“He was a bad guy,” I remind her.

“You can be a bad guy if you need to be. And a good guy when you need to be. Whatever you need to be, Janey, that’s what you’ll be, guaranteed. Diamonds and steel.”

“Now you’re making me cry.”

“Crying is natural. Go ahead, blow your nose. I was going to fill you in on all the business calls. Problems with fittings—somebody ate too many Fritos—a cancellation, some other stuff. But you know what? You don’t need to know. Alex is helping Tracy take care of it. He’s really good.” “Alex is good? I thought you hated Alex.” “Hate? No, no. I hate things like cellulite, I never hated Alex. And if I did I’ve changed my mind. He knows what he’s doing, he’s good with customers, all these nervous women love him, plus, and I never knew this, he can sew on a button. What’s not to like?”

What can I say? I can’t say anything, I just cry some more. Big strong me.

After Fern gets off, I follow her advice and take a long hot shower. One of her main prescriptions for what ails you, the other being “take a pill,” by which she means a sleeping pill. Take a long hot shower or knock yourself out, or both. Sage advice, in my opinion. Nothing more I’d like to do than take a pill, sleep like the dead in my own bed. In the middle of the day, just sleep. No dreams though. Dreams would be dangerous.

Conversation with a loving friend leaves me cried out, free of the emotional roller coaster for now. You get to a point where you’re so wrung, so whacked, that your mind can’t handle any more anxiety. You become calm by default, because there’s nothing else left. That’s where I’m at, all soaped up with the shower pulsing, wondering idly how Edwin Manning is coping. Does he have anybody to talk to besides his dopey guards? Anybody to share with? Friends, relatives, associates, where are they? Sure looks like he’s all alone out there, hanging off the edge by his well-buffed fingernails. Being a financial master of the universe isn’t doing him much good at the moment.

What does he know and why won’t he talk to us? Is Shane the problem? The cop look of him? Hadn’t occurred to me, but that might be it. Why not? From Manning’s point of view, Shane represents a force that, in the full pursuit of justice, may threaten his son’s life rather than save it. And if that’s true, if that’s what he he’s afraid of, maybe I can use that to our advantage.

That’s right, our advantage. Me and Kelly. It’s like she’s in my head, encouraging me. Go Mom, do it.

Edwin Manning is a widower, never remarried, a doting father, maybe he’ll respond to me as a mother, a parent. It’s worth a shot, I’m thinking. Ring his doorbell while Shane is otherwise engaged, see what happens.

Go Mom.

I’m actually smiling as I get out of the shower and grab a towel. Having decided to do it, to visit the lion in his own den. Me playing the part of the little mouse, offering to pull the splinter from the lion’s paw.

And that, of course, is when the phone rings.

“It’s me,” Shane says in a hushed voice. “Write this down.”

“I’m just out of the shower, hang on,” I stammer.

As I hurry for pen and paper, dripping all over everything, I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. Ridiculous as it may be, I’ve never been comfortable speaking to a man on the phone while naked. Which, as Kelly would say, explains a lot.

“Okay,” I say, fumbling with the pen. “Go.”

“Ricky Lang,” he whispers. “Twelve twenty-three Bay Vista Drive, Cable Grove. Got it?”

“Got it. Is this the guy?” I ask, a flush of pure excitement replacing the blush of embarrassment. “Is this the guy who took Kelly?”

“Too soon to say,” says Shane, still whispering. “This is a lead based on a rumor based on hearsay. Right now all I know for sure is that he’s a member of the tribe and he’s had some sort of long-running conflict with the tribal council. Apparently Lang is a very common name among the Nakosha. Doesn’t sound Indian to me, but there it is.”

“What should I do?”

“Right, sorry. Call Special Agent Healy for me. If you can’t find his card, his number will be on my laptop in the address book. Give him the name and address and tell him Shane says he’s a person of interest. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“I’d do it myself but I’m kind of in a situation here.”

“Where are you?”

“At the address I just gave you.”

“At this guy’s house?” I ask, alarmed.

“In it, actually,” Shane whispers. “Gotta go.”

Leaving me with a dial tone, wet hair, and a few million questions.

19. Mr. Goldilocks And The One Bear

It was not like breaking and entering, not in the classic sense. Entering, obviously, because here he is, prowling the cool tile floors of a lovely expanded bungalow in one of the most exclusive waterfront enclaves in Miami. Four-bedroom Mediterranean style, recently refurbished, on a one-acre enclosed lot with water access, had to have set Mr. Lang back a few mil. Not grand enough or new enough for the rock stars and celebrities who gravitated to the area, but very tasty, and beautifully landscaped with palms, cactus, and a lush Bermuda grass lawn that looked like it would need to suck up half of Biscayne Bay on a hot day.

What Shane thinks of as pre-Scarface Miami, before wannabe crime bosses and Internet zillionaires who’d seen too many episodes of Miami Vice came to town demanding homes so gaudily, obviously expensive they resemble drive-thru banks with big stucco hats.

Shane isn’t a fan of recent architectural trends, to say the least. This joint he likes. Big enough so he has room to move, cozy enough so it feels like a home, not a hotel lobby. True, he has to duck under the ceiling fans, and he’s a slightly put off to realize he and a potential suspect have similar taste in dream houses, but still.

Getting inside had been a piece of cake. The place has the usual security, and warning signs testifying to that effect, but the gated driveway was left open. Shane had his driver—the same baby-faced Haitian—drop him a few blocks away, and he’d simply strolled up the driveway, expecting to find the owner at home, given the open gate.

On the way to the front entrance he takes a peek through the windows of the four-stall garage. Only one vehicle in residence, a spiffy little convertible Mini Cooper. Whereas there are two, possibly three oil spots on the concrete. Interesting. Maybe the suspect isn’t at home. The Mini Cooper strikes him as a wife or girlfriend’s car, a fashion accessory, given the neighborhood.

He tries the buzzer, listens to the echo. No response. After the buzzer fades, hushed silence pervades, nothing to indicate that anyone is home.

Thinking maybe the three bears are out shopping or, who knows, kidnapping, Shane decides to play Goldilocks. Casual stroll around back, his Nikes easing into the lush grass as he comes upon the cool sapphire swimming pool with a neatly constructed tiki hut bar, and what looks like a recently erected cabana. The backyard kingdom of the pool. Beyond that, glimpsed through the rustling palm fronds, some sort of high-speed craft on a boat hoist, blocking the wind-dappled waters of the bay.

Yup, a man could live here, no problem. Put up his big tired feet and never leave. Spend a year or two staring at the pool, grab a frosty at the tiki hut, then amble out to the seawall, try fishing without a hook for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time Shane had something like this. The suburban New York version, much more modest. Three-bedroom ranch with pool. Nothing remarkable, but comfortable and welcoming because that earlier version of Randall Shane was a nester. Loved to paint, putter and improve. Wife and child, backyard barbecue, Volvo wagon equipped with golden Lab, the whole bit. When that ended, a new Randall Shane eventually emerged, one who lives in rented rooms, hangs no pictures, and does as he damn well pleases. Although lately the urge for domesticity has been sniffing at his ankles like some sly, familiar dog, wanting to know where he’s been, when he’s coming home.