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  “Okay, Rhyme. That’s what I meant. Damn, it’s cold.”

  They circled to the front of the house. Sachs found footsteps in the snow on the path between the street and the house. A car had stopped at the curb. There was one set of prints walking toward the house and two walking back suggesting the driver had picked Susan up. She told Rhyme this. He asked, “Can you tell anything from the shoes? Size, sale prints, weight distribution?”

  “Nothing’s clear.” She winced as she bent down; her arthritic joints ached in the cold and damp. “But one thing’s odd – they’re real close together.”

  “As if one of them had an arm around the other person.”

  “Right.”

  “Could be affection. Could be coercion. We’ll assume hope – the second set is Susan’s, and that, whatever happened, at least she’s alive. Or was a few hours ago.”

  Then Sachs noted a curious indentation in the snow, next to one of the front windows. It was as if somebody had stepped of the sidewalk and knelt on the ground. In this spot you could see clearly into the living room and kitchen beyond. She sent Carly to open the front door and then whispered into the microphone, “May have a problem, Rhyme . . . It looks like somebody was kneeling down, looking through the window.”

  “Any other evidence there, Sachs? Discernible prints, cigarette butts, other impressions, trace?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Check the house, Sachs. And, just for the fun of it, pretend it’s hot.”

  “But how could a perp be inside?”

  “Humor me.”

  The policewoman stepped to the front door, unzipping her leather jacket to give her fast access to her weapon. She found the girl in the entryway, looking around the house. It was still, except for the tapping and whirs of household machinery. The lights were on – though Sachs found this more troubling than if it’d been dark; it suggested that Susan had left in a hurry. You don’t shut out the lights when you’re being abducted.

  Sachs told the girl to stay close and she started through the place, praying she wouldn’t find a body. But, no; they looked everywhere the woman might be. Nothing. And no signs of a struggle.

  “The scene’s clear, Rhyme.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  “I’m going to do a fast grid here, see if we can find any clue where she went. I’ll call you back if I find anything.”

  On the main floor Sachs paused at the mantel and looked over a number of framed photographs. Susan Thompson was a tall, solidly built woman with short blonde hair, feathered back. She had an agreeable smile. Most of the pictures were of her with Carly or with an older couple, probably her parents. Many had been taken out-of-doors, apparently on hiking or camping trips.

  They looked for any clue that might indicate where the woman was. Sachs studied the calendar next to the phone in the kitchen. The only note in today’s square said C here.

  The girl gave a sad laugh. Were the single letter and terse notation an emblem of how Carly believed the woman saw her? Sachs wondered what exactly the problems were between daughter and mother. She herself had always had a complex relationship with her own mother. “Challenging” was how she’d described it to Rhyme.

  “Day-Timer? Palm Pilot?”

  Carly looked around. “Her purse is gone. She keeps them in there. I’ll try her cell again.” The girl did and the frustrated, troubled look told Sachs that there was no answer. “Goes right to voice mail.”

  Sachs tried all three phones in the house, hitting redial. Two got her directory assistance. The other was the number for a local branch of North Shore Bank. Sachs asked to speak to the manager and told her they were trying to locate Susan Thompson. The woman said she’d been in about two hours ago.

  Sachs told this to Carly, who closed her eyes in relief. “Where did she go after that?”

  The policewoman asked the manager the question and the woman responded that she had no idea. Then she asked hesitantly, “Are you calling because she wasn’t feeling well?”

  “What do you mean?” Sachs asked.

  “It’s just that she didn’t look very good when she was in. That man she was with . . . well, he had his arm around her the whole time. I was thinking maybe she was sick.”

  Sachs asked if they could come in and speak with her.

  “Of course. If I can help.”

  Sachs told Carly what the woman had said.

  “Not feeling well? And some man?”The girl frowned. “Who?”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  As they approached the door, though, Sachs stopped. “Do me a favor,” she said to the girl.

  “Sure. What?”

  “Borrow one of your mother’s jackets. You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

  The branch manager of the bank explained to Sachs and Carly, “She went into her safety deposit box downstairs and then cashed a check.”

  “You don’t know what she did down there, I assume?” the policewoman asked.

  “No, no, employees are never around when customers go into their boxes.”

  “And that man? Any idea who he was?”

  “No.”

  “What did he look like?” Sachs asked.

  “He was big. Six-two, six-three. Balding. Didn’t smile much.”

  The police detective glanced at Carly, who shook her head. “I’ve never seen her with anybody like that.”

  They found the teller who’d cashed the check but Susan hadn’t said anything to her either, except how she’d like the money.

  “How much was the check for?” Sachs asked.

  The manager hesitated – probably some confidentiality issue – but Carly said, “Please. We’re worried about her.” The woman nodded to the teller, who said, “A thousand.”

  Sachs stepped aside and called Rhyme on her cell. She explained what had happened at the bank.

  “Getting troubling now, Sachs. A thousand doesn’t seem like much for a robbery or kidnapping, but wealth’s relative. Maybe that’s a lot of money to this guy.”

  “I’m more curious about the safe deposit box.”

  Rhyme said, “Good point. Maybe she had something he wanted. But what? She’s just a businesswoman and mother. It’s not like she’s an investigative reporter or cop. And the bad news is, if that’s the case, he’s got what he was after. He might not need her anymore. I think it’s time to get Nassau County involved. Maybe . . . Wait, you’re at the bank?”

  “Right.”

  “The video! Get the video.”

  “Oh, at the teller cage, sure. But—”

  “No, no, no,” Rhyme snapped. “Of the parking lot. All banks have video surveillance of the lots. If they parked there it’ll have his car on tape. Maybe the tag number too.”

  Sachs returned to the manager and she called the security chief, who disappeared into a back office. A moment later he gestured them inside and ran the tape.

  “There!” Carly cried. “That’s her. And that guy? Look, he’s still holding on to her. He’s not letting her go.”

  “Looks pretty fishy, Rhyme.”

  “Can you see the car?” the criminalist asked.

  Sachs had the guard freeze the tape. “What kind of—”

  “Chevy Malibu,” the guard said. “This year’s model.”

  Sachs told this to Rhyme and, examining the screen, added, “It’s burgundy. And the last two numbers on the tag are seventy-eight. The one before it could be three or eight, maybe six. Hard to tell. It’s a New York plate.”

  “Good, Sachs. Okay. It’s up to the uniforms now. Lon’ll have them put out a locator. Nassau, Suffolk,Westchester and the five boroughs. Jersey too. We’ll prioritize it. Oh, hold on a minute . . .” Sachs heard him speaking to someone. Rhyme came back on the line. “Susan’s ex is on his way over here. He’s worried about his daughter. He’d like to see her.”

  Sachs told Carly this. Her face brightened. The detective added, “There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go back to the city.” />
  Amelia Sachs and Carly Thompson had just returned to the lab in Rhyme’s town house when Anthony Dalton arrived. Thom led him inside and he stopped abruptly, looking at his daughter. “Hello, honey.”

  “Dad! I’m so glad you came!”

  With both affection and concern in his eyes, he stepped toward the girl and hugged her hard.

  Dalton was a fit man in his late forties with a boyish flop of salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a complicated ski jacket, straps and flaps going every which way. He reminded Rhyme of the college professors he sometimes shared the podium with when he was lecturing on forensics at criminal justice colleges.

  “Do they know anything?” he asked, apparently only now realizing that Rhyme was in a wheelchair – and finding the fact unremarkable. Like his daughter, Anthony Dalton earned serious points with Rhyme for this.

  The criminalist explained exactly what had happened and what they knew.

  Dalton shook his head. “But it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s been kidnapped,” he said quickly.

  “No, no, not at all,” Sellitto said. “We’re just not taking any chances.”

  Rhyme asked, “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. I haven’t seen Susan in a year. But when we were together? No, everybody liked her. Even when some of her PR clients had done some pretty shady things, nobody had a problem with her personally. And she always seemed to have the particularly nasty clients.”

  Rhyme was troubled – for reasons beyond the danger to Susan Thompson. The problem was that this wasn’t a real case. They’d backed into it, doing a favor for someone; it was a Christmas present, as Sellitto had said. He needed more facts; he needed serious forensics. He’d always felt you run a case 110 per cent or you don’t run it at all.

  Thom brought more coffee in and replenished the plate of ugly cookies. Dalton nodded at the aide and thanked him. Then the businessman poured coffee from the pot for himself. “You want some?” he asked Carly.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  He poured it and asked, “Anyone else?”

  No one else wanted anything. But Rhyme’s eyes flipped to the Macallan on the shelf and, lo and behold, without a syllable of protest, Thom took the bottle and walked to Rhyme’s Storm Arrow. He opened the tumbler, then frowned. He sniffed it. “Odd, I thought I washed this out last night. I guess I forgot,” he added wryly.

  “We can’t all be perfect, now,” Rhyme said.

  Thom poured a few fingers into the tumbler and replaced it in the holder.

  “Thank you, Balthazar. You can keep your job for now – despite the weeds on the back of my chair.”

  “You don’t like them? I told you I was going to decorate for the holidays.”

  “The house. Not me.”

  “What do we do now?” Dalton asked.

  “We wait,” Sellitto said. “DMV’s running all the Malibus with that fragment of a tag number. Or, if we’re real lucky, some officer on the street’ll notice it.” He pulled his coat off a chair. “I gotta go down to the Big Building for a while. Call me if anything happens.”

  Dalton thanked him, then he looked at his watch, took out his mobile phone and called his office to say he’d have to miss his office Christmas party. He explained that the police were looking into his ex-wife’s disappearance and he was with his daughter at the moment. He wasn’t going to leave the girl alone.

  Carly hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.” Her eyes lifted to the window, staring at the swirling snow. A long moment passed. Carly glanced at the others in the room and turned toward her father. In a soft voice she said, “I always wondered what would have happened if you and Mom hadn’t broken up.”

  Dalton laughed, ran his hand through his hair, mussing it further. “I’ve thought about that too.”

  Sachs glanced at Rhyme and they turned away, letting the father and daughter continue talking in relative privacy.

  “The guys Mom’s dated? They were okay. But nobody special. None of them lasted very long.”

  “It’s tough to meet the right person,” Dalton said.

  “I guess . . .”

  “What?”

  “I guess I’ve always wished you’d get back together.”

  Dalton seemed at a loss for words. “I tried. You know that. But your mom was in a different place.”

  “But you stopped trying a couple of years ago.”

  “I could read the writing on the wall. People have to move on.”

  “But she misses you. I know she does.”

  Dalton laughed, “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “No, no, really. When I ask her about you, she tells me what a cool guy you were. You were funny. She said you made her laugh.”

  “We had some good times.”

  Carly said, “When I asked Mom what happened between you, she said it wasn’t anything totally terrible.”

  “True,” Dalton said, sipping his coffee. “We just didn’t know how to be husband and wife back then. We got married too young.”

  “Well, you’re not young anymore . . .” Carly blushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  But Dalton said, “No, you’re right. I’ve grown up a lot since then.”

  “And Mom’s really changed. She used to be so quiet, you know. Just no fun. But she’s into all kinds of things now. Camping and hiking, rafting, all that out-of-doors stuff.”

  “Really?” Dalton asked. “I never pictured her going in for that kind of thing.”

  Carly looked off for a moment. “Remember those business trips you’d take when I was a kid? You’d go to Hong Kong or Japan?”

  “Setting up our overseas offices, sure.”

  “I wanted all of us to go. You, Mom and me . . .” She played with her coffee cup. “But she was always like, ‘Oh, there’s too much to do at home.’ Or, ‘Oh, we’ll get sick if we drink the water,’ or whatever. We never did take a family vacation. Not a real one.”

  “I always wanted that too.” Dalton shook his head sadly. “And I’d get mad when she didn’t want to come along and bring you. But she’s your mother; it’s her job to look out for you. All she wanted was for you to be safe.” He smiled. “I remember once when I was in Tokyo and calling home. And—”

  His words were interrupted when Rhyme’s phone rang. He spoke into the microphone on his chair, “Command, answer phone.”

  “Detective Rhyme?” the voice clattered through the speaker.

  The rank was out of date – a “Ret.” belonged with it – but he said, “Go ahead.”

  “This’s Trooper Bronson, New York State Police.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve had an emergency vehicle locator request regarding a burgundy Malibu and understand you’re involved in the case.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ve found the vehicle, sir.”

  Rhyme heard Carly gasp. Dalton stepped beside the girl and put his arm around her shoulder. What would they hear? That Sue Thompson was dead?

  “Go ahead.”

  “The car’s moving west, looks like it’s headed for the George Washington Bridge.”

  “Occupants?”

  “Two. Man and a woman. Can’t tell anything more.”

  “Thank God. She’s alive.” Dalton sighed.

  Heading toward Jersey, Rhyme reflected. The flats were among the most popular places for dumping bodies in the metro area.

  “Registered to a Richard Musgrave, Queens. No warrants.”

  Rhyme glanced at Carly, who shook her head, meaning she had no clue who he was.

  Sachs leaned forward toward the speaker and identified herself, “Are you near the car?”

  “About 200 feet behind.”

  “You in a marked vehicle?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How far from the bridge?”

  “A mile or two east.”

  Rhyme glanced at Sachs. “You want to join the party? You can stay right on their tail in the Cama
ro.”

  “You bet.” She ran for the door.

  “Sachs,” Rhyme called.

  She glanced back.

  “You have chains on your Chevy?”

  Sachs laughed. “Chains on a muscle car, Rhyme? No.”

  “Well, try not to skid into the Hudson, okay? It’s probably pretty cold.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  True, a rear-wheel-drive sports car, with more than 400 eager horses under the hood, was not the best vehicle to drive on snow. But Amelia Sachs had spent much of her youth skidding cars on hot asphalt in illegal races around Brooklyn (and sometimes just because, why not, it’s always a blast to do one-eighties); this little bit of snow meant nothing to her.

  She now slipped her Camaro SS onto the expressway and pushed the accelerator down. The wheels spun for only five seconds before they gripped and sped her up to eighty.

  “I’m on the bridge, Rhyme,” she called into her headset. “Where are they?”

  “About a mile west. Are you—”

  The car started to swerve. “Hold on, Rhyme, I’m going sideways.”

  She brought the skid under control. “A V W doing fifty in the fast lane. Man, doesn’t that just frost you?”

  In another mile she’d caught up to the trooper, keeping back, just out of sight of the Malibu. She looked past him and saw the car ease into the right lane and signal for an exit.

  “Rhyme, can you get me a patch through to the trooper?” she asked.

  “Hold on . . .” A long pause. Rhyme’s frustrated voice. “I can never figure out—” He was cut off and she heard two clicks. Then the trooper said, “Detective Sachs?”

  “I’m here. Go ahead.”

  “Is that you behind me, in that fine red set of wheels?”

  “Yep.”

  “How do you want to handle this?”

  “Who’s driving? The man or the woman?”

  “The man.”

  She thought for a moment. “Make it seem like a routine traffic stop. Tail-light him or something. After he’s on the shoulder I’ll get in front and sandwich him in. You take the passenger side and I’ll get the driver out. We don’t know that he’s armed and we don’t know that he’s not. But the odds are it’s an abduction, so assume he’s got a weapon.”