“So they think the ambulance has been hijacked?”

“Something like that. When Tim doesn’t call, Beavis checks him out on the locator.”

“Beavis?”

Sherona looks slightly embarrassed. “The dispatcher. Beavis isn’t his real name, his real name is J.D. or some kind of initial name, but I’m callin’ him Beavis cause he’s a butt head. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Beavis, he’s got this satellite thing going. Look on the computer screen, all his rides are showing. Knows exactly where they are at all times. Driver stops to pee, Beavis knows about it.”

A GPS locator. It makes sense an ambulance service would use the latest technology to monitor its fleet of vehicles. It’s all I can do not to rub my hands with glee. We’ve got him.

“Beavis sees Tim driving south on the highway instead of north to New London, he tries to get him on the squawk. That what the fool calls his radio, a squawk. Minute later the ride stops at the Route 90 exit, at a rest area, and the locator stops working. Ride disappears from the screen.”

My spirit plummets. What was I thinking? The man in the mask—Cutter, Kate, his name is Cutter—he knows about GPS locators. He used one on my minivan, the day I transferred the money. The query from the dispatcher confirmed that the diverted ambulance had a locator, and Cutter silenced it.

“Beavis, he calls the cops, reports a stolen ride. Say they’ll get right on it. Beavis say, ‘Don’t hold your breath.’”

“But the last known location was 287. Heading into Westchester.”

“From 287 you can go south, hook into the Sawmill, get you into the city,” Sherona points out.

“Or go north, up along the Hudson, all the way to the Tappan Zee,” Connie adds. “Face it, 287 could be just one road on the way to anywhere.”

“What do we know?” I ask them. “We know he has his comatose son in a stolen ambulance. We know the boy needs a heart transplant. How many places can do that, in Westchester, or in the metropolitan area? A few, a dozen?”

“No idea,” says Connie. “But I can find out.”

“How?” I ask eagerly. “You know a heart surgeon we can call up at this hour?”

“Sort of,” Connie says, grinning at me in the rearview mirror. “We’ll make a pit stop at my place and ask Dr. Google.”

While Connie boots up her home computer, I make another call to Maria Savalo, expecting the usual dump to voice mail. Amazingly enough, the real deal answers, bright and chipper at four in the morning.

“Once again, don’t give me your location,” is her first admonition.

“I’m in the company of friends,” I tell her. “What’s the word on the FBI? Any positive response?”

The cell connection isn’t that great, but good enough to transmit her sigh. “Had to call in a favor and get home listings for a couple of the special agents who work out of the New Haven bureau, because, of course, the office won’t officially reopen until 8:00 a.m. Figured I’d try some of the working stiffs in addition to the agent in charge. Kind of stir things up.”

“How’d that go?”

“Not well. Threatened to prosecute me for harassment. Apparently there’s an obscure statute forbidding the transmission of an agent’s home number.”

“So they’re not going to do anything?”

“I didn’t say that,” Maria says. “As a matter of fact, I get the distinct impression they’ve opened an active investigation. But these are guys who keep their lips zipped for a living. They’ll never admit to anything, even when they’re doing the right thing.”

Exasperated, I say, “Got a pen? I’m going to give you the tag numbers for the ambulance Stephen Cutter hijacked. My guess is he’s swapped the plates already, disguised the vehicle somehow, but it’s all we’ve got to go on. Last located on 287, heading west. Route 90 exit. Give the highway patrol a heads-up.”

“I’ll be darned,” Maria says with a chuckle. “You sound like Randall Shane.”

Ignoring that, I continue, “Hale Medical Response has already notified state police in the tristate area. What they’ll do about it is anybody’s guess. They may assume it’s just another hijacking for drugs.”

“I’ll make a few calls, see what I can find out.”

“Have you spoken to Jared Nichols?”

“I got him out of bed,” Maria admits.

“So you’ve got his home phone number. Is that a violation of the law, too?” I add caustically.

My lawyer mumbles something. I ask her to repeat.

“Didn’t have to use the phone,” she says. “Jared and I are engaged. We’ve, um, been living together for the last six months.”

The mind boggles—my lawyer and the prosecutor in bed, literally. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?” I ask lamely.

“We’re pretty careful about that,” Maria says somewhat defensively. “If anything, it’s to my client’s advantage. I never tell Jared about a case, not one word, but I sort of know what he’s up to, depending on who he’s scheduled a meeting with on any given day.”

“Whatever.” The fact is, there’s no room in my fevered brain for worrying about my lawyer’s domestic and professional entanglements. “We’re checking hospitals and transplant centers and so on,” I tell her. “Seeing if we can determine a likely destination. I’ll let you know.”

“Kate, if you find the guy, call the locals, okay? Let the cops handle it.”

I feel my face growing hot. “Like they’ve handled it so far? My son is going to die in the next few hours if I don’t find him. So far the cops haven’t done anything but screw this up. Last I heard, they didn’t even believe there was a kidnapper.”

“I’m sure that’s changed, thanks to you and Shane.”

“Maybe. I hope so. But I have to assume nothing has changed, that I’m the only one searching for Tommy. If they prove me wrong, great. But I’m not stopping until I have that little boy in my arms, do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

I end the call just before the tears start flowing again. How much can a body take before overdosing on adrenaline and anxiety? Guess I’m about to find out.

Connie and Sherona are huddled in front of her monitor.

“What have you got?” I want to know.

“So far so good,” Connie says, working her mouse as she clicks through Web sites. “There are nine transplant centers in the metropolitan area. All associated with major hospitals or medical schools. Locations in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Long Island, a couple in New Jersey.”

My heart sinks. “So many? I thought two or three, max.”

“Sorry, no. There are about a 150 centers nationwide, and a fair number of them are in the northeast. Says here there are about 2,300 heart transplants a year. That’s a lot of surgeons, a lot of hospitals.”

“Any obvious military connections?”

“Not that I can find. If there are any military facilities for cardiac transplants in the area, they’re not popping up.”

Weary but agitated, I plop into a seat, tent my hands over my tired eyes. “Let’s think about this. I want to get my son a new heart, where do I go? Remember, the nurses told Sherona that Jesse Cutter wasn’t a candidate for a transplant. If he was, none of this would be happening. The man in the mask—Cutter—he’s trying an end run, outside the usual channels. Outside the system somehow. He can’t just show up at an E.R. and demand surgery, right?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Therefore he must have a place that’s willing to handle an illegal procedure. Or if not exactly illegal, then outside the rules. Does that make sense?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Connie.

“See what Google comes up with when you put in ‘transplant surgery’ and ‘lawsuit.’”

Connie keys it in, clicks on the button. “Ten thousand hits,” she says, sounding frustrated.

“Try searching results with ‘New York’ and ‘controversial.’ Cutter has to find a way in. Maybe he researched it on the Internet, just like us. We’re looking for something edgy. A flaw he can exploit.”

“Down to five hundred,” Connie announces.