I read that Mary Beth Haas’s mother, Ann, was the CEO and main shareholder in the Price Templeton Fund, the second-largest mutual fund on Wall Street. No wonder our newest case had loudly rung every alarm bell down at One Police Plaza.

“I Googled the mother,” Emily said. “She’s, like, the fifth- or sixth-richest woman in the country. Her father started the fund, but they said she worked herself up from an analyst and probably would have ended up as CEO even if she hadn’t been left thirty-four percent of the stock in her dad’s will. She’s also one of the largest contributors to the New York Philharmonic and Public Library.”

“Another only child of an A-list mega-wealthy New Yorker, like the Dunnings, the Skinners, and Gordon Hastings?” I asked.

Emily nodded. “I can’t believe he’s hit another one so fast. He actually had to have grabbed Mary Beth before we did the money exchange for Hastings.”

“For the love of God,” I said, wanting to punch something. “I thought he’d be done after getting his five million. Now two in one day? What is this guy made of? And what the hell is he after if it’s not money?”

We shot over the Brooklyn Bridge and pulled off the first exit into the borough’s most exclusive neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. Two undercover cars were already parked in front of the Haases’ stately Greek Revival brownstone on a tree-lined street called Columbia Heights. It overlooked the Brooklyn Promenade and had, perhaps, the most majestic view of lower Manhattan that exists.

A female detective I knew from Brooklyn South Homicide answered the door. Behind her, a task force techie in an NYPD Geek Squad Windbreaker was taking apart a wall phone.

I looked up as a petite fiftyish woman with very short blond hair came down the stairs. She kept passing a hand back obsessively through her hair as she spoke rapidly into a cell phone. I groaned inwardly at the intense sorrow and despair on Ann Haas’s face. I could only imagine what she was going through. Could only guess how unimaginably sad and angry and destroyed I’d feel if one of my kids were missing. Mrs. Haas was a woman who was most definitely going through hell.

“I think the FBI’s here now, John. I’ll call you back,” the distraught mother said into the cell as she arrived at the bottom of the stairs. She waved us into the living room.

Her dropped cell phone clattered off an antique oak steamer trunk she used as a coffee table as she collapsed back onto a huge, silk-upholstered couch. Despite her expensive power suit, when she pulled her black-hoseclad legs up underneath her, she suddenly looked like a little girl. A little girl who’d lost her only doll, I thought to myself.

The high-def night skyline of lower Manhattan seemed to scratch up against the glass of the bay window behind her. She turned and stared at the office towers.

“I took us out of that insane place in order to provide some sort of normalcy and security after Mary Beth was born,” she said quietly as she shook her head. “I wanted to send her to and from Brearley by car, but ever since Mary Beth was fourteen, she’s insisted on taking the subway.

“I have friends who hire professionals to try to get their wealthy kids to understand how normal people live, but it was almost the opposite with Mary Beth. It was like pulling teeth every time I had to convince her that it was okay to use the resources we’ve been fortunate enough to acquire.”

She looked at me, perplexed, as if I might know the answer to the affliction she was now suffering from. It pissed me off that I didn’t.

“Is your husband here?” I said.

“He works for UBS in London during the week, but he’s on the next plane back. Did you know some fool at Brearley actually tried to tell me my daughter might have just cut class? Mary Beth is the captain of both the lacrosse and volleyball teams. She got an early acceptance to Bard, for the love of God. This is not a girl who cuts classes.

“Please tell me you have an idea of who this person is who might have taken her. Please tell me you’re going to bring my Mary Beth back home.”

The woman’s hurt eyes locked on mine again as she started to silently weep. They only tore away as Emily sat down next to the woman and laid a hand on her wrist.

“We’ll do everything possible, Mrs. Haas,” Emily said. “I can’t guarantee you anything except that we’ll go to the ends of the earth to bring your little girl home again.”

DESPITE ANN HAAS’S obvious pain, she managed to tell Emily and me about her daughter, Mary Beth. She was a solid 4.0 student whose dream was to help the poor of Latin America, where she’d summered from the time she was fourteen at various volunteer camps.

“This year, instead of going to Europe like a lot of her friends, Mary Beth is planning to run a children’s theater in Pérez Zeledón, one of the poorest sections of Costa Rica,” the CEO told us as she handed us a picture. “It’s all she can talk about.”

Mary Beth was a slightly overweight, attractive, blue-eyed girl with long jet-black hair. In the picture, she was wearing a green bandanna and matching camo shirt and cargo shorts as she smiled and waved from some muddy jungle path.

Most surprising of all to me was that Mary Beth didn’t have a social networking account on either MySpace or Facebook, unlike the other victims. A throwback, I thought, looking at her smile. A very good and special kid.

Ann Haas was about to take us up to her daughter’s room, when her wall phone rang. The department geek set up by the fireplace glanced at his laptop and nodded vigorously. I motioned for Mrs. Haas to pick up the phone in the family room as the tech handed me a set of headphones.

Mrs. Haas’s knuckles were as bloodless as her face as she lifted the cordless phone.

“Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Haas,” the kidnapper said. “Poor, poor Mrs. Haas. How ironic, considering the latest Forbes listing, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded to everyone around the room. It was the same guy.

“Oh, Mrs. Haas,” the kidnapper continued. “How glorious you look at your charity events. How brightly the flash packs of the paparazzi reflect off your diamonds. While the lights dazzled, did you maybe for a moment think that you had become more than mortal? I think you did. Pride is one of your main sins, Ann. I can call you Ann, can’t I? I hope you don’t mind. After spending so much time with your daughter, I feel like we’re practically related.”

“You fucking prick son of a bitch!” Mrs. Haas screamed. “Give her back!”

The kidnapper let out a long, sad sigh.

“My, my. What filth even a daughter of the highest privilege is capable of in our tainted society. Is that really any way to talk? Did those tight-ass lily-white-tower academics teach you to speak like that at Sarah Lawrence? Or did you learn that potty mouth at Daddy’s trading desk? Mustn’t we have been turned on, being one of the few women amongst all that heady Wall Street warrior testosterone?

“Which leads us to your next sin, Ann. Lust. Multiple acts of adultery with multiple partners, if the rumors are true. Shall I get into specifics?

“Isn’t that what being rich is all about? Sex and money and hiring people to clean the eight-hundred-thread-count sheets? You’re a filthy sinner, Ann, and so’s your lackluster English poseur of a husband.”

“Please let me speak to Mary Beth,” Mrs. Haas begged. “Just for a second. For whatever I’ve done to you, I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” the kidnapper said. “But talking to Mary Beth won’t be possible. I’m here to teach you that you are human, Ann. And like all humans, you must come to terms with the reality of loss. Sin and loss go hand in hand. Please put my friend Detective Bennett on the phone now. It’s been a real pleasure speaking to you, despite your disgusting language. I hope he hasn’t pumped up your hopes concerning Mary Beth, Madam Chief Executive. On second thought, I hope he has. All the more pride to goeth before the fall. Ta-ta.”