When they came to the doors, Hanna Uljaken reached down and just barely brushed the golden handles with her well-manicured fingertips. The doors opened instantly, swinging outward in unison. She motioned him forward. Kyle stepped through, and the doors swung shut behind them. He paused as if giving the room a glance, but was in fact listening to the faint metallic click of some mechanism engaging when the doors actually closed. He suspected that his and Uljaken’s progress through the building was being carefully monitored and assisted. He wondered how far into the offices and residences that surveillance reached.

The room he had just entered was five or so meters wide, and twice that deep. And it was done in pure white. Finely veined white marble was the material of choice, accented by a pinker variety and gold and copper ornamentation. Directly, ahead was a short staircase leading up to an area carpeted with a deep red and gray oriental. In each corner was a marble pedestal bearing a vase in tones matching the carpet. An open archway stood on either side. Hanna Uljaken led Kyle up the stairs, and through the archway on the left. In the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of a piano.

As they walked down another corridor, the music grew louder. Kyle recognized Chopin, but not the name of the piece. The pianist was, to his ears, very skilled.

Walking a few steps ahead, Uljaken led Kyle into a brightly lit room. One wall, facing east and the lake, was solid glass that let in the strong, but diffuse sunlight. There was a central area, furnished with a circle of couches around a sunken, glass-topped pond alive with brightly colored fish. On each side of the room stood two tall pillars, supporting nothing, but reaching to the entrance level where he and Ms. Uljaken were standing. The entranceway looked down on the room, which at first glance resembled a cross between a medieval hunting lodge and a Greco-Roman temple.

On the far side were a series of consoles made of white wood and hints of silver. He suspected they contained media equipment and possibly a bar. Below them, as he followed Hanna down the steps, he could begin to see a large white Bosendorfer piano, the source of the music. Kyle could also see that the musician was a woman apparently in her thirties, dark-haired and dressed in a simple but obviously expensive skirt and sweater. He recognized her as Elaine Annworth Truman, Daniel Truman's wife of forty-five years, mother of their three children, activist for the underclass, a classically trained musician, and like her husband, a regular user of a variety of cellular cleansers and genetic rejuvenation therapy.

Daniel Truman himself was seated on one of the sofas in the center of the room, next to a young girl who had to be his daughter Melissa, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty of sixteen who was beginning to make a name on the international modeling scene. She looked up, most disinterested, as Kyle and Uljaken entered, but her father had not, intent instead on the datapad display on his lap.

"Mr. Truman," Hanna Uljaken said just as they reached the foot of the stairs. "May I present Mr. Kyle Teller?" Truman set the display aside and stood up. He was a powerfully built man with thinning dark blond hair and sharp blue eyes. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Teller," he said, walking toward Kyle with outstretched hand. "My brother-in-law recommends you highly."

Kyle knew he should respond. Not doing so was a grave breach of etiquette, but he found his attention distracted by what hung on the wall opposite the windows. He stopped, in fact, and stared.

Truman only smiled, undoubtedly accustomed to such a reaction. "Stunning, isn't it? But it's best viewed from the middle of the room. From there you can see the dots very clearly."

Kyle moved to that spot, still gazing in wonderment. "Wasn't this lost in the looting of the Art Institute after the IBM Building went down?"

"Liberation, Mr. Teller," said Elaine Truman, "not looting. When the IBM tower fell and the city government foolishly decided it couldn't protect the museums any longer, the insurance companies declared the collections too great a risk and revoked their policies. It was either allow marauding hooligans to walk off with this country's greatest art treasures or move them to safer locations."

Kyle reluctantly looked away from the enormous painting. "My apologies, Mr. Truman," he said. "Seeing this caught me utterly by surprise."

"That's all right. As I said, my brother-in-law spoke very highly of you."

"I was glad to be of help to him, though I must say his security people had already made a good deal of progress in finding your niece by the time I stepped in."

Truman started to reply, but was cut off by his daughter. "And Anna-Marie thanks you for all you did, Mr. Teller." Her tone dripped sarcasm. "I'm sure she sends her love."

He turned his head slightly toward her. "I'm glad it turned out well for everyone involved."

Truman laughed, and Kyle was surprised at the family's overall demeanor. He'd expected something more forbidding. "This, of course, is my charming daughter Melissa," Truman told him. "She's in from Europe for a week or two."

Kyle inclined his head in acknowledgment. "My pleasure." The girl gave him a squinty smile.

"And this," Truman said, extending his hand toward his wife, who rose gracefully to take it, "is my wife Elaine."

Kyle bowed slightly. "Your playing is excellent. It makes me regret not having continued with my own piano training."

Elaine Truman smiled graciously. "From what they tell me, you have your own art to be proud of."

Interesting turn of phrase, Kyle thought. "I think it's probably more a craft than an art, Mrs. Truman."

Daniel Truman placed his hand.on Kyle's shoulder. "And that's exactly why you're here, Mr. Teller," he said, guiding Kyle toward the sofas in the center of the room. Truman motioned him to the spot next to his daughter, while he and his wife settled themselves opposite.

Kyle sat down and straightened his jacket, acutely aware that he'd overdressed for the obviously casual Trumans. He pulled his Sony datacorder from a pocket and placed it on the arm of the couch. The flashing green light told him it was recording. Kyle wanted to get straight to business. 'The information you sent indicated that you need help in a matter involving your son Mitchell."

Truman nodded, picking up what looked like a tumbler full of real scotch from the small table next to his seat. He swirled the ice and liquid as he spoke. “Yes… Mitchell."

"Our son has, to put it very simply, run off," said Elaine Truman.

"Alone or with someone?"

Truman looked up again. "With someone… A girl named Linda Hayward, I believe."

Kyle nodded. "A romantic interest?"

"So it seems."

"He met her at some club," his wife added. "About three months ago."

"I take it you are opposed to this relationship?" Husband and wife replied with their eyes and facial expressions, but Melissa laughed sharply. Kyle turned toward her. "And I take it you are not."

Melissa shrugged. "I think they're overreacting."

"Please don't make this harder, Melissa," Truman said.

Kyle turned back to him. "What makes you believe your son has run off with this woman?"

"He said he would."

"How long has he been missing?"

"Just under a week," Mrs. Truman told him.

"And when did you first realize he was missing?"

"He didn't show up for his father's birthday party three nights ago."

"And that's when you first tried to contact him?"

Elaine Truman nodded. "I called him at home. There was no answer."

"And you sent someone to his apartment the next morning?"

She blinked, and Kyle saw a smile cross Truman's lips. "Yes… but he wasn't there. There were apparently a number of e-mail messages waiting for him on his system too."