He glances at me in the rearview. “It’s a place to start. The Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags. I figure we’ll get a jump start, actually ring the doorbell.”

“A private investigator can do that?” I ask.

“Ring a doorbell?” He chuckles. “Most of them. But just so we’re clear, Mrs. Garner, I’m not a licensed P.I. I’m a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobody’s business.”

An hour or so later—would have taken me forty-five minutes, tops—the big Lincoln finally rolls into Oyster Bay, heart of the so-called Gold Coast. North shore of the island, facing the Sound. Heading for the village, not the city. We’re not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but it’s midnight and all I can see is a swath of the shore road illuminated by headlights. That and the moonless silhouettes of majestic trees and huge, estate-style homes nestled along the cove.

Randall Shane, clever devil, has an on-board navigation system.

“Teddy Roosevelt used to live out this way, did you know that?” he asks.

“I heard.”

“You do business here?”

“We’ve done a few weddings on Cove Neck. Amazing affairs, believe me. Twenty grand for a bridal gown, every stitch by hand. Two thousand just for the pearl embroidery. Anyhow, if you’re lucky enough to live out here you probably call it ‘the Neck’ or ‘the Village.’ That area to the west, along the shore, that’s ‘the Cove’. All very different from the city, where the working stiffs live. Out here on the Neck some of the residents tend to talk about Teddy like he lives next door. Like you might run into him at the next catered barbecue.”

“No kidding?” He glances at the navigation screen, slows for the next intersection. “So this area we’re heading into, the Mannings are likely to be wealthy, is that correct?”

“On the Neck? Super wealthy. Megabucks.”

“They may have security,” he points out.

“They all have security,” I tell him.

“Could be a problem this time of night.” He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a small leather case.

“Gun?” I ask.

“Cell phone,” he says, deadpan. “In case some gung ho rent-a-cop picks us up.”

The navigation screen bongs gently. Shane applies the brakes, bringing the Town Car to a full and complete stop. “This is it,” he announces.

Headlights pick up a locked, black-iron gate and a long, curved driveway beyond, paved with finely crushed oyster shells. Appropriate, given the location. Costs a fortune but makes a nice, satisfying crunch when the Rolls rolls up the driveway. Or the Bentley, or the Ferrari. Whatever the vehicle of choice on any particular day.

Shane presses a button and the windows slide down to the smell of the sea, a whiff of cut grass coming to us out of the dark. For some reason I think of a song my mother used to hum, or maybe it was a poem she’d had to memorize for school. All I get are fragments from childhood memory: by the shore of something-or-other, where the sacred waters run. Xanadu, not Oyster Bay. But “sacred waters,” that has to be right. Any place this expensive, it has to be sacred, at least to the wily gods of real estate.

“How do we get past the gate?” I ask.

“Don’t you remember?” says Shane, grinning as he reaches a long arm out the window. “We ring the bell.”

17. The Man In Black

The gate never opens. Shane keeps pressing the button, speaking into the lighted intercom, announcing our presence.

“This is in regard to Seth Manning. Seth is in legal jeopardy, please respond,” and so on, never varying his authoritative tone. Sounding very much like a federal agent.

Legal jeopardy. Up to me, I’d say Seth Manning is in deep shit.

We’re both out of the Town Car, stretching our legs and checking out the heavy gate. In movies the hero simply mows the gate down, but this one has electronic locks that slip into a sturdy concrete footing and I’m not at all sure even the mighty Lincoln could get through. Plus we’re under surveillance by at least three cameras, one of which is night vision equipped, according to Shane. Try to monkey with the security gate and the local cops, rented and otherwise, will be on us long before we pry it open.

I know this because I’m the one who advocated the mow-it-down theory of making ourselves known.

“Can’t help you if I’m under arrest,” Shane points out, nixing the idea. “Antagonizing the authorities won’t help.”

Very rational, but I’m not feeling particularly rational. I’m exhausted, anxious and cranky. I’m acutely aware of wearing the same skirt and cotton top donned for my visit to the county cops, hours and ages ago. Clothing that now smells sour. I need a hot shower. I need a warm meal and a good night’s sleep. I need to brush my teeth. I need my daughter home, my life returned to normal.

“Doesn’t this just prove that he’s gone?” I fret, gesturing at the locked gate. “Or that he’s in there with Kelly and won’t come out?”

Shane studies me, runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. “Seth Manning is in his early twenties,” he says. “I’m assuming this is the family home. The property is listed under the name Edwin Manning. Could be the father.”

“Right, of course.” I’d been concentrating on the cradle-robber himself, hadn’t given a thought to his parents.

“His parents may not know what’s going on. If you were his age, planning to run off with a minor, would you inform your parents?”

“Doubtful.”

“For all we know, Seth may in fact live elsewhere,” Shane reminds me. “But this is the address on his driver license, so we start here.”

“Okay fine,” I concede. “So Mom and Dad are on vacation. They own other homes. They’re in Gay Paree, or the Ukraine, or touring the moon.”

“Yes, quite possibly they could be elsewhere,” he concedes, nodding in agreement. “You want to leave?”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying if nobody answers the damn bell, I’m climbing the damn fence!”

“There could be dogs.”

“Then the dogs better watch out. Woman bites dog, that’ll be the headline. And you can’t stop me!”

Not sure how it happened, exactly, but suddenly I’m seething, lashing out, and Randall Shane is a convenient target. Oddly enough, the big man doesn’t react. It’s as if he’s been expecting me to flip out, and braced himself for it.

“What makes you look so smug!” I demand.

“The lights,” he says, pointing at the heavy foliage obscuring the curve of the driveway.

Are there lights twinkling through the leaves? Hard to say.

“The house lights? Are you sure?”

“No,” he says. “Not to a certainty. But moments after I first pushed the button, lights shifted.”

“The wind? A timer?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. My gut says somebody is home. And ignoring a buzz from the gate, that tells us something.”

“What?” I ask, embarrassed for teeing off at the guy. “What does it tell us?”

Before he can explain, a figure emerges from the bushes and takes a position several paces behind the locked gate. Surprising the hell out of me but not, apparently, Randall Shane.

In the darkness the figure resolves into a small, slender man dressed from head to toe in black. He has thinning hair, raccoon eyes, and seems to have rubbed dirt on his face.

The small man raises something that could be a gun and points it at us. Before I can duck, the beam of light makes me flinch.

Flashlight, not gun.

“Who are you?” he demands in a shaky voice. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Manning? I’m Randall Shane and this is Mrs. Jane Garner.”

“I don’t know you.” He backs away, looks ready to slip back into the foliage. “What do you want?” His voice sounds like a speaker with a loose wire, like he’s on the verge of laryngitis, and fighting it.

Shane raises both hands, as if in surrender, and takes a step closer to the gate. “We have reason to believe that Mrs. Garner’s daughter, Kelly, has run away with Seth Manning, who is listed as living at this address. Are you Seth’s father, sir? Are you aware that Kelly Garner is a minor? Can you help us find them?”