“One of the best songs ever.”

Marion had liked the Jimmy X Band. Perlmutter remembered her constantly blasting “Pale Ink” on an old Walkman, her eyes closed, her lips moving as she silently sang along. He blinked the image away.

“So what happened to them?”

“The massacre destroyed the band. They broke up. Jimmy X-I don’t remember his real name anymore-was the front man and wrote all the songs. He just up and quit.” Perlmutter pointed to the piece of paper in Daley’s hand. “So what’s that?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Something to do with the Lawson case?”

“I don’t know.” Then: “Yeah, maybe.”

Perlmutter put his hands behind his head. “Start talking.”

“DiBartola got a call early tonight,” Daley said. “Another missing husband case.”

“Similarities to Lawson?”

“No. I mean, not at first. This guy wasn’t even her husband anymore. An ex. And he isn’t exactly squeaky clean.”

“He’s got a record?”

“Did time for assault.”

“Name?’

“Rocky Conwell.”

“Rocky? For real?”

“Yep, that’s what it says on his birth certificate.”

“Parents.” Perlmutter made a face. “Wait, why does that name ring a bell?”

“He played a little pro ball.”

Perlmutter searched the memory banks, shrugged. “So what’s the deal?”

“Okay, like I said, this case looks even more cut-and-dry than Lawson. Ex-husband who was supposed to take his wife out shopping this morning. I mean, it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. But DiBartola sees the wife-her name is Lorraine-well, she’s a royal babe. So you know DiBartola.”

“A pig,” Permutter said with a nod. “Ranked in the top ten by both the AP and UPI.”

“Right, so he figures, what the hell, humor her, right? She’s separated, so you never know. Maybe something would swing his way.”

“Very professional.” Perlmutter frowned. “Go on.”

“This is where it gets weird.” Daley licked his lips. “DiBartola, he does the simple thing. He runs the E-ZPass.”

“Like you.”

“Exactly like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gets a hit.” Daley took another step into the room. “Rocky Conwell crossed the tollbooth off Exit 16 on the New York Thruway. At exactly ten-twenty-six last night.”

Perlmutter looked at him.

“Yeah, I know. Exact same time and place as Jack Lawson.”

Perlmutter scanned the report. “You’re sure about this? DiBartola didn’t accidentally run the same number we did or something?”

“Checked it twice. There’s no mistake. Conwell and Lawson crossed the toll at the exact same time. They had to be together.”

Perlmutter mulled it over and shook his head. “No.”

Daley looked confused. “You think it’s a coincidence?”

“Two separate cars, crossing the toll at the same time? Not likely.”

“So how do you figure it?”

“I’m not sure,” Perlmutter said. “Let’s say they, I don’t know, ran away together. Or Conwell kidnapped Lawson. Or hell, Lawson kidnapped Conwell. Whatever. They’d be in the same car. There would be only one E-ZPass hit, not two.”

“Right, okay.”

“But they were in two separate cars. That’s what’s throwing me. Both men in separate cars cross the toll at the same time. And now both men are missing.”

“Except Lawson called his wife,” Daley added. “He needed space, remember?”

They both thought about it.

Daley said, “You want me to call Ms. Lawson? See if she knows this Conwell guy?”

Perlmutter plucked on his bottom lip and thought about it. “Not yet. Besides it’s late. She’s got kids.”

“So what should we do?”

“A little more investigating. Let’s talk to Rocky Conwell’s ex-wife first. See if we dig up a connection between Conwell and Lawson. Put his car out there, see if we get a hit.”

The phone rang. Daley was working the switchboard as well. He picked it up, listened, and then turned to Perlmutter.

“Who was that?”

“Phil over at the Ho-Ho-Kus station.”

“Something wrong?”

“They think an officer might be down. They want our help.”

Beatrice Smith was a fifty-three-year-old widow.

Eric Wu was back in the Ford Windstar. He took Ridgewood Avenue to the Garden State Parkway north. He headed east on Interstate 287 toward the Tappan Zee Bridge. He exited at Armonk in New York. He was on side roads now. He knew exactly where he was going. He had made mistakes, yes, but the basics were still with him.

One of those basics: Have a backup residence lined up.

Beatrice Smith’s husband had been a popular cardiologist, even serving a term as town mayor. They’d had lots of friends, but they were all “couple” friends. When Maury-that was her husband’s name-died of a sudden heart attack, the friends stayed around for a month or two and then faded away. Her only child, a son, and a doctor like his father, lived in San Diego with his wife and three children. She kept the house, the same house she had shared with Maury, but it was big and lonely. She was thinking about selling it and moving into Manhattan, but the prices were just too steep right now. And she was afraid. Armonk was all she knew. Would it be jumping from the frying pan into the fire?

She had confided all of this online to the fictional Kurt McFaddon, a widower from Philadelphia who was considering relocating to New York City. Wu pulled onto her street and slowed. The surroundings were quiet and woodsy and very private. It was late. A fake delivery would not work at this hour. There would be no time or even need for subtlety. Wu would not be able to keep this host alive.

There could be nothing to connect Beatrice Smith to Freddy Sykes.

In short, Beatrice Smith could not be found. Not ever.

Wu parked the car, put on his gloves-no fingerprints this time-and approached the house.

At 5 A.M., Grace threw on a bathrobe-Jack’s robe-and headed downstairs. She always wore Jack’s clothes. He’d kindly request lingerie, but she preferred his pajama tops. “Well?” she’d ask, modeling the top. “Not bad,” he’d reply, “but why not try wearing just the bottoms instead. Now that would be a look.” She shook her head at the memory and reached the computer room.

The first thing Grace did was check the e-mail address they were using to receive replies from their spam of the photograph. What she saw surprised her.

They were no replies.

Not one.

How could that be? It was conceivable, she guessed, that nobody recognized the women in the photograph. She’d been prepared for that possibility. But by now they had sent out hundreds of thousands of e-mails to people. Even with spam blocks and all that, someone should have responded with at the very least an expletive, some crackpot with time on his hands, someone fed up with the overflow of spam who’d need to vent.

Someone.

But she had not received even one reply.

What should she make of that?

The house was quiet. Emma and Max were still asleep. So too was Cora. Cora was snoring, stretched out on her back, her mouth open.

Switch gears, Grace thought.

She knew that Bob Dodd, the murdered reporter, was now her best, perhaps only, lead, and let’s face it, it was a pretty flimsy one. She had no phone contact for him, no next of kin, not even a street address. Still, Dodd had been a reporter for a fairly major newspaper, the New Hampshire Post. She decided that was the best place to start.

Newspapers don’t really close-at least, that was what Grace figured. Someone has to be manning the Post desk in case a big story broke. It also figured that the reporter stuck working at 5 A.M. might be bored and more apt to talk to her. So she picked up the phone.

Grace was not sure how to approach this. She considered various angles, pretending, for example, to be a reporter doing a story, asking for collegial assistance, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to talk the talk.