I counted four luxury cars parked in the Skinners’ driveway as we walked toward the portico. A tall, upset-looking man in a pinstripe suit pulled open the door as we were about to ring the bell.

“Well, have you heard anything?” he said, staring at my shield. “Have you found Chelsea? I want answers.”

“Are you Harold Skinner?” I said.

“No, I’m not. Mr. Skinner is busy dying of grief that his daughter has been taken from him.”

A plump middle-aged woman appeared behind him.

“Mark,” she said to the man. “You’re my brother and I love you, but would you, please, just for one second, do me a favor and stop?

“I’m Rachael Skinner,” she said, shaking my hand. “Please come in.”

About a dozen of Chelsea ’s extended family were sitting in the dead silent living room. They were red-eyed and shattered-looking, like mourners at a wake. Another tight-knit family was in agony this morning.

“Is Mr. Skinner around?” I said. “We’re going to have to speak to him as well.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Skinner said. “He’s resting right now. Sedated, actually. The family physician left a few minutes before you arrived. Tell me something, if you would, Detective. I heard that the other boy who was taken was found with ashes on his forehead. That’s a Catholic thing, isn’t it, with the ashes? We’re Jewish. What do ashes signify?”

How did she know about that? I thought. We’d kept that out of the media coverage. Someone in the task force must have spilled it. My money was on Deputy Mayor Hottinger. So much for plugging all the leaks.

“It’s a sign of willingness for Catholics to repent for their sins,” I said. “In addition to abstaining from indulgences like smoking or drinking and eating meat on Friday, it’s a way to symbolically share Christ’s sacrifice during Lent.”

“I see. Then this person, the kidnapper, is Catholic?”

“We don’t know what he is,” I told the poor woman truthfully. “We don’t even know that Chelsea ’s been kidnapped. Don’t assume the worst, ma’am. Let’s take things one at a time.”

THERE WAS A family-photo wall in the hallway leading to the kitchen. Chelsea was a beautiful black-haired girl with striking light blue, almost gray, eyes. In the latest picture, she was wearing a hoodie with Lifeguard written across the front.

“Your daughter’s beautiful,” Emily said as Mrs. Skinner guided us to a large, bright kitchen table.

“ Chelsea had a brain tumor when she was six, a medulloblastoma on her brain stem,” the kind woman said quietly as she poured us coffee. “She completely beat it. The operations. The chemo. She’s a fighter. This is nothing compared to that. She’ll get out of this. I know she will.”

I wished I could have shared Mrs. Skinner’s startling conviction.

Some PD TARU guys arrived and got up on the Skinners’ wall phones and cell phones. An FBI tech from the New York office showed up as well and installed some e-mail-tracing software, in case our guy decided to switch tactics.

Mrs. Skinner showed us Chelsea ’s room on the third floor. It had a huge, sloping beamed ceiling and a little balcony that overlooked the garden and the covered in-ground pool. It was sleek with modern furniture. It looked more like a rich thirty-five-year-old’s room than a teenager’s. Jacob’s room by comparison looked unsophisticated, childish.

There had to be a link between Chelsea and Jacob. They were both only children, both rich. We’d learned that Chelsea attended Fieldston, a nearby expensive private school that was close to Horace Mann, where Jacob had gone to high school. Had they known each other? Maybe there was a teacher who had worked at both places. Was that the connection?

One thing I was sure of, this guy was definitely not picking these kids out of a hat.

After Mrs. Skinner left, Emily pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and got on the kid’s laptop. Chelsea ’s home page was her MySpace page.

Over Emily’s shoulder I read parts of Chelsea ’s blog. Some of what she was saying was pretty out there. Sexual boastings. Violent fantasies. I was shocked to see that there were some fairly explicit photos of her.

“Is this what kids are up to now?” Emily said.

I shook my head alongside her as a photo of Chelsea with mascara-thick eyelashes leered from the screen. Was this what I would have to look forward to when my daughter Julia turned seventeen in three years?

“God, I hope not,” I said. “Note to self: Become Mennonite and save money for house in the middle of nowhere. I have ten kids. We could learn to farm, right? Get back to Mother Earth, reduce our carbon footprint, and build character all at the same time.”

“Don’t forget the cat,” Emily said.

“Socky. Right,” I said. “He could herd the cows.”

I WAS COMING out of Chelsea ’s room when the phone rang. But it wasn’t the Skinners’ phone. It was mine.

“Mike, hello. How’d you sleep? Well, I hope?”

Son of a bitch! I stopped in midstride, adrenaline jolting through me like live wire. It was him! The sly bastard was calling me instead of the house.

“Fine,” I said, ungluing myself from the carpet and racing downstairs into the study, where we were set up. I found the department tech and pointed excitedly at my phone. He retrieved a handheld voice recorder from a laptop bag and handed it to me. I held it by my phone’s earpiece.

“I’m glad you called back,” I said. “Where are you? Maybe we could talk in person?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But then again, maybe not, Mike. How do you like the Skinners’ place? Exquisite, wouldn’t you say?”

What? He knew I was here? Or was he just guessing? Was he watching the place?

“And that view,” he continued. “The grandeur of the mighty river beneath those austere crags. Truly to die for, if you’ll excuse the term. Thomas Cole himself could hardly have done it justice, wouldn’t you agree? But what am I doing, dropping such names to a policeman? Thomas Cole was a painter, you see. He started the Hudson River School.”

“Was Frederic Edwin Church a Hudson River School guy?” I said, to keep him talking.

“Why, yes, he was, Mike. You know your art history. Where did you go to school?”

The police academy, scumbag, I felt like saying to him.

“ Manhattan College,” I said instead.

“Never heard of it,” the kidnapper said.

“Well, it’s pretty small,” I said. “Could we speak to Chelsea? We’re ready to give you what you want if you’d only tell us.”

Then he said the words I was dreading.

“If that’s the case, then listen closely,” he said. “I want you to come and get it. I want you to come and get little Chels and bring her back to Mumsy. You know the drill. Get in a car. Ten minutes. You can bring your pretty little FBI friend, too, if you like.”

THE CIRCLE LINE tour boat was coming through the Amtrak swing bridge down on the Harlem River as we raced across the Henry Hudson Bridge.

And if you look up, ladies and gents, I thought, emergency lights blazing through the lower level’s E-Z Pass lane, you’ll see an authentic, stressed-out New York City cop about to break the sound barrier.

I clicked the siren to full auto as we blasted through the Manhattan-side tolls at a stomach-churning seventy.

We’d just been told Chelsea was in Harlem. I couldn’t lose another kid. If there was any possible way to get to her before it was too late, I was going to do it.

“Where are you now?” the kidnapper said into the ear of my hands-free headset. Again, he’d insisted on guiding me street by street. My own personal insane OnStar operator.

“On the Manhattan side of the Henry Hudson Bridge,” I said.

“Did you know that it was built by Robert Moses back in the thirties using New Deal labor?” he said. “In twenty years, Moses managed to build most of New York City ’s major bridges, parkways, and public beaches. The Twin Towers were knocked down almost ten years ago, and it’s still just a pit. Our civilization is winding down, Mike. It’s obvious. So’s our planet. Take a fork out of the drawer and turn off the oven timer. This place is done.”