There’s a stranger in my kitchen, talking on her cell as I enter, bleary-eyed and clutching my mug of tea.

Remember the famous Saturday Night Live routine where Will Ferrell impersonates Janet Reno, the former Attorney General? Which was all the more convincing because Reno was such a tall, big-boned woman that at certain angles, under bad TV lights, she really did look like a man in drag. The FBI agent waiting in my kitchen has Reno’s masculine build—big swimmer’s shoulders—but a much more feminine face. A quite pretty face, with a delicate mouth, big, thick-lashed brown eyes, and a narrow, slightly freckled nose. The combo of large but delicately beautiful is unusual, and I find myself staring, a form of rudeness the agent is apparently used to, because she smiles a greeting and offers her hand.

“This is Monica Bevins,” says Shane by way of introduction.

“Good morning, Mrs. Garner,” she says. “Sorry to wake you so early, but I’m on my way back from the Long Island field office, so it was now or never. Hope you were able to get some sleep.”

“No problem.”

“Back in the day Monica and I were in the same class at Quantico,” Shane adds. “Difference is, I eventually resigned and she eventually got promoted. And promoted. And promoted. Monica is now an assistant director. Affectionately known as an ‘A-Dick.’ And duly expected to rise to the D.D. That’s deputy director. As high as you can go without a presidential appointment.”

“Randall, stop gushing.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

The big woman rolls her pretty eyes, but the irritation is feigned. She’s basking in his admiration. Truth is, given her size and forthright personality, she and Shane look like they could be brother and sister. And that’s the vibe between them—old, trusted friends who have endured bad times and good.

“I understand this big galoot is going to help locate your daughter,” she says. “Mrs. Garner, are you okay?”

My legs are still wobbly and I feel weirdly on the verge of tears and don’t want to unleash that particular fountain. So I nod and sit down, clutching at the counter.

“You took a pill,” Shane reminds me.

A sleeping pill, right. No wonder my brain feels muffled in cotton.

“Randall has requested a shadow investigation,” the big woman says. “Are you in agreement?”

“Shadow investigation?” I ask, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“It’s what we sometimes do in a situation like this, when we haven’t been officially brought in. Despite what you see on TV, the agency almost never imposes on a local investigation if the parents are uncooperative. We follow very specific guidelines governing abduction or kidnapping cases. Bottom line, without a request from the parents or the Nassau County Police, we can’t take an active role.”

“What about me?” I ask. “I’m a parent.”

“Indeed. And we’ll put your daughter on our missing persons list, and alert all of our local offices. If evidence develops that your daughter has been abducted—a ransom call or note, or some other indicator—this will automatically become a full-on, agents-in-place investigation. Meanwhile, we’ll very quietly take a look at Edwin Manning, see what we can determine. As I say, what we call a shadow investigation.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“You understand we are constrained from an active role, unless and until you get a ransom demand?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I wouldn’t authorize this if Randall hadn’t assured me that your daughter is not a typical teen runaway, in which case you’d have to rely on local police efforts to locate her.”

A sudden flush warms my cheeks. “Kelly’s in trouble and it has something to do with Manning’s son. We know that. We were there.”

The big woman nods. “So Randall said. He’s almost always right about these situations. His track record is nothing short of amazing. That’s why I’m responding, and why the agency will take a look. I’m leaving the legal paperwork that will enable us to pen register your telephone lines, have it on the record if a kidnapper calls. You okay with that?”

“Yes, of course. Whatever it takes.”

“Let’s hope Randall got it wrong this time and your daughter is just acting out. Believe me, hard as that is to deal with—I have two grown daughters, so I know—hard as that is, any sort of abduction scenario is much, much worse.” She hands Shane a legal-size envelope, the paperwork for the phone tap. “Sign and fax to the Melville office, they’ll get the ball rolling. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am, all clear,” says Shane.

She ignores the taunt, turns to me. “Mrs. Garner?”

“Find my daughter. That’s my only concern.”

“We’ll do everything we can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be in Washington by noon.” She shakes my hand again, gives Shane a sisterly peck on the cheek.

“Don’t worry,” she assures me on her way out. “You’re in capable hands.”

The capable hands come through an hour or so later. I’m drinking too much tea and trying to clear my head. Checking my cell for messages that haven’t been left, generally working my anxiety up to higher and higher levels. Desperately wanting something, anything to happen, to convince me we’re going forward, making progress.

The phone rings. My office phone.

I enter at a run, find Shane with the phone already up to his ear, saying, “Yes. Yes. Got it. Thank you very much.” He hangs up.

With my permission, Shane has cleared a space on my worktable for his laptop, one of those sleek, turbocharged things, with a wide screen and a titanium case. A spiral notebook lies open, filled with neat, legible handwriting, some of it emphatically underlined. The phone has been repositioned nearby. He’s been busy, obviously, and I feel a little twinge of guilt for getting much-needed sleep while he worked the phones and the Web, set up the meeting with his high-ranking friend.

“Anything I should know?” I ask, indicating the phone.

“Seth Manning’s car has just been located.”

“His car?” I say, excited. “What about Kelly?”

“Let’s take a break, I’ll bring you up to speed.”

He grabs his notebooks and I follow him back into the kitchen. Shane takes a stool at the far end of the counter, helps himself to coffee. I cling to the mug of tea like it’s a grenade that might go off if released.

“Couple of interesting things,” he begins. “Background on Edwin Manning. The name was vaguely familiar and now I know why. He started a very successful, very private hedge fund, Manning Capital. Big money. Listed assets of five billion dollars, over which he has more or less total control. Which makes him a juicy target.”

“I’m not even sure what a hedge fund really does.”

“It makes money for people with money. Or that’s the idea.”

“What about the car? You said they found his car?”

Shane nods. “Correct. Seth’s vehicle has been located in the long-term parking lot at Island Executive Airport in Farmingdale. Just the vehicle, locked. The police have impounded it. We’ve agreed it will be given a full forensic search.”

“We?”

Flashing a quick, almost furtive smile, he strokes his trim little beard, as if embarrassed to have been caught doing something naughty. “Um, Detective Berg and I. That’s the ‘we.’ The way it played out I, ah, happened to suggest a full search and he agreed it made sense. The idea being that the case may fall under the 2252 statute.”

Takes a moment for my brain to slip into gear and put together airport and car in the long-term parking lot.

“Are you saying they flew somewhere? Kelly and this man? Where did they go? Does this mean they really did run away, they weren’t kidnapped?”

Shane consults his notes. “This doesn’t contradict our abduction theory. A car registered to Seth Manning entered the lot at 5:13 a.m., almost six hours before your last contact with Kelly. The I.E. is not a major commercial facility—it’s a small, private airport—but it has charter flights to all the metropolitan airports. LaGuardia, Kennedy, Newark and, by helicopter, to Manhattan. There are regular flights to Atlantic City. So theoretically your daughter could have been almost anywhere when she called you.”