Syd’s eyes widened as she tapped the keyboard. Dang, it had been a long time since she’d seen anything like this. And certainly never with a redneck yokel like Dante Parrish. He’d completely slipped off the grid. It was possible he was working somewhere under the table, paying rent in cash and steering clear of credit cards. After all, banks didn’t generally give ex-cons a line of credit. But some sort of footprint usually remained. A postal address, e-mail account, cell phone. Hell, a video-store card.

Not here, though. If she had to guess, she’d say that someone erased Dante’s existence from every system imaginable. It was the sort of thing the Agency did with operatives on a daily basis, but you never encountered it with civilians. Either Dante had moved to a self-sustaining commune somewhere in the wilderness, or he’d found someone powerful enough to cover his tracks.

Syd reached her arms overhead and stretched. For the millionth time she wondered whether or not she’d done the right thing pressuring Jake to take this case. The irony was that she had been on the verge of breaking up with Randall. Not that they were even dating, their entire relationship consisted of a few random encounters when their paths crossed. She’d met him at an intelligence conference, and one thing led to another. He was so different from the rough-and-tumble guys she usually fell for, she found his geekiness oddly appealing. Neither of them was looking for anything serious, so it seemed like the perfect solution: occasional companionship without the usual muss and fuss.

Recently, though, Randall had become clingy. Late night weepy phone calls, showing up unexpectedly, demanding attention when she was knee-deep in the company launch. And Syd Clement was not one for commitments. She’d never been with anyone for more than a few months, and she was happy to keep it that way. She’d been composing the “Dear Randall” e-mail when he called pleading for help.

Syd surprised herself by pushing for this to be their first case. Madison ’s kidnapping was well outside the parameters of what they’d normally be doing. Beyond that, it involved the kind of messy personal connection that was usually the kiss of death. The whole time she’d been half wishing Jake would refuse. And though she hated to admit it, the worst part of her, the part that the Agency had fed and fanned until it threatened to consume her, was only hoping Madison would survive so that she wouldn’t have to comfort Randall. Awful. But maybe knowing it was awful was a good first step toward reclaiming her humanity.

Syd tucked her feet beneath her and spun in the chair. Not finding Dante on any of the traditional servers was disheartening but not hopeless. Her network of people was bound to uncover something. Until then, all she could do was wait.

Unfortunately, waiting was never her strong suit. She’d thought that a desk job would be a nice change of pace. Lord knew she could use a break from the fray. The past few years had been hell, with the “War on Terror” whipping up small conflagrations throughout the globe. The best and worst times of her life, bouncing from Shanghai to Tbilisi to Tehran. Escaping by the skin of her teeth a few times, and by even less others.

And now here she was, sitting behind a desk, wearing pumps and pearls. You had to laugh.

The phone rang and she lunged for it. “The Longhorn Group.”

A pause. “Is this Sydney?”

“Who’s this?” Syd replied, dodging the question. First thing they taught you, knowledge is power. And she didn’t recognize the voice offhand. Her pulse kicked up a notch and she felt that familiar rush. Old habits died hard.

“This is Audrey Grant.”

Syd sank back into the chair. “Hello, Ms. Grant.”

“I thought it was you.” Audrey’s tone indicated that she knew the exact nature of Syd’s relationship with her ex-husband. Also, that she didn’t appreciate being referred to as Ms. Too bad, Syd thought.

“Randall hasn’t called recently. I was hoping-”

“We don’t have any new information,” Syd said. “But we’re doing everything we can. We’ll be in touch.” She lowered the receiver. Small talk had never been her strong suit, and chatting with her current lover’s ex-wife was too weird, even for her.

“The thing is-” the receiver bleated.

Syd repressed a sigh and raised it back to her ear. “Yes?”

“Bree remembered something. It’s probably nothing, but Madison has one of those toys, the handheld video games. She’s constantly playing it.”

“And?” Syd knew she should probably be more sympathetic, after all, Audrey’s kid was missing. But if half of what Randall said was true, she could end up spending an hour comforting a woman who was deep in her cups.

“Well, it has GPS. Isn’t there some way to track her down with that?”

Sure, Syd wanted to say. All we’d need is a Department of Defense supercomputer and a dozen analysts. “Chances are she’s probably not able to send a signal. But if you get me the serial number, I can look into it.”

“My daughter is very bright, Ms. Clement. For her science project this year she boosted satellite signals, tapping into some sort of network. I didn’t understand it, frankly, but if anyone could manage it, Madison could.”

Syd noted the Ms., decided to let it slide. “Like I said, I’ll check it out.”

“Fine.” Another long pause. Syd itched to hang up the phone, just holding it made her feel dirty and she’d done nothing wrong. “I just want you to know, I was not in favor of hiring you. And if my daughter is not returned soon, I am going to the FBI.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“It’s my daughter, Ms. Clement.” Audrey’s voice hardened as she said, “You have twenty-four hours. After that, I’m making the call.”

Fantastic, Syd thought. Now she could add a pissed-off ex-wife to the list of people who loathed her.

Kelly pulled in behind Rodriguez’s car. Son of a bitch had tried to follow up the lead without her; luckily, someone else had left a note on her desk with the 911 call information. Her eyes scanned the street, alighting on the bar. Obvious. Too obvious, in her opinion, but she knew that an unseasoned agent like Rodriguez would have assumed he could crack the case by leaning on a few barflies. And of course he hadn’t called for backup, despite the fact that they knew nothing about the bar or the area.

Kelly radioed in. Dispatch placed a unit ten blocks away, said they could be there in five minutes. She settled back to wait. It was 4:00 p.m., and the air rose in waves off the pavement. She kept the air-conditioning blasting to counter it.

The bar was set on the corner, no windows, with an unlit neon sign that read: Acme Lounge. Lounge was pushing it if the exterior was any indication, Kelly thought. The windows were painted black and there were streaks where the paint had peeled away, like a giant cat had sharpened its claws against them.

As she watched, the door opened and a guy stepped out. He was huge, at least six-four, close to three hundred pounds. He glanced up and down the street, eyes lingering on her car. Something about his stance got her instincts jangling. After a decade with the Bureau, she knew the look of someone who was up to no good.

He ducked back inside. Kelly fought to quiet the alarm signals in her head, glancing at her watch. Backup was still two minutes out. Rodriguez had been unreachable for nearly two hours. She bit her lower lip, then got out of the car. Placed her hand on the hood of his bu-car: hot, but that could be from the sun. She unclipped her radio. “Dispatch, have backup meet me at Acme Lounge, same intersection.”

“Copy that.”

“And make sure they come in quiet, okay?”

The sirens in the distance cut off. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, but if something was going down she’d prefer the element of surprise. While she waited, she dug her bulletproof vest out of the trunk and strapped it on. Immediately her core body temperature shot up and her silk shirt was soaked with sweat. Kelly gritted her teeth. If Rodriguez was in there, she was holding him personally responsible for her dry cleaning bill.