Hong Kong International Airport is a babel of Asian languages and rushing travelers. I have a reservation on an Air China flight to Beijing, but that plane doesn’t leave for three hours. The departure screens show a Cathay Pacific flight leaving for New York in thirty-five minutes, with a two-hour layover at Narita in Tokyo. Presenting my worn passport at the Cathay counter, I let the ticket agent gut me for full fare on a first-class ticket. The money would buy a decent used car in the States, but after what happened in the museum, I can’t sit shoulder-to-shoulder with some computer salesman from Raleigh for twenty hours. That potential reality brings another to mind, and I ask the female agent if she can seat me next to a woman. On this day of all days, I cannot deal with being hit on, and twenty hours gives a guy a long time to strategize. Last year, on a flight from Seoul to Los Angeles, some drunk jerk actually asked if I wanted to go to the rest room with him and join the Mile High Club. I told him I was already a member, which was true. I’d joined nine years earlier, with my fiance, in the cargo hold of a DC-3 somewhere over Namibia. Three days later, he was captured with some SWAPO guerrillas and beaten to death, which put me in an even more exclusive club: the Unofficial Widows. Now, at forty, I’m still single and still a member. The Cathay Pacific agent smiles knowingly and obliges my request.

Which puts me where I am now: three scotches down and my short-term memory back in gear. The alcohol is serving several functions, one of them being to damp the embers of grief stirring at the bottom of my soul. But nineteen hours is a long time to hide from yourself. I have a supply of Xanax in my fanny pack, for the nights when the open wound of my sister’s unknown fate throbs too acutely for sleep. It’s throbbing now, and it’s not even full dark yet. Before I can second-guess myself, I pop three pills with a swallow of scotch and take the Airfone out of my armrest.

There’s really only one useful thing I can do from the plane. After a few swipes of my Visa and some haggling with directory assistance, I’m speaking to the operator at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, who transfers me to the offices of the Investigative Support Unit. The ISU has more impressive digs than it once did, but Daniel Baxter, the chief of the unit, likes the bunker atmosphere of the old days, the era before Hollywood overexposure turned his unit into a myth that draws eager young college grads by the thousands. Baxter must be fifty now, but he’s a lean and hungry fifty, with a combat soldier’s eyes. That’s what I thought when I first saw him. A guy from the ranks who found himself an officer by default, the result of a battlefield promotion. But no one will ever question that promotion. His record of success is legendary in a war where victories are few and the defeats almost unbearable. To wit, my sister and her ten sisters in purgatory. Baxter’s unit scored a big zero on that one. But the grim fact is, when a certain kind of shit hits the fan, there’s no one else to call.

“Baxter,” says a sharp baritone voice.

“This is Jordan Glass,” I tell him, trying to hide the slur in my voice and not doing well at all. “Do you remember me?”

“You’re hard to forget, Ms. Glass.”

I take a quick swallow of scotch. “A little over an hour ago, I saw my sister in Hong Kong.”

There’s a brief silence. “Are you drinking, Ms. Glass?”

“Absolutely. But I know what I saw.”

“You saw your sister.”

“In Hong Kong. And now I’m in a 747, bound for New York.”

“You’re saying you saw your sister alive?”

“No.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

I give Baxter as lucid a summary as I can manage of my experiences at the museum, then wait for his response. I expect some expression of astonishment – maybe not a Gomer Pyle “Shazam,” but something – but I should have known better.

“Did you recognize any other New Orleans victims?” he asks.

“No. But I never studied the photos of those beyond number six.”

“You’re one hundred percent sure it was your sister’s face in that painting?”

“Are you kidding? It’s my face, Baxter. My body, naked to the world.”

“Okay… I believe you.”

“Have you ever heard of these paintings?”

“No. I’ll talk to our fine arts people in D.C. as soon as we get off. And we’ll start taking this Christopher Wingate’s life apart. When will you be in New York?”

“Nineteen hours. Around five p.m. New York time.”

“Try to get some sleep on the plane. I’m going to book you a flight here from JFK. American Airlines. It’ll be an e-ticket, just show your license or passport. I’ll drive up to Washington and meet you at the Hoover Building. I have to be up there tomorrow anyway, and that’s more convenient for you than Quantico. In fact, I’ll have an agent pick you up at Reagan Airport. Do you have any problem with that?”

“Yes. I think they should have left it Washington National.”

“Ms. Glass, are you all right?”

“I’m great.”

“You sound upset.”

“Nothing pharmacological therapy won’t cure. Mixed with a little of Scotland’s finest.” A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “I need to take the edge off. It’s been a tough day.”

“I understand. But leave a little edge in place, okay? I need you sharp and thinking.”

“It’s nice to be needed.” I terminate the connection and replace the Airfone in the armrest.

You didn’t need me thirteen months ago, I say silently. But that was then. Now things have changed. Now they’ll want me around until they get a handle on the significance of the paintings. Then they’ll cut me off again. Exclusion is the worst fate for a journalist, and a living hell for a victim’s family. Better not to think about that right now. Better to sleep. I’ve practically lived in the air for twenty years, and sleeping on planes was effortless until Jane disappeared. Now it takes a little help from my friends.

As the chemical fog descends over my eyes, a last cogent spark flashes in my brain, and I take out the phone again. I’m in no state to hassle with directory assistance, so I plug into an entirely different connection. Ron Epstein works Page Six at the New York Post; he’s a human who’s who of the city. Like Daniel Baxter, he’s addicted to his work, which means he’s probably there now, despite the early hour in New York. When the Post operator puts me through to his section, he answers.

“Ron? It’s Jordan Glass.”

“Jordan! Where are you?”

“On my way to New York.”

He responds with a giggle. “I thought you were off in the hinterlands, taking pictures of clouds or something.”

“I was.”

“You must need something. You never call just to kibitz.”

“Christopher Wingate. Ever heard of him?”

“Naturellement. Very chic, very cool. He’s made Fifteenth Street the envy of SoHo. The old dealers kiss his ass now, and the more they do, the more he treats them like shit. Everyone wants Wingate to handle their stuff, but he’s very picky.”

“What about the Sleeping Women?”

A coo of admiration. “Aren’t you in the circle. Not many American collectors know about them yet.”

“I want to see him. Wingate, I mean.”

“To photograph him?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“I’d say you have to stand in line, but he might just be intrigued enough to talk to you.”

“Can you get me his phone number?”

“If I can’t, no one can. But it may take a while. I know he’s not listed. He lives above his gallery, but I don’t think the gallery’s listed either. It’s that exclusive. This guy will skip a sale just because he doesn’t like the buyer. Are you somewhere I can call you?”

“No. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m going to sleep for a while.”

“I’ll have it for you then.”

“Thanks, Ron. I owe you dinner at Lutece.”

“Let me choose the place, honey, and you’re on. I hope you’re not sleeping alone. No one I know needs love more than you.”