, but I think both sides would agree that adoption is a viable alternative. That seems to be the direction they headed. Instead of firebombing clinics, Save the Angels worked on getting unwanted pregnancies to term and getting the kids adopted."

"And Rick was interested in them?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"What made him start looking into them?"

"Again, I can't say for sure." His voice sort of died away.

"But you have a thought."

"It started when he went home after his father died." Mario turned to Terese. "You know about Sam?"

"Karen told me."

"Suicide," he said.

"He was ill?"

Mario nodded. " Huntington 's."

Terese looked shocked. "Sam had Huntington's disease?"

"Surprised, huh? He kept it hidden, I guess, but when it got bad, well, he didn't want to go through that. Took the easy way out."

"But… how… I never knew."

"Neither did Rick. Or Sam, for that matter, until the end."

"How is that possible?"

"You know anything about Huntington 's?" Mario asked.

She nodded. "I did a story on it. It's strictly hereditary. One of your parents has to have it. If they do, you have a one-in-two chance of contracting it."

"Exactly. The theory is, Sam's father-Rick's grandfather-had it, but he died in Normandy, before the illness would have taken effect. So Sam had no idea."

"Did Rick get tested?" Terese asked.

"I don't know. He didn't even tell Karen the whole story-just that his father found out he had a terminal illness. But anyway, he stayed over in the USA for a while. I think he was going through his father's things, settling the estate. That was when he stumbled onto this Save the Angels charity."

"How?"

"No idea."

"You said they're against stem cell research. Was that somehow related to Huntington 's?"

"Could be, but Rick mostly had me run through their finances. Follow the money. That's the old motto. Rick wanted to know everything he could about it, and the people who ran it-until he told me to get off the story."

"He gave up?"

"No. He just wanted me to stop. Not him. Just me."

"Do you know why?"

"Not really. He came by and took all my files and then he said something really weird." Mario looked first at Terese, then back at me. "He said, 'You need to be careful, you have a family.'"

We waited.

"So I said the obvious: 'So do you.' But he just shook it off. I could see he was totally unnerved. Terese, you knew how he was. Nothing scared him."

She nodded. "He was that way on the phone with me."

"So I try to get him to talk to me, open up. He won't. He hurries out and I don't hear anything else from him. Ever. And then I get the call today."

"Any clue where those files are now?"

"He usually kept copies at the office."

"It might help if we could see them."

Mario just stared at her.

"Please, Mario. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

He was still annoyed, but he did seem to get it. "Let me go look around for them first thing in the morning, okay?"

I looked over at Terese. I wasn't sure how hard we pushed now. This man seemed to know Rick Collins as well as anyone. It was her call.

"Has Rick talked about Miriam much recently?" she asked.

Mario looked up. He took his time, and I expected an expansive answer. But all he said was, "No."

We waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.

"I think," Terese said, "that there's a chance that Miriam is still alive."

If Mario Contuzzi knew something about it, then the guy had to be a psychopath. I'm not saying that people can't lie and act and fool you. I have seen it done too many times by some all-time greats. The way the all-time greats do it is to either fool themselves into believing that the lie is the truth or they are true honest-to-goodness psychopaths. If Mario suspected that Miriam was alive, he fit into one of those two camps.

He made a face as though he had heard wrong. His voice had an angry edge. "What are you talking about?"

But saying it out loud had drained her. I took over. Trying to sound somewhat sane as I told him about the blood samples and the blond hair. I didn't tell him about seeing her on the video or any of that. This was too hard to believe as it was. The best way to present it was with scientific evidence-DNA testing-not my intuition based on her walk on a grainy surveillance video.

For a long time he said nothing.

Then: "The blood test has to be wrong."

We both said nothing.

"Or, wait, they think you killed Rick, right?"

"They originally thought Terese had a hand in it, yes."

"What about you, Bolitar?"

"I was in New Jersey when he was murdered."

"So they think Terese did it, is that it?"

"Yes."

"And you know how cops are. They play mind games. What better mind game than this-telling you your dead daughter might still be alive?"

Now I made a face. "How would that help land her for his murder?"

"How am I supposed to know? But, I mean, come on, Terese. I know you want this. Hell, I want this. But how can it possibly be?"

"'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,' " I said.

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," Mario said.

"Yep."

"You ready to go that far, Bolitar?"

"I'm ready to go out as far as I need to."

17

WHEN we were a block away, Terese said, "I need to visit Miriam's grave."

We found another hansom cab and rode in silence. When we got to the fenced cemetery, we stopped at the gate. Cemeteries always have a fence and gate. What exactly were they protecting?

"Do you want me to wait out here?" I asked.

"Yes."

So I stayed outside the gates, as though afraid to trample sacred ground, which, I guessed, I was. I kept Terese in sight for reasons of safety but when she bent down on her knees, I turned away and started to walk. I thought about what must be going through her mind, what images were running through her head. This, I assure you, wasn't a good idea, so I called Esperanza back in New York.

It took her six rings to answer.

"There's a time change, dummy."

I looked at my watch. It was five AM in New York. "Oops," I said.

"What now?"

I decided to open big. I told Esperanza about the DNA and the blond girl.

"It's her daughter?"

"Apparently."

"That," Esperanza said, "is seriously messed up."

"It is."

"So what do you need from me?"

"I took a bunch of pictures-credit card bills, phone, whatever-and e-mailed them over," I said. "Oh, and there's some weird thing about opals or something in the To Dos."

"Opals like the stones?"

"No idea. Might be code."

"I'm terrible at codes."

"Me too, but maybe something will click. Anyway, let's start figuring out what Rick Collins was up to. Also his father committed suicide." I gave her his name and location. "Maybe we can look into that."

"Into a suicide?"

"Yes."

"Look into it for what?"

"See if there was anything suspicious, I don't know."

There was silence. I started walking.

"Esperanza?"

"I like her."

"Who?"

"Margaret Thatcher. Who are we talking about? Terese, dopey. And you know me. I hate all your girlfriends."

I thought about it. "You like Ali," I said.

"I do. She's a good person."

"Do I hear a but?"

"But she's not for you."

"Why not?"

"There are no intangibles," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"What made you a great athlete?" Esperanza asked. "Not a good athlete. I'm talking about pro level, first-team collegiate All-American, all that."

"Skill, hard work, genetics."

"Lots of guys have those. But what separates you-what divides the greats from the almosts-are the intangibles."

"And Ali and I?"

"No intangibles."

I heard a baby crying in the background. Esperanza's son, Hector, was eighteen months old.

"He still doesn't sleep through the night," Esperanza said, "so you can imagine how thrilled I am about your call."

"Sorry."

"I'll get on it. Take care of yourself. Tell Terese to hang tough. We'll figure this out."

She hung up. I stared at the phone. Usually Win and Esperanza hate when I get involved in stuff like this. All of a sudden the reluctance was gone. I wondered about that.

Across the street, a man with sunglasses, black Chuck Taylor high-tops, and a green T-shirt strolled without a care. My Spidey senses started tingling. His hair was close-cropped and dark. So was his skin-what we call Semitic, which I often confuse with Latino or Arabic or Greek or heck, Italian.

He turned the corner and vanished. I waited to see if he reappeared. He didn't. I looked around to see if someone else had now entered the scene. Several people walked by but no one else set off my Spidey senses.

When Terese came back she was dry-eyed.

"Should we grab a cab?" she asked.

"Do you know this area?"

"Yes."

"Is there a subway station nearby?"

I could almost hear Win saying, "In London, Myron, we call it the tube or the underground."

She nodded. We walked two blocks. She led the way.

"I know this sounds like the most idiotic question known to mankind," I began, "but are you okay?"

Terese nodded. Then: "Do you believe in anything supernatural?"

"Meaning?"

"Ghosts, spirits, ESP, any of that."

"No. Why, do you?"

She didn't answer the question directly. "That was only the second time I've visited Miriam's grave," she said.

I put my credit card in the ticket-buying machine and let Terese press the right buttons.

"I hate it there. Not because it makes me sad. But because I don't feel anything. You would think that all that misery, all the tears that have been shed there-have you ever stopped and thought about that at a graveyard? How many people have cried. How many people have said final good-byes to loved ones. You'd think, I don't know, that all that human suffering would come swirl up in tiny particles and form some sort of negative cosmic sensation. A tingle in the bones maybe, a cold prickle on the back of the neck, something."

"But you never felt it," I said.

"Never. The whole idea of burying the dead and putting a stone marker over their remains… it seems like a waste of space, like something held over from a superstitious era."

"Yet," I said, "you wanted to go back today."

"Not to pay my respects."

"Then what?"

"This is going to sound nuts."

"Go for it."

"I wanted to come back to see if maybe something changed in the past decade. To see if this time I could feel something."

"That doesn't sound so nuts."

"Not 'feel' like that. I'm not saying this right. I thought coming back here might help us."

"In what way?"

Terese kept walking. "Here's the thing. I figured…" She stopped, swallowed.

"What?" I said.

She blinked into the sunlight. "I don't believe in the supernatural either-but you know what I do believe in?"

I shook my head.

"I believe in the maternal bond. I don't know how else to say it. I'm her mother. That's the most powerful link known to mankind, right? A mother's love for her child trumps all. So I should feel something, one way or the other. I should be able to stand by that gravestone and know if my own daughter is alive or not. You know what I mean?"

My gut reaction was to offer up some patronizing pap like "How could you?" or "Don't beat yourself up about it," but I stopped myself before uttering the inane. I have a son, at least biologically. He's grown now and doing his second tour overseas-this one in Kabul. I worry about him all the time-and while I don't believe it's possible, I keep thinking I would know if something bad happened to him. I will feel it or imagine a chilly gust inside my chest or some nonsense like that.

I said, "I know what you mean."

We headed down an escalator that seemed to go forever. I glanced behind me. No sign of Sunglasses Man.

"So what now?" Terese asked.

"We head back to the hotel. You start looking at what we found at Karen's. Think about that opal code, see where that leads you. Esperanza will e-mail you whatever she gets. Something happened to Rick recently-something that made him change his life and reach out to you. The best thing to do right now is figure out who killed him, why, and what he was working on the last few months. So you need to go through his stuff, see what jumps out at you."

"What did you think of our conversation with Karen?" Terese asked me.

"You two were close, right?"

"Yes, very."

"Then I will put it politely: I don't think Karen was being totally forthcoming. You?"

"Before today I would have said I would trust her with my life," Terese said. "But you're right. She's lying about something."

"Any idea what?"

"No."

"Let's maybe go back and try something else. Tell me everything you remember about the accident."

"You think I'm holding back?"

"Of course not. But now that you've heard all this new stuff, I'm wondering if anything about that night is striking you as different."

"No, nothing." She looked out the window, but there was only the blur of the tunnel. "I've spent the past decade trying to forget that night."

"I understand."

"You don't understand. I've replayed that night in my head every single day for the past ten years."

I said nothing.

"I have looked at that night from every angle. I have pondered every what-if-if I had driven slower, taken a different route, left her at home, hadn't been so damn ambitious, everything. There is nothing more to remember."

We got off the train and headed forward toward the exit.

When we entered the lobby, my phone vibrated. Win sent the following text:

BRING TERESE TO THE PENTHOUSE. THEN GO TO ROOM 118.

ALONE.

The two seconds later, Win added:

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM TEXTING BACK SOME WITTY ALBEIT HOMOPHOBIC COMEBACK VIS-А-VIS THE "ALONE" COMMENT.

Win was the only person I knew who was more verbose in texts than in person. I took Terese up to the penthouse. There was a laptop with Internet access. I pointed to it. "Maybe you can start digging into this Save the Angels charity."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Downstairs. Win wants to talk to me."

"I can't go?"

"He said alone."

"I'm not really sure I like that idea," Terese said.

"Neither am I, but I find it's better not to question him."

"How crazy is he?"

"Win is sane. He is just overly rational. He sees things in black and white." Then I added: "He tends to be more of an ends-justify-means sort of guy."

"His means can be pretty extreme," she said.

"Yes."

"I remember that from when I helped you find that donor."

I said nothing.

"Win isn't trying to spare my feelings, is he?"

"Win and sparing a woman's feelings," I said, making a scale with my hands. "I don't think that's a factor."

"You better go."

"Yep."

"Will you tell me what happens?"

"Probably not. If Win wants to keep something from you, it's for the best. You have to trust that, I guess."

She nodded and stood. "I'm going to wash up and then hit the Internet."

"Okay."

She started for the bedroom. I reached for the door to the corridor.

"Myron?"

I turned toward her. She stood facing me full. She was beautiful and vulnerable and strong and she stood like she was readying to take a blow and I wanted to jump in the way and protect her.

"What?" I asked.

"I love you," Terese said.

She said it just like that. Facing me full, beautiful and vulnerable and strong. Something in my chest rose and took flight. I stood there, frozen, the gift of speech temporarily taken away from me.

"I know the timing sucks and I don't want it to interfere with what we're doing now. But either way, if Miriam is alive or if this is all some horrible practical joke, I want you to know: I love you. And when this is over, however it turns out, I want more than anything to give you and me a try."

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I'm kinda with someone."

"I know. I guess my timing double-sucks. But that's okay. If you love her, then that's that. If you don't, I'm here."

Terese didn't wait for a response. She turned and opened the bedroom door and vanished inside.

18

I staggered to the elevator.

How had that Snow Patrol song put it a couple of years back? Those three words, they say so much, they're not enough.

Baloney. They were enough.

I thought about Ali in Arizona. I thought about Terese standing there and telling me that she loved me. Terese was probably right-the best response was to not let it interfere. But it was there. And it was gnawing at me.

The blinds were drawn in room 118.

I reached for the light switch and then thought better of it. Win sat in a plush chair. I could hear the clink of ice in whatever he was drinking. Alcohol never seemed to affect Win, but this was awfully early.

I sat across from him. We have been friends for a very long time. We met as college students at Duke University. I remember seeing his photograph in the freshman face book the first day I arrived on campus. The entry listed him as Windsor Horne Lockwood III from some obnoxious-sounding prep school on the Main Line in Philadelphia. He had the perfect hair and the haughty expression. My father and I had just lugged up all my stuff to my fourth-floor walk-up. Typical of my father. He drove me to North Carolina from New Jersey, never bitching once, insisting on carrying the heaviest items himself, and we sat down and took a break and I started paging through the face book and I pointed to Win's picture and said, "Hey, Dad, look at this guy. I bet I never even see him in my four years."

I was wrong, of course.

For a long time I felt Win was indestructible. He had killed many, but none that didn't seem to deserve it, and yes, I know how disturbing it is to say that. But age has a way of creeping up on all of us. What seems eccentric and edgy when you're in your twenties or thirties turns into something closer to pathetic at forty.

"It will be difficult to get permission to exhume the body," Win began. "We have no cause of action."

"How about the DNA test?"

"The French authorities won't release the results. I also tried the most direct route-a bribe."

"No takers?"

"Not yet. There will be, but it will take some time, which it seems we don't have."

I thought about it. "You have a suggestion?"

"I do."

"I'm listening."

"We bribe gravediggers. We do it ourselves tonight under the cover of darkness. We only need a small sample. We send it to our lab, compare the DNA with Terese's"-he raised his glass-"and we're done."

"Ghoulish," I said.

"And effective."

"Do you think there's a point?"

"Meaning?"

"We know how the result is going to turn out."

"Do tell."

"I heard the tone in Berleand's voice. He may have talked about premature and inconclusive, but we both know. And I saw that girl on that surveillance video. Okay, not her face and it was at a distance. But she had her mother's walk, if you know what I mean."

"How about her mother's derriere?" Win asked. "Now that would be solid evidence."

I just looked at him.

He sighed. "Mannerisms are often more of a tell than facial features or even height," he said. "I get it."

"Yes."

"You and your son have that," Win said. "When he sits down, he shakes his leg like you do. He has your motion-the way your fingertips come off the ball-on the jump shot, if not your result."

I don't think Win had ever mentioned my son before.

"We still need to do this," I said. I thought again about that Sherlock Holmes axiom about eliminating the impossible. "At the end of the day, the most obvious answer is still some kind of mistake in Berleand's DNA test. We need to know for certain."

"Agreed."

I hated the idea of violating a grave, of course, especially of someone who'd been taken so young. I would run it by Terese, but she had made it pretty clear how she felt about ashes to ashes. I told Win to go ahead.

"Is that why you wanted to see me alone?" I asked.

"No."

Win took a deep sip, rose, filled his glass. He didn't bother offering me any. He knew I couldn't handle hard liquor. Though I'm six four and nearly 220 pounds, I handle booze about as well as a sixteen-year-old girl sneaking into her first mixer.

"You saw the video of the blond girl at the airport," he said.

"Yes."

"And she was with the man who attacked you. The one in the photograph."

"You know this."

"I do."

"So what's wrong?"

Win pressed a button on his cell phone and raised it to his ear. "Please join us."

The door from the connecting room opened. A tall woman in a dark blue power suit entered. She had raven black hair and big shoulders. She blinked, put a hand to her eyes, and said, "Why are the lights so low?"

She had a British accent. This being Win, I figured that the woman was, well, Mee-like, if you will. But that wasn't the case. She moved across the room and took the open seat.

"This," Win said, "is Lucy Probert. She works at Interpol here in London."

I said something inane, like nice to meet you. She nodded and studied my face as though it were a modern painting she didn't quite get.

"Tell him," Win said.

"Win forwarded me the photograph of the man whom you assaulted."

"I didn't assault him," I said. "He pulled a gun on me."

Lucy Probert waved that away as if it were so much flotsam. "My division at Interpol works international child trafficking. You probably think it's a pretty sick world out there, but trust me, it's sicker than you can imagine. The crimes that I deal with-well, it boggles the mind what people can dream up to do to the most vulnerable. In our battles against this depravity, your friend Win has been an invaluable ally."

I looked over at said friend and as usual his face gave away nothing. For a long time, Win had been-for lack of a better term-a vigilante. He would go out late at night and walk the most dangerous streets of New York or Philadelphia in hopes of being attacked so that he could maim those who would prey on the perceived weak. He would read about a pervert who'd gotten off on a technicality or some wife beater who'd gotten his wife to clam up, and he would pay them what we called "Night Visits." There was one case of a pedophile the police knew had kidnapped a girl but couldn't get to talk. They were forced to release him. Win paid him a Night Visit. He talked. The girl was found, already dead. No one knows where the pedophile is now.

I thought that maybe Win had stopped or at least slowed down, but now I realized that hadn't been the case. He had started taking more overseas trips. He had been an "invaluable ally" in the fight against child trafficking.

"So when Win asked me for a favor," Lucy went on, "I did it. This seemed like a pretty innocuous request anyway-to run the photo Captain Berleand sent you through the system and come up with an ID. Routine, right?"

"Right."

"It was not. We have plenty of ways at Interpol to identify people from photographs. There's facial recognition software, for example."

"Miss Probert?"

"Yes."

"I don't really need a technology lesson."

"Wonderful, because I have neither the time nor inclination to give you one. My point is, such requests are fairly routine at Interpol. I put the photograph into the system before I left for the day, figuring the computer would work on it overnight and spew out an answer. Is that simplifying matters enough for you?"

I nodded, realizing that I'd be wrong to interrupt. She was clearly agitated and I hadn't helped.

"So when I arrived at work this morning, I expected to have an identity to report back to you. But that wasn't the case. Instead-how shall I put this politely?-all forms of intestinal waste hit the proverbial fan. Someone had gone through my desk. My computer had been accessed and searched. Don't ask me how I know-I know."

She stopped and started searching through her bag. She found a cigarette and put it in her mouth. "You damn Americans and your antismoking crusade. If one of you says anything about no-smoking rules…"

Neither of us did.

She lit up, took a deep breath, let it go.

"In short, that photograph was classified or top secret or fill in your own terminology."

"Do you know why?"

"Why it was classified?"

"Yes."

"No. I am fairly high up on the Interpol food chain. If it was over my head, it is ultra-sensitive. Your photograph sent warning bells right to the top. I was summoned to Mickey Walker's office-the big boss in London. I haven't been honored by an audience with Mickey in two years. He called me in and sat me down and wanted to know where I'd got the photograph and why I'd made this request."

"What did you tell him?"

She looked over at Win, and I knew the answer.

"That I'd received a tip from a reliable source that the man in the photograph might be involved in trafficking."

"And he asked you for the name of the source?"

"Of course."

"And you gave it to him?"

Win said, "I would have insisted."

"There was no choice," she said. "They would have found out anyway. If they went through my e-mails or phone records, they might have been able to track it down."

I looked at Win. Again no reaction. She was wrong-they wouldn't have been able to track it down, but I understood where she was coming from. This was clearly something big. To not cooperate would be career suicide and maybe worse. Win would have been right to insist she put it on us.

"So now what?"

"They wish to talk to me," Win said.

"Do they know where you are?"

"Not yet, no. My solicitor informed them I would voluntarily come in within the hour. We are checked in here under an assumed name, but if they try hard enough they will find us here."

She looked at her watch. "I better head back."

I thought about the Sunglasses Man who'd set off my Spidey senses. "Is there any chance one of your people is following me?"

"I would doubt it."

"You're under heavy suspicion," I said. "How do you know they didn't follow you here?"

She looked at Win. "Is he a dope or just a sexist?"

Win considered that. "A sexist."

"I'm an agent for Interpol. I took precautions."

But not enough precautions so as not to get caught in the first place. I kept that thought to myself. It wasn't fair. She couldn't have known how putting that picture in the system would blow up.

We all rose. She shook my hand and kissed Win's cheek. Win and I settled back into our seats after she left.

"What are you going to tell Interpol?" I asked.

"Is there any reason to lie?"

"Not that I can see."

"So I tell them the truth-for the most part. My dear friend-that would be you-was attacked by this man in Paris. I wanted to know who he was. We cover for Lucy by saying I lied to her and said the man was involved in child trafficking."

"Which for all we know is a possibility."

"True."

"Do you mind if I tell Terese about this?"

"As long as you leave Lucy's name out of it."

I nodded. "We need to get an ID on this guy."

I walked Win down to the Claridge's rather spectacular lobby. No violin quartet played concertos in the foyer, but they should have. The décor was modern British Upper Crust, which is to say a hybrid of Old English and art deco, done in a style both relaxed enough for jean-clad tourists and yet haughty enough to imagine that certain chairs and maybe the molding on the ceiling were snubbing their collective nose at you. I liked it. After Win left, I started for the elevator when something made me pull up.

Black Chuck Taylor high-tops.

I moved toward the elevators, stopped, and patted my pockets. I turned back with a confused expression on my face, as though I had just realized that I had misplaced something. Myron Bolitar, Method Actor. I used the opportunity to glance surreptitiously at the man with the black Chuck Taylor high-tops.

No sunglasses. Blue windbreaker now. A baseball cap that hadn't been there at the cemetery. But I knew. It was my guy. And he was good. People have a tendency to remember very little. Guy with sunglasses and close-cropped hair. Throw a cap on, a windbreaker over your T-shirt-no one will notice you unless they're looking hard.

I had almost missed it, but now I knew for sure: I was being followed. My boy from the graveyard was back.

There were several ways to play this, but I was not in the mood to be coy. I walked down a narrow corridor toward the rooms they used for meetings and conferences. It was a Sunday so they were empty. I folded my arms, leaned against the coatroom, and waited for my man to make an appearance.

When he did-five minutes later-I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him into the coatroom. "Why are you following me?"

He looked at me confused.

"Is it my strong chin? My hypnotic blue eyes? My shapely ass? By the way, do these pants make me look fat? Tell me the truth."

The man stared for another second, maybe two, and then he did what I had done earlier: He just attacked.

He led with a palm strike toward my face. I blocked it. He spun and threw an elbow. Fast. Faster than I'd anticipated. The blow landed on the left side of my chin. I turned my head to lesson the impact, but I could still feel my teeth rattle. He kept the attack going, throwing another blow, then a side kick, then a fist to the body. The body shot landed the hardest, on the bottom of the rib cage. It would hurt. If you ever watch boxing on TV, even casually, you will hear every announcer say the same things: Body shots accumulate. The opponent will feel them in the late rounds. That's true and it's not. Body shots also hurt right now. They make you cringe and lower your defenses.

I was in trouble.

Part of my brain started berating myself-stupid to do this without a weapon or Win as backup. Most of my brain, however, had kicked into survival mode. Even the most seemingly innocent fight-at a bar, a sporting event, whatever-will make your adrenaline go haywire because your body knows what maybe your mind doesn't want to accept: This is about survival. You could very well die.

I fell to the ground and rolled away. The coatroom was small. This guy knew what he was doing. He stayed on me, trying to rain down foot stomps, chasing me. He landed a kick to my head; stars exploded like something out of a cartoon. I debated yelling for help, anything to get him to stop.

I rolled a second or so more, noticed his timing. I left my gut open, hoping he would go for it with a kick. He did. As he started to cock his knee, I reverse-rolled toward him, bent at the waist, got my hands ready. The kick landed in ye olde bread basket, but I was ready for it. I clamped his foot against my body with both hands and rolled hard. He had two choices. Fall quickly to the ground or have his ankle bone snap like a dried twig.

He knew to throw blows as he fell, but for the most part they were ineffective.

We were both on the ground. I was hurt and dazed, but I had two major advantages now. One, I still had his foot, though I could feel that grip loosening. Two, now that we were on the ground, well, size became important-and I mean that in a clean way. I was holding his leg with both hands. He tried to punch his way through. I moved closer to him, ducking my head into his chest. When an opponent is throwing punches, most people think that they should give the guy some distance. But it's just the opposite. You put your face into his chest and smother his power. That was what I did here.

He tried to box my ears, but that required both hands, leaving him vulnerable. I lifted my head hard and fast and caught him under the chin. He reeled back. I fell on top of him.

Now the fight was about leverage and technique and size. I had him beat right now in two of the three-leverage and size. I was still dizzy from the initial attack but the head butt had helped. I still had his leg. I gave it a vicious twist. He rolled with it and that was when he made the big mistake.

He turned his back to me, exposing it.

I let go and jumped on him, my legs snaking around his waist, my right arm around his neck. He knew what was coming. Panic made him start bucking. He dropped his chin to block my elbow. I whacked him in the back of the head with a palm strike. That weakened him just enough. I quickly gripped his forehead and tugged back. He tried to fight it, but I raised his chin just enough. My elbow sneaked underneath the opening and reached his throat. The choke hold was set.

I had him now. It was just a question of time.

And then I heard a noise, a voice actually, shouting in a foreign language. I debated letting go to see who it was, but I held on. That was my mistake. A second man had entered the room. He hit me in the back of the neck, probably with a knife hand, what you'd call a classic karate chop. A numbness swept through me as if my entire body had just become my funny bone banged the wrong way. My grip loosened.

I heard the man shout again, in the same foreign language. It confused me. The first man slipped out of my grip, gasping for breath. He rolled away. There were two of them now. I looked at the second man. He pointed a gun at me.

I was finished.

"Don't move," the man said to me with a foreign accent.

My brain searched for an out, but I was too far away. The first man rose to his feet. He was still breathing hard. We looked at each other, our eyes met, and I saw something strange there. Not hatred. Respect maybe. I don't know.

I looked at the man with the gun again.

"Don't move," he said a second time. "And don't follow us."

Then they both ran away.

19

I stumbled to the elevator. I hoped that I could make it to my room without being seen, but the elevator stopped in the lobby. A family of six Americans looked at me, at my torn shirt and bleeding mouth and all the rest of it, and still got on and said, "Hi!" For the next few floors I heard the big sister picking on the brother and the mother begging them to stop and the father trying to ignore them and the other two siblings pinching each other when the parents weren't looking.

When I got to the room, Terese freaked out, but only briefly. She helped me in and called Win. Win arranged for a doctor. The doctor came quickly and declared nothing broken. I would be okay. My head hurt, probably from a concussion. I craved rest. The doctor gave me something and everything became a little fuzzy. The next thing I remember was sensing Win standing across the dark room. I opened one eye, then the other.

Win said, "You're an idiot."

"No, I'm fine, really, don't start with all the concern."

"You should have waited for me."

"Nobody likes a Monday morning quarterback." I struggled to sit up. My body was somewhat willing; my head shrieked in protest. I grabbed my skull with both hands, trying to keep it from splitting open.

"I think I learned something," I said.

"I'm listening."

The curtains were still open. Darkness had fallen. I looked at my watch. It was ten PM now, and I remembered something. "The graveyard," I said.

"What about it?"

"Are they exhuming the body?"

"You still want to go?"

I nodded and quickly got dressed. I didn't bother saying good-bye to Terese. We had discussed it earlier-she saw no reason to be there. Win had a limo pick us up at the front entrance, pull into a private lot, and then we changed cars.

"Here," Win said.

He handed me a mini-revolver, the NAA Black Widow. I looked at it. "A twenty-two?"

Win usually favored larger weapons. Like, say, bazookas or rocket launchers.

"The UK has some pretty strict laws against carrying a firearm." He handed me a nylon ankle holster. "Better to keep it concealed."

"Is that what you're carrying?"

"Heavens no. Do you want something bigger?"

I didn't. I strapped it onto my ankle. It reminded me of a brace I used when I played basketball.

When we arrived at the cemetery, I expected to be more ghouled out, if you will, but I wasn't. The two men were standing in the hole, almost done. They both wore matching aqua blue velour sweat suits from my aunt Sophie's Miami collection. The majority of the digging had been done earlier in the day by a small yellow excavator that sat to the right as if looking down at its handiwork. The two velour-clad gents just needed to scrape the coffin enough to open it and remove a few samples, some bone or something, and then they could close it back up and pour the dirt back over the contents.

Okay, maybe now I was feeling ghoulish.

A misty rain fell upon us. I stood and looked down. Win did too. It was dark, but our eyes had adjusted enough to see the shadows. The men were bent low now, almost out of sight.

"You said you learned something."

I nodded. "The men following me. They spoke Hebrew and knew Krav Maga."

Krav Maga is an Israeli martial art.

"And," Win added, "they were good."

"You see where I'm going with this?"

"A good tail, good fighter, got away without killing you, spoke Hebrew." Win nodded. "Mossad."

"Explains all the interest."

Below us, we heard one of the men curse.

"Is there a problem?" Win called down.

"They put a bleeding lock on these things," a voice said. He flicked on the flashlight. Now all we could see was the coffin. "For cripes' sake, why? My house doesn't have a lock this strong. We're trying different keys."

"Break it," Win said.

"You sure?"

"Who's going to know?"

The two men forced up a laugh the way, well, men digging up a grave might. "True, right that," one said.

Win turned his attention back to me. "So why would Rick Collins be involved with Mossad?"

"No clue."

"And why would a car accident from ten years ago reach a level where the Israeli secret service would show interest?"

"Again, no clue."

Win thought about it. "I will call Zorra. Maybe she can help."

Zorra, a very dangerous cross-dresser who had helped us out in the past, had worked for Mossad in the late eighties.

"That could work." I thought about it. "Suppose the guy I hit with the table was Mossad. That might explain a few things."

"Like why Interpol would freak out when we tried to get an ID," Win said.

I thought about that. "But if he was Mossad, so was the guy I shot."

Win thought about that. "We don't know enough yet. Let's contact Zorra and see what she can find out."

We heard exertion and scraping and pounding from below. Then a voice called up, "Got it!"

We looked down. The flashlight showed two sets of hands pulling up on the lid. The men grunted from the effort. The casket looked regulation size. That surprised me. I had expected something smaller for a seven-year-old girl. But maybe that was the point, right? Maybe that was what was saving me from feeling overly ghoulish-I didn't think we would find a seven-year-old's skeleton.

I really didn't want to watch anymore so I stepped away. I was here just to observe, to make sure they actually took a sample from the grave. This was crazy enough without knowing that everything involving this test was rock solid. If it came back negative, I didn't want anyone saying, "But how do you know it was from the right grave?" or "Maybe they just said they dug but didn't." I wanted to eliminate as many variables as possible.

"Got the casket opened," one of the diggers called up.

I saw Win look down. Another voice floated up from the hole in a whisper. "Sweet Jesus."

Then silence.

"What?" I asked.

"A skeleton," Win said, still peering down. "Small. Probably a child's."

Everyone just stood there frozen.

"Get a sample," Win said.

One of the diggers said, "What kind of sample?"

"A bone. Some fabric if you find any. Seal it in those plastic bags."

A child was buried here. I guess that I really didn't expect that. I looked at Win. "Could we be all wrong about this?"

Win shrugged. "DNA doesn't lie."

"So if it's not Miriam Collins, whose skeleton is that?"

"There are," Win said, "other possibilities."

"Such as?"

"I had one of my people do a little investigating. Around the time of the car accident, a little girl from Brentwood went missing. People were sure the father did it, but no body was ever found. The father remains free to this day."

I thought about what Win had said before. "You're right. We're getting ahead of ourselves."

Win said nothing.

I looked back down into the hole. A dirty face from below handed up the plastic bag. "All yours, mate. Good luck to ya and go to hell."

Win and I left then, carrying a brittle bone of a child we had dug up from her quiet sleep in the middle of the night.

20

WE got back to the Claridge's at two in the morning. Win immediately left for some "Mee Time." I took a long hot shower. When I checked the room's minibar, a small smile crossed my face. Stocked with chocolate Yoo-hoos. That Win.

I chugged down a cold one and waited for the sugar buzz. I put on the TV and continuously flipped stations because that's what real men do. American shows from last season. Terese's door was closed, but I doubted that she was sleeping. I sat by myself and took deep breaths.

The clock read two AM. Eight PM back in New York. Five PM in Scottsdale, Arizona.

I looked down at my phone. I thought about Ali and Erin and Jack in Arizona. I didn't know much about Arizona. It was the desert, right? Who wants to live in the desert?

I dialed Ali's cell phone. It rang three times before she answered with a wary "Hello?"

"Hey," I said.

"Your number didn't pop up on the caller ID," Ali said.

"I have a different phone but it's the same number."

Silence.

Ali asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm in London."

"As in England?"

"Yep."

I heard a noise. Sounded like Jack. Ali said, "One second, honey, I'm on the phone." I noticed that she didn't say who she was on the phone with. Normally she would have.

"I didn't realize you were overseas," Ali said.

"I got a call from a friend in trouble. She was-"

"She?"

I stopped. "Yes."

"Wow, that didn't take long."

I was about to say, It's not like that, but I stopped myself. "I've known her for ten years."

"I see. Just a sudden visit to London to see an old friend then?"

Silence. Then I heard Jack's voice again, asking who was on the phone, the sound traveling from some desert across most of the continental United States and across the Atlantic Ocean and making me cringe.

"I have to go, Myron. Was there something you wanted?"

Good question. There probably was, but now was not the time. "I guess not," I said.

She hung up without another word. I looked at the phone, felt the weight, then thought, wait a second-Ali had ended it, hadn't she? Hadn't she made it crystal clear just, what, two days ago? And what had I really wanted to accomplish with this damn phone call?

Why had I called?

Because I hate loose threads? Because I wanted to do the right thing here, whatever the heck that meant?

The pain from the fight was starting to come back. I rose, stretched, tried to keep my muscles loose. I looked at Terese's door. It was closed. I tiptoed over and peeked in her room. The light was out. I listened for her breathing. No sound. I started to close the door.

"Please don't go," Terese said.

I stopped and said, "Try to get some sleep."

"Please."

I have always treaded so carefully when it comes to matters of the heart. I did the right thing always. I never just acted. Except for that one time on an island ten years ago, I worried about feelings and repercussions and what came next.

"Don't go," she said one more time.

And I didn't.

When we kissed, there was a surge and then a release, a letting-go like I had never known before, a letting-go like you are staying very still and surrendering and your heart pounds against your rib cage and your pulse races and your knees grow weak and your toes curl and your ears pop and every part of you relaxes and happily gives in.

We smiled that night. We cried. I kissed that beautiful bare shoulder. And in the morning, she was gone again.

BUT only from the bed.

I found Terese having coffee in the sitting room. The curtain was open. To paraphrase an old song, the morning sun in her face showed her age-and I liked it. She wore the hotel's terry-cloth robe and it was opened just a little, just a hint at the bounty beneath. I don't think I had ever seen anything so damn beautiful.

Terese looked at me and smiled.

"Hi," I said.

"Stop with the smooth lines. You already got me in bed."

"Dang, I was up all night working on that one."

"Well, you were up all night anyway. Coffee?"

"Please."

She poured. I sat next to her oh so gingerly. The beating was taking effect now. I winced and thought about grabbing some of those painkillers the doctor had left for me. But not just yet. Right now I wanted to sit with this spectacular woman and drink our coffee in silence.

"Heaven," she said.

"Yes."

"I wish we could just stay here forever."

"I'm not sure I could afford the room."

She smiled. Her hand reached out and took mine. "Do you want to hear something awful?"

"Tell me."

"Part of me wants to forget all this and just run away with you."

I knew what she meant.

"I have dreamed so many times about this chance at redemption. And now that it may be here, I can't help but have the feeling it will destroy me."

She looked at me.

"What do you think?"

"I won't let it destroy you," I said.

Her smile was sad. "You think you have that power?"

She was right, but I make dumb declarations like that sometimes. "So what do you want to do?"

"Find out what really happened that night."

"Okay."

"You don't have to help," she said.

"Have to," I said, "especially since you put out last night."

"That's true."

"So what's our next step?" I asked.

"I just got off the phone with Karen. I told her it was time she came clean."

"How did she respond?"

"She didn't argue. We're going to meet in an hour."

"Do you want me to come?"

She shook her head. "This time it has to be just the two of us."

"Okay."

We sat there and had our coffee and didn't want to move or talk or do anything.

Terese broke the silence. "One of us should say, 'About last night.' "

"I will leave it to you."

"It was pretty frigging awesome."

I smiled. "Yeah. I knew I should leave it to you."

She rose. I watched her. She wore only the bathrobe. Ladies, save your frilly lace, your merry widows, your Victoria 's Secret, your Frederick 's of Hollywood, your G-strings, your thongs, your silk stockings, your petticoats and baby dolls. Give me a beautiful woman in a hotel-room terry-cloth robe any day of the week.

"I'm taking a shower," she said.

"Is that an invitation?"

"No." "No."

"Oh."

"Not enough time."

"I can work fast."

"I know. But when you do, it's not your best work."

"Ouch."

She bent down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Thank you," she said.

I was about to crack wise-something like "tell all your friends" or "sigh, another satisfied customer"-but something in her tone made me pull up. Something in her tone overwhelmed me and made me ache. I squeezed her hand and stayed silent and then I watched her walk away.

21

WIN took one look at me and said, "You finally got some."

I was going to argue, but what would be the point? "Yep."

"Details, please," he said.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

He gave me crestfallen. "But you know I love details."

"And you know I never tell you any."

"You used to let me watch. When we were dating Emily in college, you used to let me look in the window."

"I didn't let you. You just did. And when I fixed the shade, you usually broke it again. You're a pig, you know that?"

"Some would call me an interested friend."

"But most would call you a pig."

Win shrugged. "Love me for all my faults."

"So where are we?" I asked.

"We're both getting some."

"Besides that."

"I had a thought," Win said.

"I'm listening."

"Maybe there's a simpler explanation for how the dead girl's blood got to the crime scene. This Save the Angels charity. One of the things it deals with is stem cell research, correct?"

"In some manner, I guess. They're against it, I think."

"And we know that Rick Collins may have discovered that he has Huntington's disease. Certainly his father had it."

"Okay."

"People save their children's umbilical cord blood nowadays-they freeze them or some such thing for future use. They're full of stem cells and the idea is that somewhere down the line those stem cells could save your child's life, or even your own. Perhaps Rick Collins saved his daughter's. When he found out he had Hunting-ton's, he decided that he could use it."

"Stem cells can't cure Huntington 's."

"Not yet, no."

"So you figure he had the frozen cord blood when he was murdered and it, what, thawed out?"

Win shrugged. "Does that scenario make less sense than Miriam Collins being alive this whole time?"

"And the blond hair?"

"There are lots of blondes in this world. The young woman you saw might just be another."

I thought about it. "It still doesn't tell us who killed Rick Collins."

"True."

"I still think whatever this is, it started with the car accident ten years ago. We know that Nigel Manderson was lying."

"We do," Win agreed.

"And Karen Tower is holding something back."

"What about this Mario fellow?"

"What about him?"

"Is he holding something back?"

I thought about that. "Could be. I'm seeing him this morning to go over Rick's work files. I'll take another run at him then."

"Then we also have the Israelis-maybe Mossad-following you. I called Zorra. She'll check her sources."

"Good."

"And lastly, your Parisian confrontation and the mug shot that sent warning bells all the way up the Interpol hierarchy."

"Your visit with Interpol went well?"

"They asked their questions, I told them my story."

"One thing I don't get," I said. "Why haven't they brought me in yet?"

Win smiled. "You know why."

"They're tailing me."

"Correct answer."

"You see them?"

"Black car on right corner."

"Mossad is probably following me too."

"You're a very popular man."

"It's because I'm a good listener. People like a good listener."

"Indeed."

"I'm also fun at parties."

"And a snazzy dancer. What do you want to do about the tails?"

"I'd like to lose them for the day."

"No problem."

LOSING a tail is fairly easy. In this case, Win got us a car with tinted windows. We drove into an underground garage with several exits. The car left. Two others came along. I hopped in one, Win the other.

Terese was at Karen's now. I was on my way to see Mario Contuzzi.

Twenty minutes later, I rang the doorbell at the Contuzzi apartment. No answer. I checked my watch. I was about five minutes early. I thought about the case, about how Interpol had gone crazy over that mug shot.

So who was the guy who pulled a gun on me in Paris?

I had tried all the cute 'n' fancy ways to find the man's identity. Maybe, while I had a free minute, I should try the most direct route.

I called Berleand's private line.

Two rings later, a voice answered and said something to me in French.

"I would like to speak to Captain Berleand, please."

"He is on holiday. May I help you?"

Holiday? I tried to picture Berleand enjoying some leisure time on the beach in Cannes, but the picture wouldn't hold. "I really need to reach him."

"May I ask who's calling?"

No point in not saying. "Myron Bolitar."

"I'm sorry. He's on holiday."

"Could you please contact him and ask him to call Myron Bolitar? It's urgent."

"Please hold."

I held.

A minute later, another voice-this one gruff and speaking perfect, uh, American-came on the line. "May I help you?"

"I don't think so. I wanted to talk to Captain Berleand."

"You can talk to me, Mr. Bolitar."

"But you don't sound like a very nice man," I said.

"I'm not. Cute how you slipped our tail, but this isn't very funny."

"Who are you?"

"You can call me Special Agent Jones."

"Can I call you Super Special Agent Jones? Where is Captain Berleand?"

"Captain Berleand is on holiday."

"Since when?"

"Since he sent you that mug shot against protocol. He was the one who sent you that mug shot, wasn't he?"

I hesitated. Then I said, "No."

"Sure. Where are you, Bolitar?"

From inside the Contuzzi apartment I heard the phone ring. Once, twice, three times.

"Bolitar?"

It stopped after six rings.

"We know you're still in London. Where are you?"

I hung up and looked at Mario's door. The ringing phone-ringing like a phone used to, not like some ringtone on a cell-had sounded very much like a landline. Hmm. I put my hand on the door. Thick and sturdy. I pressed my ear against the cool surface, hit Mario's cell phone number, watched the LCD display on my mobile. It took a moment or two before the connection went through.

When I heard the faint chime of Mario's cell phone through the door-the landline had been loud; this was not-dread flooded my chest. True, it may be nothing, but most people nowadays do not travel even the shortest of distances, including bathroom visits, without the ubiquitous cell phone clipped or carried upon their person. You can bemoan this fact, but the chances that a guy working in television news would leave his cell phone behind while heading to his office seemed remote.

"Mario?" I shouted.

I started pounding on the door.

"Mario?"

I didn't expect him to answer, of course. I pressed my ear against the door again, listening for I'm not sure what-a groan maybe. A grunt. Calling out. Something.

No sound.

I wondered about my options. Not many. I reared back, lifted my heel, and kicked the door. It didn't budge.

"Steel-enforced, mate. You'll never kick it down."

I turned toward the voice. The man wore a black leather vest without any sort of shirt underneath, and sadly, he didn't have the build to pull it off. His physique, on too clear a display, managed to be both scrawny and soft. He had a cattle-ring piercing in his nose. He was balding but the little hair he had left was done up in what might be called a comb-over Mohawk. I placed his age at early fifties. It looked like he had gone out to a gay bar in 1979 and had just gotten home.

"Do you know the Contuzzis?" I asked.

The man smiled. I expected another dental nightmare, but while the rest of him might be in various stages of decay, his teeth were gleaming. "Ah," he said. "You're an American."

"Yes."

"Friends with Mario, are we?"

No reason to go into a long answer here: "Yes."

"Well, what can I tell you, mate? Normally they're a quiet couple, but you know what they say-when the wife's away, the mouse will play."

"What do you mean?"

"Had a girl in there, he did. Must have hired her out, you know what I'm saying? The music was loud too. And bloody awful. The Eagles. God, you Americans should be ashamed."

"Tell me about the girl."

"Why?"

I didn't have time for this. I took out my gun. I didn't point it at him. I just took it out. "I'm with the American police," I said. "I'm worried Mario may be in serious danger."

If my gun or pleas ruffled the Billy Idol wannabe, I couldn't see it. He shrugged his bony shoulders. "What can I tell you? Young, blond, I didn't get a good look. Came around last night as I was heading out."

Young, blond. My heart started thumping. "I need to get into that apartment."

"You can't kick it in, mate. You'll break your foot."

I aimed my gun at the lock.

"Whoa, hold up. You really think he's in danger?"

"I do."

He sighed. "There's a spare key above the door. On the ledge there."

I reached up and felt along the small edge of the door frame. Sure enough, a key. I put it in the lock. Billy Idol moved next to me. The stench of cigarette smoke came off him as though he'd been used as an ashtray. I opened the door and started inside. Billy Idol was right behind me. We both took two steps in and froze.

"Oh, sweet Jesus…"

I said nothing. I stood and stared, unable to move. The first thing I saw was Mario's feet. They were strapped to the coffee table with duct tape. The baby booster and plush tot toys I had seen yesterday had been strewn to the side. I wonder if Mario had looked at them in his last moments.

His feet were bare. Next to them lay a power drill. There were small neat holes, perfect tiny circles of maroon red, through his toes and deep into his heel. The holes had come, I knew, from the drill. I found my legs and managed to move closer. There were other drill marks. Through the kneecaps. The rib cage. My eyes slowly traveled up toward his face. There were drill marks beneath the nose, through the cheekbone and into the mouth, another in the chin. Mario's thin face stared up at me, his eyes twisted. He had died in horrible pain.

Billy Idol again whispered: "Oh, sweet Jesus…"

"What time did you hear the loud music?"

"Huh?"

I didn't have the strength to say it again, but he caught on. "Five in the morning."

Tortured. The music had been used to cover the screams. I didn't want to touch anything, but the blood looked fresh enough. Off-white bone dust littered the floor. I looked back at the drill. The whirring screech, the sound of that, and the screams as it pierced through flesh and cartilage and penetrated bone.

Then I thought about Terese, just a few blocks away with Karen.

I started running for the door. "Call the police!" I shouted.

"Wait, where are you going?"

No time to respond. I pocketed the gun and took out my cell phone, still running. I dialed Terese's cell. One ring. Two rings. Three. My heart thumped in my chest. I pressed the button for the elevator repeatedly. I glanced at a window during the fourth ring and then I saw her, looking up at me.

The young blond girl from the van.

She saw me, turned, and ran. I didn't get a good look at her face. It could be any blond girl, really. Except it wasn't. It was the same girl. I was sure.

What the hell was going on?

My head started twirling. I started looking for the stairway, but the elevator opened. I got in and pressed for the lobby.

The call to Terese went into her voice mail.

That shouldn't happen. She should be at Karen's. Karen's house got service-wasn't out of range. Even if they were in the middle of a serious conversation, Terese would pick up. She'd know that I would only call if it was an emergency.

Damn, now what?

I thought about the power drill. I thought about Terese. I thought about Mario Contuzzi's face. I thought about the blonde. Those images all swirled in my head as the elevator dinged and the door opened.

How far was I from Karen's?

Two blocks.

I sprinted outside, hitting the speed dial for Win. He answered on the first ring and before he even had a chance to utter "Articulate," I said, "Get to Karen's. Mario is dead; Terese is not answering her phone."

"Ten minutes away," Win said.

I hung up and immediately felt my phone vibrate. Still running, I put the phone up so I could see the caller ID. I stopped.

It was Terese.

I hit the Answer button and put it up to my ear. "Terese?"

No response.

"Terese?"

And then I heard the whirring, screeching sound of a power drill.

The adrenaline spike snatched my breath away. My eyes squeezed shut, but only for a second. No time to waste. My legs tingled, but I pumped them even harder.

The drilling sound stopped, and then a man's voice came on:

"Payback is a bitch, don't you think?"

The refined English accent, that same cadence as when he said to me in Paris: "Listen to me or I will shoot you dead…"

The man I hit with the table. The man in the mug shot.

The line went dead.

I grabbed my gun, running now with one hand holding the cell phone, one hand holding the weapon. Fear is a funny thing. It can make you do some miraculous things-you've read all the tales of people lifting cars off loved ones, for example-but it can also paralyze you, do crippling things to your body and mind, make it difficult to draw hard breath. Sprinting can suddenly feel heavy, like trudging dreamlike through deep snow. I needed to calm myself even as the terror tore a hole in my chest.

Up ahead I could see Karen's house.

The young blonde stood by the front door.

When she saw me, she disappeared inside Karen's house. This was so obviously a trap, but really, what choice did I have here? The call from Terese's phone-the sound of the power drill-still rang in my ears. That had been the point, hadn't it? And what had Win said? Ten minutes. Probably down to six or maybe seven by now.

Should I wait? Could I?

I ducked down and moved closer to the houses. Hit my speed dial. Win said, "Five minutes." I hung up.

The blonde was in the house now. I didn't know who else was there or what the situation was. Five minutes. I could wait five minutes. They'd be the longest of my life, but I could do it, needed to do it, had to stay disciplined in the face of pure panic. I stayed low, crouched under a window, listened. Nothing. No screams. No power drill. I didn't know if that was a relief-or if I had gotten there too late.

I kept down, back against the brick. The window was above my head. I tried to picture the layout of the house. This window looked in on the living room. Okay, so? So nothing. I waited. The gun felt good in my hand, the weight a comfort. Guns of any size are substance. I was a good shot, not a great one. You had to practice a lot to be great. But I knew to aim at the center of the chest and I could usually come close enough.

So now what?

Stay calm. Wait for Win. He was good at this stuff.

"Payback is a bitch, don't you think?"

The refined accent, the calm tone. I flashed back to Mario and those damn holes, the unfathomable pain while hearing that damn refined accent. How long had that gone on? How long had Mario had to endure the pain? Did he welcome death in the end, or fight it?

Sirens crackled in the distance. The police heading to Mario's maybe.

I don't wear a watch anymore, so I checked the time on my cell phone. If Win was accurate-and he usually was-he was still three minutes from arriving. What to do here?

My gun.

I wondered if the blonde had seen it. I doubt it. As Win has pointed out, firearms are rare in the UK. Whoever was inside that house would probably figure I would be unarmed. Hard as it was, I put the gun away, back in my leg holster.

Three minutes.

My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed me that it was Terese's phone again. I said a tentative hello.

"We know you are outside," the refined voice said. "You have ten seconds to walk through that door with your hands up or I shoot one of these fine ladies in the head. One, two…"

"I'm coming."

"Three, four…"

No choice. I jumped up from my crouch and sprinted to the door.

"Five, six, seven…"

"Don't hurt them, I'm almost there."

Don't hurt them. Duh. But what else was there to say?

I turned the knob. It was unlocked. The door opened. I stepped inside.

The refined voice: "I said, hands up."

I put my hands high in the air. The man in the mug shot stood across the room from me. He had white tape across his face. His eyes were the black you get from a broken nose. I would have taken some satisfaction in that, but for one thing, he had a gun in his hand. For another, Terese and Karen were on their knees in front of him, hands behind their backs, facing me. They both looked relatively unharmed.

I glanced left and right. Two more men, both with guns trained on my head.

No sign of the blond girl.

I stayed perfectly still, hands up, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. Win had to be close by now. Another minute or two. I needed to stall. I made eye contact with the man I'd fought with in Paris. I kept my tone even, controlled.

"Look, let's talk, okay? There's no reason-"

He put the gun against the back of Karen Tower 's head, smiled at me, and pulled the trigger.

There was a deafening sound, a small spurt of red, absolute stillness; a moment of suspended animation followed, and then Karen's body dropped to the floor like a marionette with her strings cut. Terese screamed. Maybe I screamed too.

The man began to swing the gun toward Terese.

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod…

"No!"

Instinct took over and it was a mantra: Save Terese. I dived, literally as though I were in a pool, toward them. Bullets from the two guys on my left and right rang out, but they had made the common mistake of covering me by pointing their guns at my head. Their aim ended up being too high. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Terese rolling away as he started training the gun on her.

Had to move faster.

I was trying to do several things at once: keep low, avoid bullets, get across the room, pull the gun from my leg holster, kill the bastard. I was closing the gap. Zigzagging would have been the preferred route here, but there was no time. The mantra kept ringing in my head: Save Terese. I had to get to him before he pulled the trigger again.

I screamed louder, not out of fear or pain, but to draw his attention, to make him at least hesitate or turn toward me-anything to divert, for even a half second, his goal of shooting Terese.

I was getting closer.

Time was doing the in 'n' out thing. Probably a second, maybe two, had passed since Karen's execution. That was all. And now, with no time to think or plan, I was nearly on him.

But I was going to be too late. I could see that now. I reached out, as if I could cover the distance that way. I couldn't. I was still too far away.

He pulled the trigger again.

Another shot rang out. Terese went down.

My scream turned into a guttural cry of anguish. A hand reached into my chest and crushed my heart. I kept moving forward, even as he turned the gun toward me. Fear was gone-I moved on pure, instinctive hatred. The gun was almost pointed in my direction, almost on me, when I ducked low and slammed into his waist. He fired off another bullet, but it went wild.

I drove him hard toward the wall, sweeping him off his feet. He swung the butt of the gun down on my back. In some other world at some other time, it might have hurt, but right now, the blow had all the impact of a mosquito bite. I was beyond pain, beyond caring. We landed hard. I let him go, scooting away, trying to get a little distance so I could go for the weapon in my ankle holster.

That was a mistake.

I was so consumed with pulling out my gun, with killing the bastard, that I nearly forgot that there were two other armed adversaries in the room. The man who'd been on my right was running toward me, his weapon raised. I jumped back as he fired, but again it was too late.

The bullet hit me.

Hot pain. I could actually feel the hot metal rip into my body, stealing my breath, knocking me flat on my back. The man aimed again, but another shot rang out, striking the man in the neck with such force it nearly decapitated him. I looked past the fallen corpse, but I already knew.

Win had arrived.

The other man, the guy who'd been on my left, turned just in time to see Win spin and pull the trigger again. The big bullet hit him squarely in the face, and his head exploded. I looked over at Terese. She wasn't moving. The man in the mug shot-the man who had shot her-started running away, slipping into the drawing room. I heard more gunfire. I heard someone yell to freeze and stop. I ignored them. Somehow I crawled toward the drawing room. Blood poured off me. I couldn't tell exactly, but I figured the bullet had landed somewhere near my stomach.

I clawed through the opening, not even checking to see if it was safe. Move forward, I thought. Grab the bastard and kill him. He was by the window. I was in pain and maybe delirious, but I reached out and grabbed his leg. He tried to kick me off, but there was no way. I dragged him down to the ground.

We wrestled, but he was no match for my rage. I gouged his eye with my thumb, weakening him. I grabbed his windpipe and started to squeeze. He started to flail, hitting me in the face and neck. I held on.

"Freeze! Drop it!"

Voices in the distance. Commotion. I wasn't even sure they were real. More like something from the wind. Might be something I was hallucinating. The accent sounded American. Familiar even.

I still squeezed the windpipe.

"I said, freeze! Now! Let him go!"

Surrounded. Six, eight men, maybe more. Most with guns aimed at me.

My eyes met the killer's. There was something mocking in them. I felt my hold slacken. I don't know if it was the command to let him go or if the bullet wound was ebbing away my strength. My hand dropped off him. The killer coughed and sputtered and then he tried to take advantage.

He brought up his gun.

Just as I hoped.

I had pulled the small gun from my leg holster. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand.

The familiar American voice: "Don't!"

But I didn't really care if they shot me. Still holding his wrist, I took my gun, pushed it under his chin and fired. I felt something wet and sticky hit my face. Then I dropped the gun and fell on top of his still body.

Men, a lot of them from the feel of it, tackled me. Now that I had done what I had to, my power and will to live drained away. I let them turn me and cuff me and do whatever, but there was no need for restraints. The fight was out of me. They flipped me onto my back. I swiveled my head and looked at Terese's still body. I felt a pain as enormous as any I had ever known consume me.

Her eyes were closed and soon, very soon, so were mine.