He sat down, looked back at the pond. “No.”

“Are you on any drugs right now?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying any weapons I should know about?”

He shook his head.

“People have been looking for you. They’re worried.”

“That’s very kind.”

Sophie ventured a step closer.

The man was shivering imperceptibly.

“What are you doing out here, Mr. Seymour?”

“Thinking. It’s a good place for it.”

“What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer.

The wind kicked up.

A scrap of paper in Seymour’s right hand twitched in the breeze. In his other hand, he held a pen.

“What’s that paper, Mr. Seymour?”

No response.

Sophie edged closer.

“Could I take a look?”

When he didn’t respond, she slowly reached down and eased the paper out of his grasp. Sophie took several steps away from the bench and glanced back toward the main path. Silver had moved closer, now standing only twenty yards away, watching intently.

She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand—a receipt for a twenty-five-dollar pour of Highland Park at a downtown bar called The Whisky.

The time stamp was 5:11 p.m., three days ago.

She looked up at him again.

Seymour stared past her into oblivion.

Sophie flipped the receipt over.

In rain-smeared ink, the visage of an old man stared back at her. What the portrait lacked in artistic flair was counterbalanced by a staggering detail that reminded her of a facial composite. It was an expertly-executed sketch, but as impersonal as a mugshot.

“Did you draw this, Mr. Seymour?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see this man somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In my head.”

“Did this man hurt you?”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

Sophie slid the receipt into an inner pocket of her jacket.

“What do you remember about being at The Whisky three nights ago?” she asked.

Seymour started to rise.

She took a step back and touched her gun.

Silver shouted, “Everything okay?”

“We’re fine,” she yelled, her eyes never leaving Seymour.

Seymour buttoned his jacket.

“I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused.”

“What happened to you?”

“The gardens are beautiful this time of year, aren’t they?” he said with an empty smile that was completely disconnected from his eyes.

He started up a slope of browned grass.

Sophie followed.

“Mr. Seymour, please. You need to go to a hospital.”

The man reached the path and continued walking toward the entrance gate.

“What happened?” Silver asked.

“I have no idea. Walk with me.”

“You’re letting him go?”

“What exactly would you propose we bring him in on?”

“Trespassing.”

“Please.”

“At least you’ll get a chance to talk to him.”

“He isn’t giving anything up. I got stonewalled.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“Nervous breakdown? Drugs? Some kind of trauma?”

“So we’re just going to watch him walk away?”

“Of course not.” Seymour passed through the entrance gate to the Japanese garden as Sophie dug her phone out of her purse. “I’m going to follow him.”

Chapter 20

“Don’t,” Paige said.

Grant touched his finger to the screen.

“We have to buy ourselves some time.”

Paige clenched her jaw.

“Fine. Put her on speaker.”

Grant swiped the screen, activated the speaker, and set the phone back on the island.

“Sophie,” he said.

“Jesus Christ, Grant. Wanger’s practically interviewing for your replacement. Where are you?”

“On my way home from the hospital.”

The words had left his mouth before he’d even given it a thought—a reflexive lie.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

The concern in her voice shot a hollowpoint of guilt through his chest. He felt it mushroom center mass. He’d never lied to Sophie before. Never had a reason to. Six months into their partnership, she’d had Grant down so cold she could have reconstructed him from junk parts. Now, after sharing a desk for two years, he could say as much. They operated on the same frequency, and that was the problem. Her bullshit meter was a finely calibrated tool. If his performance wasn’t Oscar material, she’d know it.

He glanced at Paige, her eyes gone wide, head slowly shaking like what-are-you-going-to-say-now?

“Let’s just say that the Spicy Italian is no longer my favorite sandwich.”

Something like a snort crackled over the speaker.

“Was that a laugh?” Grant said.

“No, I promise,” Sophie laughed.

“You are so cruel.”

“I just can’t believe you got food poisoning from Subway. That’s just ... wow. Do you need anything?”

“Rest.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“Kind of hard when they’re pumping your stomach.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”

Paige raised an eyebrow.

Grant rolled his eyes.

“Can I bring you something?” Sophie asked. “Your favorite sub? I’m sorry, that was too soon.”

“No, I’m drained. Just going home to crash. Might take the next few days off. “

“That’s not a bad idea. You sound awful.”

“Would you tell Wanger for me?”

“Sure, but you’re going to hate your timing.”

Grant looked up at Paige.

“What’s going on?”

“We found Benjamin Seymour.”

Porcelain and coffee exploded on the floor beside Grant’s feet.

Paige’s eyes filled with terror, hands still clutching the shape of the mug that lay in pieces on the hardwood.

Grant mouthed to his sister, What?

She shook her head and pointed at the phone.

“What was that?” Sophie asked.

“Sorry. Hit a pothole.”

The pool of coffee was expanding toward Grant’s socks.

Paige collected herself, grabbed the dishcloth from the oven handle, and began blotting the liquid.

“Alive?” Grant asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“At the arboretum. I’m here now. He’d apparently been sitting on a bench for days before a groundskeeper found him and called it in. I tried talking to him but the guy’s a space cadet. Virtually catatonic. Could barely respond. Just sat there staring at the water.”

“So he was on something?”

“I don’t think so. It was more like he was sleepwalking.”

“So you’re bringing him in?”

Thinking, He’ll lead them straight to me and Paige.

“No. I’m going to follow him. Something’s up. He was holding a drawing he’d done on a receipt. A hyper-realistic portrait of an old man’s face. I’ve got it with me. This thing is amazing, Grant. Our boy’s an artist.”

“Seymour drew it?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who’s the old man?”

“He didn’t know. Said he’d never met him.”

“That sounds like eight kinds of strange.”

Paige had finished soaking up the coffee, now picking up fragments of the mug.

“Well, don’t figure it all out before I get back,” Grant said.

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. This is a weird one. Sure I can’t bring you something?”

“No, but you’re my first call if I change my mind.”

“All right, partner. Feel better. I’ll keep you looped in.”

Grant clicked off.

His heart pounding.

Paige had opened the cabinet under the sink and was dumping the broken cup into a trashcan. She closed the door and stood, looked back at Grant, her face as white as the porcelain shards.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Benjamin Seymour is one of mine. He came here three nights ago.”

“And it went down just like with the doctor last night?”

She nodded.

“Was a man named Barry Talbert also a client of yours?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He’s missing too. I’m sure you’re aware, but these are prominent, wealthy men in the business and legal community.”

“That’s who I service.”

“SPD is looking extra hard for them. The search for these men is what led me to your Facebook page in the first place. It’s going to be a matter of time before the entire investigative division—” Grant tapped the surface of the island “—knocks on the door.”