“Why are you telling me all this?” Kate sank into a chair across from them.

“Because, Ms. Herrera”-the FBI agent in the corner stepped forward-“your father purchased a cell phone a couple of weeks ago, under your brother’s name. That’s Justin, isn’t it?”

Surprised, Kate nodded, almost reflexively.

“There was no activity on it at first. That changed last Thursday. That was the day after your father disappeared. A call was placed to Chicago.”

Kate felt the slightest spark of hopefulness catch fire.

“The number that was called, Ms. Herrera,” the FBI man said, tossing a file on the table in front of her, “was Margaret Seymour’s secure line.”

Kate blinked. “I’m not understanding.” What were they trying to say, that her father was alive?

“Kate, a man matching your father’s description boarded a plane Wednesday night from a city that will remain nameless, heading for Minneapolis,” Phil Cavetti said, laying out some pages for her to see. “The ticket was made out to a Kenneth John Skinner, an insurance broker in Cranbury, New Jersey, who had reported his driver’s license stolen over two years ago. We ran your father’s likeness by various car-rental agencies at the Minneapolis airport. A car was rented at the Budget office there, to the same Kenneth John Skinner, and returned there two days later by the same man. According to their records, the reading on the odometer was eight hundred and twenty miles.”

“Okay…” Kate nodded, unsure what to feel.

“Eight hundred and twenty miles, I’m pretty sure you’ll find, is the approximate driving distance from Minneapolis to Chicago and back.”

Kate stared. For a second there was a flicker of joy in her blood. They were saying that her father was alive!

Then it was crushed by their stony silence.

“There was a directional request input into the car’s GPS system, Kate. It was programmed for the Barrow Industrial Park, in Schaumburg, Illinois, a few miles outside of town.”

“Okay…” Kate’s heart was beating faster now.

Cavetti pushed a photo across to her. One of Margaret Seymour’s death-scene photos. “A vacant warehouse in the Barrow Industrial Park is where Margaret Seymour was murdered, Kate.”

Kate’s heart stopped. All of a sudden it came clear to her what they were thinking.

“No!”

“You already know your father went missing the day before Agent Seymour was killed. We believe it was your father Agent Seymour was going to meet.”

“No!” Kate shook her head. She picked up Margaret Seymour’s photo. She felt sick to her stomach. “What are you saying?” Her limbs began to feel a little weak.

“That license was stolen over two years ago, Kate. There were credit cards issued in the same name. I think you have to realize that whoever did this has been planning things for a very long time.”

“This is crazy!” Kate stood up, glaring back at them.

They didn’t think someone killed Margaret Seymour to find out where her father was.

They thought he killed her. That he murdered his own case agent.

“So as to your question”-Phil Cavetti leaned back-“of whether your father is dead or alive, I’m afraid it’s a whole lot deeper than that, Kate.”

“No!” Kate’s voice rose, her head shook with incredulity. “You’re wrong! Whatever he’s done, my father’s no killer.” Her eyes fastened on the horrible crime photo. The image of Margaret Seymour’s empty expression almost made her retch. “Not that!”

“She was headed there to meet him, Kate,” Cavetti said. “He ran away from your family. That much we know.”

“I don’t care!” Her face flushed with frustration. It was impossible. Too horrible to even contemplate. “You steamrolled my father into a conviction. You took away his life. You don’t even have proof he’s still alive.”

She picked up the file. She wanted to throw it against the wall. Her head was swimming. She tried to focus on the facts.

Someone did purchase a cell phone in her brother’s name. She couldn’t deny that. Someone had boarded a plane for Minneapolis the night her father disappeared. Someone had placed that call to Margaret Seymour. And rented a car. The GPS led to the murder site. Margaret Seymour’s scribbled note.

MIDAS.

Why…?

“Why would he want to kill her?” Kate shouted back. “What possible reason would he have to kill the one person who was trying to keep him safe?”

“Maybe she knew something he didn’t want her to divulge,” Booth, the FBI man, answered, shrugging. “Or cover up something she’d found.”

“But you would know that.” She spun to Cavetti. “You were Margaret Seymour’s senior officer. That would be part of his file. Goddamn it, this is my father we’re talking about!”

“Whatever it was, we know he went to meet her, Kate.” The WITSEC agent just stared at her. “The rest-you connect the dots.”

Kate sank back down. “Maybe he made a foolish choice or two that’s made him look bad. I don’t know why he tried to contact Margaret Seymour. Maybe someone was after him. Maybe she contacted him. But those pictures…” She shook her head, her eyes horrified and wide. “What they did…That’s not my father. He’s no killer. You know him, Agent Cavetti! How could you possibly think it was him?”

Suddenly Kate felt a sickening realization.

The bolt. To her apartment.

She looked back at Cavetti. “That’s why you didn’t warn me, wasn’t it? After Tina was shot. It was you. You broke into the apartment. You were using me, to find my father. You wanted to know if he contacted me.”

Cavetti stared at her without apology. “Kate, you have no idea what’s at stake in this case.”

“Then tell me, Agent Cavetti!” Kate stood up again. “Tell me what’s at stake, and I’ll tell you. My father may be dead. Or worse”-she pointed to the photo-“he may have done that. And I have a friend who’s fighting for her life with a bullet in her brain that may have been meant for me.

“That’s what’s at stake, Agent Cavetti, for me. Whatever it is for you, I hope it’s worth all that!”

Kate grabbed her bag, stepping over to the door.

“He’ll try to contact you, Ms. Herrera,” the FBI man said. “There’ll be a missing-persons alert out for him. But you realize we’re talking more than that.”

“I saw those pictures, Agent Cavetti.” Kate shook her head in anger. “And that’s not him. It’s not my father-no matter where the dots lead. He testified for you. He went to jail. You’re the one who’s supposed to be protecting us, so protect us, Cavetti. You’re so sure my father’s alive-find him!

“Find him.” Kate opened the door. “Or I promise I will.”

Stroke…

Kate reached forward, powering her legs into the drive.

Stroke… Every five beats. In perfectly timed rhythm. Her muscles straining.

Then glide…

The Peinert X25 racing shell sped gracefully through the waters of the Harlem River. The early-morning sun glinted off the apartment buildings along the shore. Kate feathered the blades, sliding forward, shifting into her recovery. Her stroke was fluid and compact.

Drive…

She was taking it out on the river: All her anger. Her doubt. She rowed twice a week like clockwork, before work. In the cold and the rain. Under the railroad trestles, past Baker Field to the Hudson River. Two miles. She needed to do it-to fight off her diabetes. But today she just needed it for her peace of mind.

Stroke…

Kate focused on her rhythm. Zen-like, two breaths to every stroke. Her heart rate climbing to 130. The spray kicked in her face. Her neoprene top clung to her. She trained her gaze on her wake, like perfectly carved ski edges in the snow.