When Judge Gregg had called him and John Feretti to the bench, he had seen something in the man’s eyes that looked like compassion. Rare for a sitting homicide judge. He had asked both lawyers if they wanted to break for the day, seeing as it was getting close to 4:30. As expected, John Feretti wanted to continue. Any time your opponent is melting down, the last thing you want to do is stop him.

Michael took Judge Gregg up on his offer, and the session was adjourned.

As the jury was filing out, Michael looked into the eyes of every single person in the gallery. If there was a kidnapper among them, he did not see it. What he had seen was confusion and no small measure of distrust. Michael would have to see the daily transcript from the court reporter to know precisely what he had said.

He knew enough to know that a lawyer rarely recovered from a bad opening statement. It set the groundwork for the entire case. A bad opening meant playing catch-up the rest of the trial.

None of that mattered now.

Tommy had not been able to locate Falynn.

On the way to Newark Street he looked at every car that pulled up next to him, at every cab driver, at any car that seemed to follow him for more than a block. No one stood out. His phone had not rung again. Nor had he called. His finger had hovered over the speed dial ever since leaving the office, but he had not pressed it.

You will not call this house for any reason.

THE NOXIOUS SMELL OF latex paint greeted him at the door. It filled his head, dizzying him for a moment. He checked his cellphone again.

The painter stood on the second floor landing, smoking a cigarette. He wore a pair of white overalls and cap, a latex glove on his left hand. He smoked with his right.

When he saw Michael he flicked his cigarette out the window, a look of guilt on his face for smoking inside a building. It was almost a capital crime in New York these days. “Are you Mr Roman?” the painter asked.

Michael nodded his head. The painter checked his hand for wet paint, found it dry. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bobby Rollins. Edgar is my dad.”

They shook hands. Michael noticed the flecks of drying paint on the man’s hands and arms.

“That’s the cranberry.” The young man laughed. “It dries a little darker.”

“Thank God.” Michael peeked inside the door to the second-floor offices. His heart was racing to burst. He had to get rid of this man. He had to think straight. “How’s it going in there?”

“Good. Whoever did your plaster work was pretty good.”

Michael stepped back, took a moment. “Look, something’s come up. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come back another time.”

The young man stared at the second-floor office for a moment, glanced back at Michael, then at his watch. It looked like Miller Time was coming a bit early. “Sure. No problem. It’s going to take me a few minutes to close the cans and clean the brushes and rollers.”

“I appreciate it,” Michael said. His own voice sounded distant, like he was hearing himself talk through a long tunnel.

Bobby Rollins walked down the stairs, said over his shoulder, “I’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”

Michael stepped back into the second-floor office. There was little furniture, just a desk and a pair of plastic chairs. He paced the room, his mind and heart ablaze with fear. He had to make a move, to do something. But what?

He looked over at the long bookcase against the wall, at the leather-clad books of legal doctrine and opinions. What had always seemed like the solution to everything, things he believed in with all his heart, were now merely paper and ink. There was nothing in any of those books that could help him now.

Before he could decide what to do his cellphone rang. He almost jumped out of his skin. He picked up the phone, looked at the screen.

Private number.

Pulse racing, he flipped open the phone. “This is Michael Roman.”

“How did it go in court?”

It was the man who had his family. The man called Aleks.

“Let me talk to my wife, please.”

“In time. You are at the new office? The office for the planned legal clinic?”

It was a question, Michael thought. Maybe he wasn’t being watched. He peeked out the window. There were cars parked all along Newark Street. All appeared empty.

“Look, I don’t know what you want, or what this is all about,” Michael began, knowing he had to talk. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew he had to try and engage this man on some level. “But you obviously know a lot about me. You know I am an officer of the court. I am friends with the chief of police, the commissioner, many people in the mayor’s office. If this is just about money, tell me. We’ll work this out.”

Michael heard the man take a deep, slow breath. “This is not about money.”

Somehow, the words were even more chilling than Michael expected. “Then what is this about?”

More silence. Then, “You will know very soon.”

Something inside Michael flared red. Before he could stop himself he said, “Not good enough.”

He jammed shut the phone, instantly regretting what he had done. He opened it a second later, but the connection had been broken. It took every ounce of restraint within him not to smash the phone against the wall. He scanned the office frantically, trying to think of what do, how to act at such a moment. He knew that he would never get this minute back, and every wrong move he made at this moment could mean disaster, could mean the lives of his wife and daughters.

Go to the police, Michael.

Just go.

He grabbed his keys, headed for the door.

As he rounded the platform he saw a shadow cross the stairs below. Someone was blocking his way.

It all fell into place. It had been nagging his conscious thought for the past few minutes. Nick St Cyr had told him that Edgar Rollins & Son was really only one man, that Edgar Rollins’s son had been killed by a drunk driver in 2007, and the old man didn’t have the heart to take the name off the business. St Cyr had represented the old man in a lawsuit against the drunk driver.

The man who called himself “Bobby Rollins” was not a painter at all. He now stood in front of the door leading to the street. He had shed the painter’s overalls, removed his painter’s cap. He had also removed his latex glove.

He was now pointing a weapon at Michael’s head.

In his other hand was a cellphone. He handed the phone to Michael. For a moment, Michael couldn’t move. But the insanity of the moment soon propelled him forward. He took the phone from the young man, put it to his ear.

“His name is Kolya,” Aleks said. “He does not want to harm you, but will if I give him the order. His father was a corporal in the federal army, and a vicious man. A sociopath by all accounts. I have no reason to believe that the apple has fallen far from the tree. Do you understand this?”

Michael glanced at Kolya. The young man lowered the gun slightly, leaned against the door jamb. Michael took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“I am most pleased to hear this. And, if it puts to bed your fears for the moment, let me say that your wife and your adopted daughters are just fine, and they will remain that way, as long as you do what I say.”

Your adopted daughters, Michael thought.

“May I please speak to my wife?”

“No.”

Michael wondered what had happened to the real painter. He shuddered at the possibilities. He tried to calm himself, to tell himself that there was only one job: getting his family back.

“Are you ready to listen?” Aleksander Savisaar asked.

“Yes,” Michael said. “What do you want me to do?”

THIRTY

Sondra Arsenault stared at the television, an icy hand squeezing her heart. In the past twenty-four hours she had not eaten, had not left the house, except to get the mail, and even then she had all but run back to the front porch and slammed and locked the door, as if being chased by invisible demons. She had not slept a single minute. She had alternated between pots of black coffee, vitamins, scalding showers, and runs on the treadmill. She had taken her blood pressure a dozen times, each time registering a higher reading. She had cleaned the refrigerator. Twice.