“You said five minutes, you’d call back,” Vargas protests.

“I thought this was better,” says the man who calls himself Smith.

“You were already in the building? Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Try and keep your voice down, Rico,” Smith suggests.

The smaller man slips behind the lawyer, throws the bolt on the door.

“This won’t take too long,” he says.

“I didn’t say a word to them, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Vargas glances uneasily at the shot bolt. Not that he’s physically afraid of the man who calls himself Smith. The guy is in shape, no question, but Vargas outweighs him by at least fifty pounds, and he’s no slouch musclewise. Besides, there’s nothing threatening about the man’s posture or his tone of voice, which sounds utterly reasonable. Actually, thinking about it here, it makes sense to bolt the door. For all he knows, the pushy investigator has a weak bladder, and might come calling.

“I’m not worried,” Smith is saying, leaning casually against the sink. “I trust you, Rico. That’s why I selected you. Two dozen drug dealers can’t be wrong, huh? You never ratted any of them out.”

“Hard to stay in business if you rat on your clients,” Vargas says.

“Hard to stay alive, too, am I right?”

Vargas shrugs. “Drug dealers never threaten me. Only people who ever threaten me are prosecutors. What is it you want, Mr. Smith?”

“I wasn’t entirely straight with you, Rico. I’d like to make it right.”

Vargas stands with his arms folded across his bulk, his back against the door, weighing his response. His money antennas are tingling, and that makes him feel good, from the top of his hundred-dollar haircut to the balls of his well-shod feet. “Okay,” he says. “The case is a little more complicated than we both anticipated.”

“You put it so nicely,” says Smith. “Guess that’s why you’re a courtroom genius and I’m not.”

“I try to avoid courtrooms,” Vargas tells him truthfully. “Better to get it done before you go to court.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Smith tells him. “I need you to stand tall, amigo. Cops start asking you about Teresa Alonzo, you refuse to respond, even if it means problems with the judge or the bar association.”

“I never met the lady,” Vargas points out. “Can’t reveal what I don’t know, whatever any judge may say.”

“See how easy this is going to be?”

“You said something about making it right.”

“Money isn’t a problem for me at the moment,” says the man who calls himself Smith. “I can afford to be generous with my friends. So as a token of friendship, I’m going to give you an additional five grand, for having to deal with nosy cops.”

“Guy’s not a cop,” Vargas explains. “He’s just an investigator. Can’t compel testimony of any kind. Don’t worry about him, he’s not a problem.”

“Good, good. So will five grand make it right between us?”

“That’s very generous, Mr. Smith. Although, come to think of it, I might have to bill you more than that if I get brought up on ethics charges.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“It happens,” Vargas says, trying to exude concern. Actually, he’s not particularly worried. He’s been brought up on ethics violations before and easily prevailed. Bogus custody filing shouldn’t be a problem, since it will be almost impossible to prove he hasn’t met the lady in question. Miss Alonzo took off, what can I say, Your Honor? Had no idea the custody suit wasn’t valid. Crazy clients, what’s a guy to do?

“Whatever is fair,” the man who calls himself Smith is saying. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I better get back,” Vargas says. “Tell Mrs. Bickford I’m sorry, but I can’t help her.”

“Be nice about it,” the man suggests. “She’s been through a lot.”

“I’m always nice. By the way, when can I expect the additional fee?”

“Got it right here,” says the man who calls himself Smith. “In my pocket.”

22 the boy scout

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Shane warns me, shortly after Vargas leaves the room, supposedly to find a “secure location” for his phone call.

“He said he might have something for us,” I remind him. “That was her on the line, wasn’t it?”

Shane shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. He could be messing with us, Mrs. Bickford.”

“But we give him the full five minutes.”

“Sure,” Shane says. “Why not?”

He leans back in the chair, staring at his hands.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say, before he zones out to wherever it is he goes.

“Go ahead.”

“You really carrying a gun?”

He shakes his head. “Were you really going to poke his eyes out?”

“If I thought it would work,” I tell him.

Shane smiles. “You’re a peach, Mrs. Bickford.”

I don’t feel like a peach. I feel like the top of my head is going to spin off. Skin clammy, mouth dry with anticipation. This could be it. A connection to Tommy. Somewhere to start. My rational self knows that Shane is right, I shouldn’t get my hopes up. But my hopes are already up there, Everest high, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Tommy. Have they hurt him? What’s he thinking, what’s he feeling at this precise moment? Can he sense that I’m reaching out to him with every ounce of my being?

The idea of what my son must be going through makes me ache so deeply that I feel capable of making any sacrifice that might lead to his return. Scratch out an attorney’s eyes, throw myself in front of a bus, anything. The chaos of emotions makes me so dizzy that it’s just as well I’m sitting down.

If Shane senses what I’m enduring, he gives no sign of it, and resumes staring at his hands. Not with me, here in this fetid little room, but elsewhere. Planet Shane, where no one sleeps, and dreams come to the wide-awake.

He’s zoning out. Meanwhile I’m fretting, checking my watch every thirty seconds. Thinking it all comes down to this, a crucial phone call. A name. Something to work with. A place to start.

After a century or so, five minutes have passed.

“Shane?”

His tall, rangy body shudders slightly as he awakens from his trance. Blinks his eyes, clears his throat, checks his own watch. “Right. Wait here, I’ll check on Rico.”

“No way. I’m coming with you.”

“Suit yourself. But I expect he’s pulled a Copperfield, made himself vanish.”

The dingy hallways are empty, which seems odd, considering that this is a very busy, vital part of the borough. Even the cheesiest real estate must be expensive, or as Connie likes to say, even the low-end is high-end. But we appear to have the place to ourselves. No sign of Vargas, no sign of anybody.

Shane strides purposefully along, methodically trying doors, finding all of them locked. Nothing furtive about his actions, either. He behaves as if he has a perfect right to try doors, as if he’s been poking into places much like this his whole life and pretty much knows what to expect. Which, in turn, gives me confidence that I’ve latched on to the right person, the man who can help me find my son.

“I’m thinking our new pal Rico has access to another one of these rooms,” he explains. “One for interviewing clients, another for the private stuff. Calling his bookie, checking in with his parole officer or whatever.”

“Parole officer?” I respond, startled. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m kidding. Savalo checked him out for us. Enrico Vargas is a member in good standing of the New York State Bar. But I also made a few inquiries of my own, from different sources. Word is that Vargas has an unsavory reputation for getting deep into the pockets of his lowlife clients. Suspected of passing on jailhouse instructions to criminal enterprises, possible money laundering, and so on. Most of his paying clients are midlevel drug dealers.”