“You think he’s personally involved? That he already knows where they’ve got Tommy?”

“Nah,” says Shane, rattling doorknobs. “I think he’s being played. And I think he’s worried, which should be in our favor. Assuming we can locate the son of a bitch.”

The last door in the hallway is labeled Restroom in both English and Spanish, and there’s no need to rattle the lock because the door is propped open with a wastebasket.

“Must be unisex, huh?” Shane wants to know. “As well as bilingual.”

“I guess.”

“So it doesn’t matter who looks inside.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No, no,” says Shane. “I’m the designated bathroom-looker.”

He shoves aside the waste can and steps inside, letting the door shut behind him. A moment later a muffled curse erupts and I decide to follow him inside.

The bathroom has one plywood stall, well inscribed with graffiti, and a single urinal bolted to the wall. There must be a sink, too, but at the moment I don’t notice one because Enrico Vargas is giving me the evil eye. The pupil of one of his handsome brown eyes is hugely dilated, and somehow fierce, while the other eye appears disinterested. He sits on the floor with his back against the wall, seriously endangering the seat and cuffs of his well-tailored suit. His mouth is open, as if he’s about to say something but can’t quite think of the word.

Before he can speak a tiny drop of blood exits his left nostril and lands, plink!, on his crisply pressed shirt collar, and that’s when I know he’ll never think of the word, or anything at all, ever again.

Shane crouches, getting a better angle but keeping physically clear of the body. “I’ll be damned. You can barely see it at the back of his neck, under all that hair. An ice-pick handle.”

On TV when people come unexpectedly upon a corpse they always seem to throw up. Even TV cops start gagging. But I feel nothing. Nothing in the form of a great, flat numbness, as if my whole body has been injected with Novocaine. Plus, I’m really, really angry at Rico for screwing up. He was going to be my connection, the facilitator of my own personal mother-and-child reunion.

Next thing I know Shane has me around the shoulders and he’s making me face the other wall so I can’t see the dead lawyer and his stupid evil eye, the pupil dilated by an ice pick inserted deep into his brain.

“We have to move fast, so I want you to concentrate and listen to me, okay, Mrs. Bickford?”

“Call me Kate, please.” Now I’m feeling giddy, which is totally inappropriate. What have I got to feel giddy about?

“Huh? Okay, fine. Kate. Kate, you’re going to go down the stairs and out the door and turn left. Go to the end of the block and you’ll see the garage where we parked. Get the rental car and leave the area. Don’t even think about what happened here because you were never here, you never met Rico Vargas.”

“I never met him. Okay.”

“You drove me into the city, dropped me off at a subway stop, and then you drove home.”

“I drove home?” I ask. The numbness makes everything he says seem slightly silly.

“You will. You’ll drive back to Fairfax. Go to the motel and wait for a call, either from me or Maria Savalo. You got that, Mrs. Bickford? Kate?”

“You want me to go back to the motel.”

“Right now. The cops are probably already on the way. You can’t be here.”

“What about you?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Bickford. Leave. Right now. Don’t look back.”

“He doesn’t look dead, does he?” I say. “Except for the funny eye.”

Shane gently but firmly pushes me out the door and guides me to the stairwell.

“We killed him, didn’t we?” I ask. “By coming here, asking him questions?”

Shane shakes his head. His manner is firm, unwavering. “Poor Rico was dead before we got here,” he says. “He just didn’t know it.”

23 the way a man walks

Normally, I’m one of those people who can always recall where the car is parked. Normally, I’m focused, oriented. But normal left my world the minute Tommy vanished, and for the life of me I can’t remember where I parked the rental, or even what it looks like, exactly. Ford Taurus, okay, Ford Taurus very reliable, but what color? Silver? Gray? I wasn’t really paying attention when the kid handed me the keys. And I’d been following Shane when we exited the garage, keeping up with his long strides, concentrating on how we’d handle the lawyer.

Right. Handle him to death.

Stairs. I recall coming down a flight of stairs. Concentrate, Kate, this couldn’t be more important. You need to get out of here before the police arrive. Failure is not an option. Failure means getting locked up, ending any chance of finding Tommy before the unthinkable happens.

Concentrate. You’re getting out of the car, leaving the garage. What do you see?

Right, you came down a flight of stairs. You parked on the first level above the ground. And the rental car is no more than fifty feet from the exit door, you can see it in your mind now, you can retrace the path. Find the car, you’ll be gone in five minutes. Less if you run.

I run up the concrete stairs, burst through the door, lungs heaving, and find myself in the murky half light of the garage. Take just a moment for my eyes to adjust, and then I’m off. Keys in hand, I hit the button and hear the rental car honk, the lights flash, and a spasm of relief floods my body.

I’m almost at the car, hand outstretched for the handle, when a movement catches my attention.

I’m not alone. At the other end of the garage, ten rows away, a man is hurrying for his vehicle as I am hurrying for mine. Can’t make out his face or any individual features in the perpetual twilight, but there’s something about the way he moves. A kind of coiled, athletic grace. He’s got great posture and balance, an inner gyroscope that keeps him precisely vertical.

I know that walk. Saw it up close and personal.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey!”

Of course I could be wrong. My mind playing tricks, turning every innocent pedestrian into the man in the mask. Not that this man is wearing a mask. A ball cap that casts a shadow over his face, but no mask.

Could be him.

“Stop!” I find myself screaming. “Wait!”

The figure turns, looks in my direction. Freezes for the time it takes my heart to clunk once, and then he slips away so swiftly it’s as if he’s not there.

Slipping like a furtive shadow between the rows of parked cars.

Two options. I can give chase on foot, or get into my car, lock the doors and attempt to follow him. Decide there’s no way to catch up to him on foot, and if I do, then what? Threaten to attack him with a letter opener no longer in my possession?

There’s a third possibility, much more likely. That yelling like an idiot has not only alerted him to my presence, but made me a target of opportunity. That he’s slipping through the shadows right now, heading my way.

Get in the car, Kate. Now.

Inside the rental, I attempt to lock the doors with the switch and succeed in making the horn sound. Good move, let him know exactly where you are. Reaching over, I slam down all the locks and then the engine is running and I’m screeching backward out of the space, the wheel spinning in my hands.

Never burned rubber in my life. Always a first time. As I jam the brakes and force the transmission into drive, a big silver SUV fishtails around a corner and bears down on me like a fear-seeking missile.

No place to go. I’m unable to turn in any direction without putting myself directly in the approaching vehicle’s path. Backing up will only force me into a parking slot, pinned on both sides. I’m trapped, frozen like Bambi in the headlights.