Despite all the caffeine, my head is still thick with Ambien-induced sleep, so I’m having trouble processing. Can it only be yesterday that Kelly vanished? Doesn’t seem possible. Seems like weeks.

“Theoretically?” I ask, seizing on the word. “What does that mean?”

“Means her name was not listed on the manifest of any charter flight leaving yesterday morning,” he explains. “Nor was it listed on any private flight plan filed with the tower.”

“The FBI told you that? Your friend Monica?”

“Not Monica personally. People who work the Long Island office.”

“So Kelly didn’t fly? She and this man were kidnapped in the airport parking lot? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No,” he says. “My apologies. I’m not making myself clear. I’m not saying she and Seth Manning didn’t fly out of Island Executive, just that they didn’t leave on a chartered flight. It’s a very busy airfield, lots of private and corporate aircraft use it. Hundreds. Civilian pilots are encouraged to file a flight plan, but not all do so.”

“Somebody must know what happened to them.”

“Somebody does,” he agrees. “We just have to find out who.”

25. Surprise, Surprise

The Lincoln Town Car is starting to feel like a sturdy old friend. Keeping just below the speed limit, we cruise into Island Executive Airport in less than forty minutes door to door. More like door to long-term parking lot. Out over the runways, small planes teeter like fragile kites, looking much too slow to stay aloft. The same trick of the eye that makes you think a 757 is barely moving, and these little jobs are way smaller. And yes, I’m one of those who’ve never really understood how a squat little box with stubby wings can make itself fly. My ninth-grade science teacher, Mr. Polanski, tried his best, but it still doesn’t make sense.

Only one of the reasons that the idea of Kelly and small planes freaks me out. Parachutes? Skydiving? Forget about it.

Safely parked on the outer rim of the lot—Shane likes an open space on either side—we head for a blocky-looking building near the lone tower that overlooks the runways. The building is divided into bays with separate entrances. There are signs for Flight Instruction, Maintenance, and Flight Operations. Shane heads for door number three.

It’s all I can do to keep up without breaking into a run. He notices, apologizes and shortens his stride.

“Long legs,” I say.

“And big feet,” he points out.

A blast of cold air greets us inside Flight Operations. Temperature control is low enough to keep polar bears frisky, and I find myself hugging my bare arms.

“Sorry, miss,” says the man behind the counter. Older guy in his sixties with the hanging jowls and the soulful eyes of a faithful bulldog. “Thermostat is out of whack. Grab a jacket.”

He points to a row of hooks inside the door and a selection of bright orange jackets, all with Ground Crew stenciled on the back. The jacket is big enough for three of me, but it helps.

“Now,” says the man behind the counter, rubbing his hands together. “Bob Cody, what can I do ya?”

Bob has a thinning white flat-top, radar-scoop ears, and the kind of deeply creased, leathery skin that’s seen way too much sunlight over the years. But his smile is friendly enough and he seems genuinely interested in helping.

“This is Jane Garner,” Shane begins, laying his business card down on the counter. “Her daughter is missing.”

“Oh my God,” Bob says, glancing at the card. “That’s terrible.”

“You were on duty when the police tow truck snagged the Boxster this morning?”

Bob nods eagerly. “Seth’s Porsche. Yeah, I saw that. The old man’ll be pissed. Excuse me, miss. I mean missus.”

Shane looks pleased. He sort of relaxes his big frame on the counter, leaning on his elbows to make himself appear smaller, less imposing. It’s a conversation between equals now, two men of the world helping out a lady.

“This is going to be our lucky day, Mrs. Garner,” Shane says to me. “Bob knows the Mannings. I’ll bet he’s seen Kelly with Seth, right, Bob? Pretty girl, slender and athletic. Dark hair. Taking lessons?”

On cue I produce Kelly’s photo, the one that shows her in the cockpit of the little airplane. Bob studies the photograph, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no. But Seth has quite a number of students, I do know that, because he’s always careful with the flight plans. Not all the pilots are, but he is. That’s mostly when I see him nowadays, when he hands in the paperwork.”

While Bob studies the photo, Shane studies Bob. Nods to himself, as if satisfied that the jug-eared gent is being truthful. “Recognize the aircraft?”

Bob nods eagerly, which makes his jowls jiggle slightly. “Yep. Cessna Skylane. That’s the plane Seth uses for flight instruction. Took delivery just last year. Beautiful piece of machinery, just beautiful.” He pauses, looks from me to Shane. “Is Seth in some sort of trouble?”

“No trouble,” Shane says firmly. “Kelly is the one in trouble, because she neglected to tell her mom where she and Seth were headed.”

No trouble. First time I’ve heard Randall Shane lie, and it’s a more than a little unsettling to know how good he is at it.

“Yeah, well, kids do that sometimes,” Bob says, sounding a little uneasy.

“Detective Berg called earlier,” Shane says. “Apparently Seth forgot to file a flight plan.”

Bob is shaking his head. “I don’t know who the detective talked to, but Seth Manning, he’s like clockwork. He’s been flying out of this facility since he was sixteen, and he never misses.”

“You seem very certain.”

Bob nods emphatically. “I was his original flight instructor. Seth was one of my best students. Not just because he had a feel for it—lots of students have that—but because he’s meticulous and organized. A good pilot is always prepared, always checking, that’s as important as any of the physical skills. Some students I had to drum that in, but not Seth. I kid you not, he enjoys working through the checklists. Which is part of what makes him an excellent flight instructor.”

“Uh-huh,” says Shane. “So you passed the torch.”

“You could say that.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Bob gives him a wary look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I developed cardiac problems a couple years ago. Persistent episodic tachycardia, which is doc talk for bum ticker. Flunked the physical.”

Shane nods. “Some guys cheat on that, find a friendly doctor.”

“Not me. It was time to retire, before I killed some kid.”

“So you’re absolutely sure that Seth didn’t fly out of here yesterday?”

“Positive,” Bob says, getting a bit huffy. “You know why I’m positive? Because that’s his Skylane right there. Got a prime tie-down right by the flight school.”

Shane looks out the window, spots the plane, seems satisfied. “Any aircraft missing or stolen in the last few days?”

Friendly Bob has had about enough of us. I can tell because his big ears have reddened. He backs away from the counter, putting space between himself and Shane. “What kind of crap are you talking, mister? Why would Seth Manning steal a plane when he has one of his own?”

“For thrills? To impress a pretty girl?”

“That’s bull. The kid is no thief. What is this really about? Who sent you here?”

Shane drums his fingers lightly on the Formica, rat-a-tat-tat. “It’s like I said, Mrs. Garner is trying to locate her daughter.”

Bob looks sick, puts his hand to his chest.

“Seth must have friends at this airfield,” Shane persists. “Maybe he borrowed a plane.”

Bob sits down, massaging his chest. His face has drained, leaving him pale as a paper napkin. I’m worried he’s going to keel over, but Shane isn’t backing off.

“Same answer,” says Bob, sounding faint. “He’d file a flight plan.”

“Charter flights?” Shane says. “Could Seth have chartered a plane?”