Tuesday

WALTER HAD TO SEE Angela. He drove his own car so that he could park near her apartment and used the keys to the front door and elevator that she had given him. She opened the door the instant he tapped and welcomed him into a sympathetic embrace.

“You poor dear, you must be going crazy …”

“It’s been tough,” he admitted. “Damn tough. I’ve been up all night trying to figure how to handle this.” He followed her inside, through the small kitchen where she picked up the coffee pot, to the dining area where the table was already set with cups and saucers and a plate of toast.

“I don’t think I can swallow,” Walter said. But she was already pouring the orange juice.

Angela slid into the chair across from him. “What happened? How did you find out?”

He told her about his arrival at home, remembering his uneasy feeling when he saw the garage door open with no light turned on. “It was so unusual. I guess I knew right away that something was wrong. But I figured, maybe a friend had had an accident … that she had gone to help and lost track of the time. I never figured …” Walter closed his eyes, trying to fight back the tears.

She reached across and covered his hand with hers. “Of course not. How could you even imagine such a thing.”

He described his instant fear when he found a strange man waiting in his living room. Then he told the story of the bizarre scene in which the man calmly explained that his wife had been kidnapped. “We’re sitting across from each other having a civil conversation about Emily being dragged from her bedroom. I was helpless. Not just because of the gun. But the son of a bitch didn’t know any more than I did. I mean, he didn’t know what had happened … or why.”

“Did you believe him? That he didn’t know anything?”

Walter thought. “Not at first. But I guess I did come to believe him. I mean, you’d have to see him. This guy was definitely not a gangster. He kept wishing me well, and trying to convince me that he wasn’t part of any crime. ‘Just a citizen reporting a crime,’ is what he kept telling me.”

“That’s bullshit,” Angela said. “He knew damn well he was being paid to deliver a ransom note.”

“But what difference would it make,” Walter snapped in sudden anger. “What was I supposed to do? Knock him down and sit on him while I waited for the police. I couldn’t take chances with Emily’s life. Christ, they could kill her and bury her in a cellar …”

“Of course, of course,” Angela was already consoling. “You couldn’t take any chances.”

Walter drank the coffee from trembling hands. Then he drew a deep breath to steel himself. “The problem is that the bank is involved. What the kidnappers want is a transfer of bank funds.”

Angela didn’t seem to understand.

“The bank has a policy,” he explained. “Like the government. We don’t bargain for hostages. We thought that someone … probably terrorists … could kidnap someone at the bank and demand something as ransom. Not just money. Some kind of monetary action.”

Her eyes widened. “Like dump some country’s currency. Like an Arab country telling you to wreck Israel’s economy.”

“Exactly,” Walter said. “We knew we were open to blackmail so we adopted a very strong and well-publicized policy: No dealing with kidnappers or extortionists. Christ, I spearheaded the policy. What I’m supposed to do is inform the chairman that my wife has been taken. The board will relieve me temporarily of all responsibilities and notify the police.”

“But, Emily …” Angela was interrupting when Walter slammed his fist down on the table. “The policy regards Emily as already dead,” he said. “We don’t bargain for her. We put the police onto her killers.”

“Walter, these aren’t terrorists. These are kidnappers who want money for your wife. You’ve got to do what they want.”

He nodded. “I know. Especially with us. I mean, it would look like I wanted it to happen. Jesus, people might even think that I had something to do with her disappearance. You and I … we could never be seen together.”

“Dammit, Walter,” Angela snapped. “This isn’t about you and me.”

“I know. I’ve got to think about the bank. I suppose Hollcroft would see it was one incredible act of loyalty if I put bank policy ahead of my own wife.”

Angela was shocked into a speechless moment. Walter looked puzzled at her reaction to his analysis. Finally she managed, “Is that what you were up all night thinking about? How your wife being kidnapped might affect your chances of being chairman?”

“I’ve been considering every possibility. I’ve been churning it over and over again.”

Angela jumped up, throwing her napkin angrily at her chair. “For God’s sake, Walter, there’s only one thing you have to consider. Not the bank. Not what anyone might think. The only issue is Emily’s life.”

“I know! I know!” Walter snapped back. “But it’s a consideration. If I don’t turn this over to Jack Hollcroft. I could lose everything. Not just Emily. But you. And my whole future.”

“Walter, listen to me. I said I’d have you under any terms,” Angela said factually. “That includes after the board fires you for violating their damn antiterrorist policy, although I don’t think they would have the guts to fire someone for trying to save his wife. But I couldn’t have you if you just … turned your back on her. For the love of God, Walter, it’s going to be hard enough to get into another woman’s bed even after you’ve given her everything. But if you … let her die …” Angela was suddenly crying, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs.

Walter stood up. “I’m not going to let her die. I’ll work this out,” he promised her, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got to get to the bank and work this out.” He reached back to the table and finished the coffee in his cup. Then he kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

Angela stared after him. She felt very sorry for Mrs. Walter Childs. The present one, and any in the future.

Andrew Hogan, InterBank’s security director, returned Walter’s call just a few minutes after 7:00 A.M. “Mr. Childs. Andrew Hogan here. I just came in and your message was on my voice mail.”

“Andrew, I wonder if you could join me in my office for a few minutes.”

“Sure! What time’s good for you?”

“Right now,” Walter said.

Andrew Hogan’s job as director of security paid him vastly more money than he had ever imagined possible. He had been an up-through-the-ranks New York City police officer who had made it to the department’s top uniformed rank. When he retired, it was simply to change into civilian clothes and walk across the hall to become police commissioner.

But while good police work had been the key ingredient in advancing through the ranks, Hogan had quickly learned that it was not the most important talent of a good police commissioner. He had learned that pointing his finger at a criminal operation could be a career-limiting move unless he first found out who the patrons of the criminal operation were.

He had come down hard on the practice of lending city garbage trucks to private sanitation firms because many of the private outfits were mob-related. Too late did he find out that the payoff for the trucks went to the ranking officers in the sanitation union. The result was a garbage collectors’ strike. He also made the mistake of landing on schoolteachers who falsified their hours. Both the teachers’ union and the Board of Education demanded his resignation.

The job, he was told by a well-meaning politician, was really intended as the grease between the city’s minority population and the uniformed officers who tried to enforce the law. It had nothing to do with white-collar crime, which was the foundation of the city’s economy or, God help us, with the financial interests of public officials. “You’re the most popular cop in the history of the city,” he was reminded. “Just make speeches. Don’t try to clean up anything.”

Andrew had resigned, ready for a retirement to the trout streams upstate. But his reputation as a skilled and squeaky-clean policeman was immensely valuable to any institution that existed on public trust. Brokerage firms, banks, consulting partnerships, and even law firms had gotten into a bidding war for his services. InterBank came out on top with an offer of half a million a year.

“Andrew!” Walter was on his feet as soon as the security officer appeared in his still-empty outer office. Hogan was a slight man with silvery gray hair, who looked as fit as he actually was. There were many small-time toughs about the city who had mistaken his small stature for weakness and still had limited movement in their limbs as a result. Walter Childs charged out to greet him, shook his hand affectionately, and then led him into the carpeted quarter acre that was his private office.

Hogan’s guard was immediately up. He wasn’t used to warm, enthusiastic receptions from the bank’s top officers and rarely was he invited to the senior executive floor, much less into one of the private offices. As he had learned, the top bankers with their Ivy League diplomas and graduate degrees didn’t think much of City College. Nor did those used to winning in the private sector have much use for men who had made their careers in public service. The former police commissioner of New York made a very impressive entry in the bank’s annual report, but he didn’t make a very desirable luncheon companion.

“Sit down, please.” Walter pulled a comfortable chair up to his desk and then ran around to his own massive swivel chair. Andrew Hogan’s radar locked on. Walter Childs, he guessed, had a security problem, and one that he didn’t want publicized.

“Andrew, the security scenarios your people come up with are always fascinating. It’s hard to believe that there are so many ways to attack a bank.” Hogan had built a team of experts who were challenged to break the bank’s security systems. It included not only a half dozen computer hackers who spent their days trying to break into bank records, but also second-story men who tried to get around InterBank’s surveillance and alarm systems. Whenever one succeeded, Hogan developed an antidote.

“I remember one case you had based on extortion. I think you compromised a branch manager and then got him to deposit into a fictitious account.”

Hogan nodded. “That’s right. We called him Mr. X because it was a classic case of entrapment. It wouldn’t have been right to turn him in.”

“That’s the one,” Walter agreed. “I was trying to remember the steps that were taken to protect against such a thing.”

“We guarantee complete confidentiality to anyone who reports the attempt within twenty-four hours. After that, the person is on his own.”

“That’s all?” Walter wondered.

“We also have key employee surveillance,” Hogan said. “It’s limited, of course. We don’t want our people living in a police state. And, as you know, none of this applies to the senior vice presidents, president, or directors.”

“I see … I see …” Walter mumbled. “Now, after someone does report an attempt … at compromising him … what action do you take?”

Hogan’s eyes remained unsuspecting. It was a trick of his trade that his face should never reveal what he was thinking. “We turn the matter over to the appropriate authorities. Police, federals, bank examiners, anyone who ought to be involved. We give them a John Doe for the bank employee in order to assure he’s not identified.”

Walter was nodding gravely. “But you never deal directly …”

“Directly with whom?”

“With the perpetrator. You never try to handle the issue … confidentially.”

“No,” Andrew assured him. “Bank policy doesn’t let us. We want to make it completely clear that no one has anything to gain by threatening a bank employee.”

Walter was fumbling for his next question. Andrew Hogan decided that they had spent enough time playing games.

“This would be a lot easier, Mr. Childs, if you’d tell me what concerns you.”

“Oh, nothing directly. Just curious …”

Hogan stood. “It’s seven in the morning and you called me into your office to satisfy your curiosity?”

Walter tried to look offended.

“When you decide to tell me who’s trying to get to you,” Hogan went on, “then we’ll see what we can do for you. But I should tell you. These things always get worse with time.” He turned and started out.

“Mr. Hogan.” Walter’s words stopped the security officer, who turned back. “Is this office bugged?”

Andrew had to fight back the smile. Walter Childs was one of the senior executives who had exempted themselves from all security measures. “No, Mr. Childs. We have no bugs on this floor. And we sweep every couple of days just to be certain that no one else does.”

Walter gestured Hogan back into the chair. “Please, call me Walter.”

Oh, he’s in very deep shit, Hogan thought, as he settled back down.

“My wife’s been kidnapped,” Walter began. “She was taken out of my house sometime yesterday. Probably late morning after her tennis match. When I got home, I found a man sitting in my living room with a gun pointed at me.”

Andrew Hogan’s expression never changed as he listened to the events of the previous night. He interrupted only once, to confirm that Walter’s visitor had claimed not to know who had arranged for him to deliver the message. “A recorded voice?” he asked. Walter explained that the messenger couldn’t even be sure whether his contact was a man or a woman.

When Walter finished, he took the envelope out of his suit coat pocket, opened it, and pushed it across the desk. He felt foolish when Andrew used his handkerchief to handle the document.

“A hundred million,” Hogan remarked when he reached the instructions concerning the money transfer. He whistled softly. When he finished the second page, he turned the pages over, held them up to the light, and then tipped them to a sharp angle. “Computer printer on office store stationery,” he said. “Could have come from anywhere,”

He set the pages down and looked up at Childs, “Is all this possible?” he asked. “Could you really transfer that much money to an unnamed account?”

Walter nodded. “At that bank I can. Very few of the accounts at Folionari’s Cayman branch have names.” He could see that the security officer didn’t understand. “It’s a central bank for the drug trade. It pays no interest and makes a fortune on service charges. All it does is change money and launder accounts.”

“InterBank deals regularly with such an institution?” the detective questioned.

“When we have to. We work as agents for central banks. The drug dealers have more monetary assets than the central banks of many countries. So, when we have to buy or sell currencies, they become critical partners.”

“So someone could simply set up a numbered account, deposit an InterBank loan into it, and then walk off with the cash?” Andrew concluded, realizing his security precautions hadn’t taken into account the peculiar practices of Folonari’s Cayman branch.

“In just about any currency they wanted. Francs. Lira. Dollars. Or even corporate securities that the Cayman branch owns or stores. It has a healthy supply of everything.”

Hogan pursed his lips as he thought through the scenario that Walter had just posed, “This certainly fits under the bank’s antiterrorist policy,” he concluded. “The only thing we can do is inform Mr. Hollcroft and have him notify the board”

“We’re not talking about terrorists, dammit! We’re talking about my wife.”

Hogan raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It comes under the same policy guidelines. We won’t negotiate with these people.” He picked up the ransom document again and glanced through it quickly. “Not that they seem interested in negotiation. This is pretty much take it or leave it.”

“We can’t simply regard my wife as already dead,” Walter said, hitting each word with its own cadence. “She’s alive, and she’ll stay alive at least for another day if I make that lunch date.”

“And on Friday?” the security officer asked, “When you don’t transfer the funds?”

“Maybe we can learn something by Friday. I’ve got to try to save my wife.”

Hogan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. “We’ve already learned quite a bit …”

“What?” Andrew was shocked that the detective could know anything beyond what he had been told. “What do you know?”

“First,” Hogan began, “we know that we’re dealing with someone connected with the bank. Someone who knows what you do and how you do it. These people don’t just know about financial operations. They know the extent of your authority. Your relationship with the Cayman bank. Where you’re apt to eat lunch. Where you live. It seems that they even know what your wife’s daily schedule is like.”

“You think it’s someone I know personally?”

“Maybe. But more likely it’s someone who knows you personally but who you don’t generally think of as a friend. Your secretary, for example …”

“Miss Carey! That’s ridiculous. Why she’s …”

“I said ‘for example.’ My point is that if I asked you to list your close friends, your Miss Carey probably wouldn’t make the list. You probably don’t even think of her as a business associate. Yet she knows your business activities intimately. Has probably spoken directly with the people at this Cayman bank, as well as the top people at every bank you deal with. And I’ll bet she knows your wife’s schedule better than you do.”

Walter looked chastened. “You’re absolutely right,” he admitted. “There are probably a lot of people around the bank who understand my job. But … a kidnapper?”

Hogan again touched the document. “As I read this, the people behind it aren’t doing any kidnapping. They seem to have hired the people who took your wife away and hired the people who are holding her. They even hired the guy who brought you the ransom note. And they’ve arranged it so that none of them knows either of the others. So this could be someone who has never done a violent deed in his life. Just a skillful manager with a few violent friends. Or with contacts among the underworld types who would do these things.”

Walter was nodding. “So where do we start?”

“We don’t,” Hogan said. “We follow procedure and take this to the chairman as soon as he comes in.”

“And Emily gets buried in a cellar!” Walter flared. “For Christ’s sake, we can’t do that. Not while there’s any chance.”

Hogan sat quietly for a moment. “You know what this could cost me. I’m paid to enforce security procedures. Your security procedures.”

“It can’t cost you your life,” Walter came back. “We’ve got to at least try. Please, Andrew. I’m asking you as a friend.”

Despite his years of training, Hogan couldn’t hide his disgust. “A friend …” he said slowly, weighing the irony.

Walter had to turn his eyes away. “We’re not the most cordial people,” he allowed. “I suppose none of us has … seemed … particularly friendly. We just don’t know many police officials …”

“I’m a cop,” Andrew interrupted, “and proud of it. I’ve gotten my hands dirty. All of you have made it pretty clear that you don’t want me cleaning up in the executive washroom.”

“It wasn’t that …” Walter was about to say, that you weren’t good enough for us. But he knew it was exactly that. Andrew had no reason to think of him as a friend. He had every right to leave him and his fellow senior executives hanging on their own self-righteous policies. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry,” was the best Walter could manage. “I’m begging for your help.”

Hogan rose slowly, lifting the ransom pages carefully and folding them into the envelope. “I’ll take these. And I’ll need the keys to your house. There are some lab people who owe me a favor and chances are that your messenger left prints all over the place.”

“You’ll help me?” Walter was gushing with gratitude.

“Yeah. Some of the people who dirtied my hands know what’s happening around town. We may just get lucky. In the meantime, you go have lunch in Casper’s window.”

“What about my children?” Walter asked. “I have a son and a daughter. They’re close to their mother. I’ll have to tell them something.”

“This is just until Friday,” Hogan reminded him. “On Friday, we go to the chairman with whatever we have. That’s when you can talk to your kids.”

Walter nodded. “I’ll think of some way to stall them. Even if we have to go beyond Friday, I can probably come up with a plausible story …”

“Friday!” Hogan cut him off. “There’s no way I can let you send that money.”

“Of course. Of course,” Walter agreed. “Just so long as we try to do something.”

Andrew Hogan found himself wondering why Walter made saving his wife sound like window dressing rather than a matter of life and death. But still, he was enjoying the moment. It was wonderful to see one of these privileged citizens begging for a cop.

Helen Restivo had once been Andrew Hogan’s lover. She had been valedictorian in her class from the John Jay School of Criminal Justice at the same ceremony where then-Captain Hogan had been the guest speaker. Hogan had made police work sound so important that Helen had changed her career plans right on the spot, withdrawing her application for a position in social work and entering the police academy. With more than a little self-interest in mind, she had told Hogan how he had influenced her choice when he came to visit the academy. Later, when Hogan looked her up on her first patrolman’s assignment, they had both felt a magnetic attraction.

At first, neither of them worried that she might be bestowing favors on a man who could influence her career and that he might be taking terrible advantage of a woman who couldn’t afford to incur his displeasure. They were simply two people in love. But then, their relative positions became an embarrassment. Hogan knew he was jeopardizing everything in his fondness for a woman twenty years younger than he. And Helen knew that she had little future in the department if word got out that she was bedding down with a very senior officer. It was easy for each of them to wonder if the other might be on the make. Maybe they could have overcome the difficulties, but they slipped apart rather than address the problem.

They had avoided each other for nearly two years when Hogan heard that a street punk wielding a linoleum knife had cut up a woman officer named Restivo. He had rushed to the hospital and found her in serious condition with a slash across her face that threatened her eyesight and with three fingers missing from her right hand. His solicitude during her recovery had been much more than the police tradition of “taking care of our own.” But it wasn’t the same passionate love he had felt for her two years earlier.

Helen had been retired on full disability, the department figuring that she couldn’t be a cop without a trigger finger on her shooting hand. At that point, Andrew had asked her to marry him, but she understood that the proposal was born in nostalgia and sympathy and promptly turned it down. He did the next best thing he could by helping her launch her own investigative agency and sending her any problems that shouldn’t involve the department. Helen now presided over a very large and successful security service and listed InterBank as one of her major accounts. She was the obvious choice when Andrew knew he couldn’t use the police or bank personnel in looking for Emily Childs.

Helen had immediately assigned one of her investigators to keep tabs on each of the senior vice presidents. She had sent her best forensic people out to Short Hills to meet Andrew at the victim’s home. Then she had assigned herself to Walter Childs and now stood across the lobby from the executive elevators in InterBank’s building.

She had picked Childs for herself because she considered him the most likely suspect. The sad truth about domestic crimes was that someone in the household was generally involved. More often than not, wives who accidentally shot their husbands thinking they were blowing away an intruder had known perfectly well who was in front of the pistol when they pulled the trigger. Disappeared children too often turned up buried in the backyard of the family home. And in the cases of missing wives, husbands often proved to have the best motives.

As soon as Hogan had described the case, Helen Restivo’s radar had locked onto Walter Childs. She certainly planned to look into the obvious motives, like the wife having a substantial estate of her own that Walter would inherit, or a major insurance policy that named him as beneficiary. That kind of information, quite frequently tied together with gambling debts, bad investments, or other losses that generated a need for a quick infusion of cash. Or the often present other woman. Many a man who wanted to change wives saw little sense in leaving behind all his material goods as part of a divorce settlement. Probably, Helen thought, it would be something as routine as one of those scenarios.

But she was more fascinated by the well-publicized runoff for the leadership of InterBank. One of the senior people would win the gold ring and become the planet’s leading financial figure. The others would feel that they had been exposed as failures even though they would still be five-million-a-year executives. She guessed that Walter Childs had reached that elite level where he wouldn’t know what to do with more money and could have any woman he wanted without expending more than pocket change. Childs, she was nearly certain, wanted something far more significant.

“How,” she asked herself, “could a senior vice president parlay the loss of his wife into the top job?” The answer was obvious as soon as Andrew Hogan explained the bank’s policy of no negotiations. If Childs sacrificed his wife to the interests of the bank … if he in effect announced that his concern for the bank’s depositors went beyond his concern for even his own wife … then how could they hope to find a more dedicated man to trust with InterBank’s fortunes? Was it possible that he had dragged the bank’s security officer into a charade, pretending to try and save his wife? And then, at Andrew Hogan’s Friday deadline, would he tearfully do the heroic thing and refuse to transfer the money as the kidnappers had supposedly ordered. Helen was playing a hunch that Walter himself might be the kidnapper and that he wouldn’t be overjoyed if they were to turn Emily up alive.

Walter stepped out from behind the doors of an elevator, his eyes darting suspiciously from side to side. For an instant, he seemed genuinely frightened, but then he squared his shoulders and stepped out purposefully, looking involved and important. Helen checked his face against the black-and-white security photo that she had palmed in her good hand. Then she wandered out the door, settling a few hundred feet behind Walter. She wasn’t so much interested in Walter’s route. She knew where he was headed. What was important was the people in the streets around Walter. If what Childs was claiming were true—if Emily had really been taken away by an unknown person—then that person could well be standing in the street somewhere between here and Casper’s restaurant. Or, like Helen herself, the person might begin to follow Walter, seeing him to the door of the restaurant and waiting for him to claim his table as the signal that he would be paying the ransom.

She was looking for anyone else who might be paying attention to her suspect. She planned to follow Walter all the way to the door and then station herself across the street to see if anyone was interested in who took the table in the window. And then she planned to take particular note of anyone who left shortly after Walter. The kidnapper, if there was one, would certainly make himself known by his interest in Childs. Helen’s problem was recognizing that interest.

Andrew Hogan was standing in the door of Emily’s bedroom, reconnoitering the terrain before stepping into the crime scene. Right now, at this point in time, everything in the room should bear witness to Emily and her husband, and then to the kidnapper. If there was something to be seen he had to see it now, because once he and the forensic team stepped across the threshold the process of obliterating the obvious evidence would begin.

The profession was filled with stories of evidence destroyed in the attempt to gather evidence. There was the tale of the FBI agent-in-charge who stepped out of the rain into the scene of a bank robbery and bent over a clear, powdered fingerprint. Rain from the brim of his hat had run down and washed the print away. A ranking Chicago detective had once hung up the telephone at a murder scene to silence the annoying off-hook signal, and in the process had hidden the fact that the victim had been talking to someone who might have heard the last words. Hogan wanted to take everything in before he threw the room open to the professionals.

The first thing that struck him was the size of the room. It seemed sparsely furnished even though it contained two double beds flanking a circular marble-top night table, a triple dresser, a chest of drawers, an electronics entertainment center with an arrangement of leather furniture, and a vanity that was bigger than the chorus dressing room in some Broadway theaters. Hogan and his two brothers had grown up in an apartment that wasn’t as big as the bedroom.

The two beds were his next observation. Apparently Walter and Emily didn’t fall asleep in each other’s arms. He’d have to check the other bedrooms for evidence that they might not share even the same room. Separate sleeping arrangements usually indicated nothing more than a husband with a jackhammer snoring problem, or a wife who needed to keep the fight on. But in his years of police work, Andrew found that men who had done in their wives had usually moved to the couch some time before.

Next, he spotted the wineglass on the vanity. That set his eyes searching until he found the small refrigerator that was built into the base of the entertainment center. He remembered the wet bar in the pantry kitchen, stocked like the top shelf at a country club grill. Drinking was part of their lives. In Emily’s case, assuming Walter was correct about the time she had been kidnapped, there was no need to wait for the sun to cross over the yardarm.

His eyes followed the trail of the clothes. The scattered tennis outfit pointed from the bed to the bathroom door. Andrew stepped across the threshold and moved carefully along the marked trail.

The tennis shirt was sweat stained and seemed to have dried stiff. Whoever had worn it had certainly exercised vigorously, so if the trail of clothes had been laid down to mislead an investigator, the garments had been peeled off someone’s still-sweating body. The bathroom seemed further collaboration of Walter Childs’s story. The shower curtain had been ripped down forcefully. The hollow chromium bar was bent, with a screw pulled out of one of its end fittings. There were rings still attached to it that held torn-out eyelets from the curtain. There were broken rings in the tub and on the floor. Without doubt, the curtain had been involved in a struggle.

Hogan noticed the thin, red stain that surrounded the tub drain. Blood had been shed, but he couldn’t tell how much. Someone had bled while the shower was still running and the water flow had carried the blood to the drain. He guessed that any wounds had been superficial. At scenes of carnage, bloodstains were usually splattered all over the room.

The missing shower curtain apparently had been taken away along with Emily. The most logical explanation was that it had been wrapped around her, which, in turn, indicated that when she had left the bedroom, Emily had either been dead or unconscious. The battle in the bathroom didn’t suggest someone who would allow herself to be rolled in a curtain if she still had any fight left in her.

There were footprints all over the bedroom carpet, created by wet shoes and sneakers. He figured the sneakers to be Emily’s, but then realized that she wouldn’t still be wearing her shoes when the water was spilled out of the shower. So, apparently one of her kidnappers was wearing them.

Andrew found the entire scenario troubling. The letter that Walter Childs had given him indicated a very intelligent person running the operation, but the crime scene suggested amateur hour. Emily could have been taken much more easily before she ever entered the house. Kidnappers, who knew she would drive straight into the garage, would attack her as she stepped out of the car. It would be a simple matter to hold a drug-soaked cloth over her face, push her back into the car, and take her away. By waiting until she had gotten into her bedroom, they had given her a greater opportunity to escape and had given themselves the problem of getting her back down into the car. If Andrew were hiring people to lift a wife from her home, these guys wouldn’t be his first choice.

He called Helen Restivo’s lab men into the room and added specifics to their general procedure. Whose blood was in the tub? Emily’s? One of the kidnappers? Was there blood in the drain trap? Enough to suggest a serious wound? Or was it as superficial as it appeared? Was there any blood on the bedroom carpet? Or were the stains water marks only? What about fingerprints? Unless the attackers wore gloves, there should be prints all over the bathroom. Given the apparent violence of the struggle, no one could have been careful about where he’d put his hands.

The forensics team hit the room like chambermaids, gathering linens, glasses, and other debris into plastic bags, dusting and sweeping in every crack and corner. Hogan left them to their work and began a very focused tour of the house. After checking the bedrooms, he went to the telephones, both the residential line and Walter’s business line. He noted the phone numbers and made recordings of the recorded messages on the answering machines.

In the family room, he checked the television, stereo, and cassette recorders, noting the capabilities of the systems. Someone in the household was apparently an electronics freak. There was enough video and sound equipment to open a fair-size broadcasting station.

The framed photographs and ornaments told of the family dynamics. There were dozens of photos of Walter with world leaders, some showing him shaking hands in front of portraits of kings, others of him squatting on the carpet in some sheik’s tent. He was depicted presenting a football to the Super Bowl’s Most Valuable Player and in a golf foursome with Jack Nicklaus. He shared two of the photos with presidents of the United States.

There were plaques honoring his contributions to charitable foundations, crystal bowls expressing gratitude for his service to international financial institutions, and engraved bookends from federal reserve banks. The room was a deferential monument to the life’s work of a great man. The trophy honoring Emily as champion singles player of her tennis club, and the framed clipping of her triumph in doubles, were clearly afterthoughts, relegated to the periphery of the display. Walter apparently enjoyed the footlights and Emily obviously felt no need to share in the applause.

Andrew went into Walter’s office, made himself comfortable at the computer, checked Walter’s files and his computerized address book, and copied the name of his Internet service provider. He slipped into the chair at Walter’s desk, worked his way through the desktop papers, and opened the locked file drawer effortlessly, using a paper clip for the key. He was still reading through the Childs’s family records when the forensics crew finished with the bedroom and began their assault on the back stairs.

Andrew left them with Walter’s key, asked them to lock up and leave the key under the mat, and then drove back into Manhattan. It was after seven when he walked into the small Italian restaurant where Helen was in the process of ordering the lobster ravioli that she and Andrew generally shared.

“Nothing at all,” Helen said as soon as the waiter had left the table. “As nearly as I can tell, Walter Childs is the invisible man. Absolutely no one noticed him. I didn’t see even one head turn in all the time he was sitting in the window.”

“How did he seem?”

“Good question,” Restivo responded. “I think he was nervous, but doing a damn good job of acting normal. One minute, he’d look like he couldn’t breathe. Then he seemed to get hold of himself, and he’d look confident … composed … like a banker. He was just what you’d expect from a guy who’s trying to look calm while he’s scared out of his mind.”

“So what do you think? He’s legit?”

She shrugged her shoulders while the waiter was pouring the deep red wine from a basket-wrapped bottle. Then she resumed thinking out loud. “Is he legit? Yeah, I think so. He looks too flustered to be in charge of a scheme like this.”

“So then someone really was waiting to see if he went to the restaurant?”

Helen had been asking herself the same question. “Maybe. But if it is an inside job, then maybe no one had to follow him to lunch. I mean, his secretary would know that he had left for lunch at Casper’s. Probably the other swells in the executive suites would know. An insider probably wouldn’t have to follow him or see him sitting in the window. Maybe the instructions were just supposed to get him thinking that it was an outsider.”

Hogan took over. “The crime scene looked like some sort of circus act. They could have grabbed the lady the second she pulled into the garage. No fuss! They’d have been gone in a half a minute. Instead, they wait for her to get into the shower. Then they have to knock her out, roll her in the shower curtain, and carry her down the back steps. Minimum, ten minutes in the house.”

“Which suggests … ?” Helen wanted to know.

“Our perps were late getting there. My guess is that they never cased the house. That they played the whole thing pretty much off the cuff. I’m beginning to believe that someone has hired a group of unrelated amateurs …”

He paused as the food arrived and waited impatiently while the waiter topped off his still full wineglass. Then he leaned back close to Helen.

“Walter Childs said that the messenger didn’t seem like someone who could be involved in a kidnapping. Just some guy moonlighting to pick up some extra money. That’s about where I’d put the people who took Mrs. Childs. Average Joes trying to do something that they have no experience with. The lady even bloodied one of them up. The blood around the drain wasn’t hers, and it wasn’t Walter’s.”

“You think they killed her?”

Hogan shook his head. “No. Not right away, at any rate. Your forensic guys found a used Demerol ampoule in the shrubs outside the kitchen door. Someone had filled a syringe. Looks like they knocked her cold. Or, at least, that’s what they were trying to do.”

“That’s not completely amateur,” Restivo mused.

Hogan shrugged. “No shortage of people who need money and know how to use a hypodermic. Could be any druggie from any street.”

“You know,” Helen said, “that’s one thing that’s bothering me. How do you recruit average Joes for a kidnapping? I mean, you can’t just pick people out of the telephone book and say, ‘Hey, how would you like to make a couple of hundred by kidnapping someone?’ It seems to me that you’d have to have a pretty wide inventory of down-and-out lowlifes at your disposal. We think that this is an inside job. But whoever did it must have some connections with crooks and junkies. So who in a bank knows how to deal with street scum?”

“Me, for one,” he said. Helen’s eyes snapped up. “And I suppose some of the people on my staff. I’ve hired a couple of guys off the parole rolls. You know, ‘to catch a thief.’ And there’s no doubt that they resent some of the suits who pick up million-dollar bonuses at Christmas.”

Helen wanted to drop the delicate subject, but she could see that her friend was still tossing it in his mind. “Some of my guys have learned a lot about the bank’s systems and procedures,” Andrew said. “It’s stuff they need to know when they try to break in.”

They started their meal in silence, neither wanting to pursue the idea that Hogan and his staff should become important suspects in the investigation but, at the same time, both unwilling to move on to another topic. Helen found her priorities shifting. She had figured Walter as the most likely perpetrator. But where would the senior vice president of a world-class money center make the acquaintance of subculture types who knew how to administer drugs and who would moonlight as kidnappers? Probably not among the members of his country club. Andrew Hogan, on the other hand, could put together a team in an hour. Hogan was squirming under the continuing insult of his treatment by the InterBank executives. What a delicious way to bring them to heel and pocket the biggest bonus in the banking industry.

But she knew Andrew to be squeaky clean and honorable enough to marry her even though he didn’t really love her. Robbing a bank wasn’t in his makeup, unless he got bored protecting it. When she glanced over at him, she found him staring vacantly around the room. “Are you bored, Andrew?”

“No, just thinking.”

“But not about the case?” She knew him well enough to discern when his investigator’s brain was turned on and when he had shut it off.

“No. I was just thinking about these other couples.” A tilt of his head indicated the couples at the surrounding tables. “How many of them are talking about bodies wrapped in shower curtains or blood in a bathtub drain?”

Helen laughed. “We do have some disgusting conversations. So what else would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know anything else. This is what I’ve been doing my whole life. I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s time for a change.”

She was startled by the thought of Andrew Hogan doing anything but upholding the law. Maybe it would be a good idea, she thought, to take a good look at some of his people.

“Oh,” said Andrew, suddenly clicking back into focus. “I’ve got another new name that you should be following closely.”

Helen took out her pad and pencil, ready to write.

“Guess who Walter Childs telephoned the second that his courier was out of sight?”

She decided not to guess.

“One of his associates at InterBank. A lovely young thing named Angela Hilliard.”

Helen set down the pencil. “You’re kidding. A secretary? You’re going to tell me the guy is doing the girl from the mailroom?” And then she bit her tongue. Andrew’s sheepish grin told her that he, too, was remembering when he was doing the girl from the mailroom. He was an officer and she had been a rookie cop. “Sorry,” she said. “Let me try to rephrase that.”

His hand reached out and covered hers. “No, that was our problem. Neither of us were comfortable with it. But this young lady is hardly from the mailroom. Miss Hilliard is a fast-track executive. She runs a few of the bank’s biggest accounts. Odds are that she’ll be the first person to use the women’s facilities at the senior executives’ health spa. And when she does, you’re going to find the whole executive row dressed in bath towels, because Angela is a perfect 10, even in a business suit. Put her in running shorts, and she’s probably a 12.”

Rita Lipton yelped with pain, dropped the small tray of fried chicken onto the table, and jammed her fingertips into her mouth. “Damn platter is hot as hell!” Angrily, she slammed the door of the microwave oven where she had just heated the frozen chicken. “I thought only the food got hot!”

Mike laughed without looking up from the tabloid he was reading. “Good thing you know what to do in bed, because you don’t have a clue in the kitchen.”

“Good thing I have more than a clue in the courtroom,” Rita countered, “or you’d be lining up for your meals with other cons.”

“I’d of gotten off,” Mike said.

She pushed some of the chicken onto his plate and set the plate next to an open bottle of beer. “Sure you would have. Especially when they found the guy’s shoe in your car. How did you figure on explaining that one?”

He put down the paper and picked up a chicken breast. “Christ!” he said, dropping it as if it were a ticking bomb. “It’s hotter than hell!”

Rita shook her head. “Isn’t that what I just told you?” She wondered whether she should have just let them put Mike away for two to ten. He was beginning to wear on her.

She made her money by her wits, convincing people that she could help them double or triple whatever they gave her. For horseplayers, she always had a sure thing. She was putting up two grand that the player would match. Then they’d place their bet. Only there was no horse and no bet. She’d left with the player’s two thousand.

For the greedy, she had a sure-fire insurance scam. The insurance company had agreed to pay her twenty thousand to settle her slip and fall claim. All they needed were the doctor’s records. And she needed three thousand to pay the doctor for a set of phony X rays and a matching medical report. She’d pay six thousand for the three thousand loan when the check came in. Of course, there was no insurance company, nor any doctor. Rita would vanish with the three thousand sure-thing investment.

Most of the scams required a third party to play the bookie who would take the bet or the insurance representative who was promising payment. They were never big roles. The starring part was always Rita’s. All she needed was someone who would show up and say a few lines. Mike could manage a few lines. He needed a bit of help to grasp that the loud shirt went with the bookie role and the striped necktie was for the insurance representative. But if she dressed him and rehearsed him, he could be quite convincing. He looked and sounded like much more than he actually was. And if things went awry, then Mike’s real professional skills as a street thug would come in handy. He had been a leg breaker for one of the New Jersey dons and he could punch his way through anyone who decided to hold them for the police.

Rita put a breast and thigh on a plate with the potato salad she had spooned out of a delicatessen container. “I’ll bring this down to our houseguest,” she mentioned, turning toward the basement door.

Mike jumped to his feet. “I’ll bring it down.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “No way! Last thing we need is you getting the hots for her. I’d stab you in your sleep.”

“Hey, don’t worry.” He grabbed for the plate. “If she goes for me I’ll call you. We can make it a threesome.”

She held the plate away from him. “I’ll watch the lady, all you have to do is watch the street.”

Emily heard the lock click. She jumped up from the bed and moved quietly toward the table and chair. If it were him, the farther she was from the bed the safer she would be. She nearly sighed with relief when the woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“Time for dinner.” Rita put the plate on the folding table and set a spoon beside it. “And there’s a surprise.” She slowly lifted a bottle of beer from her pocket and displayed it proudly. “It’s a good thing he can’t count, because he wouldn’t like me giving away his stuff.”

Emily tried to look thrilled. “That’s very kind.”

Rita shrugged. “Nobody said this had to be awful for you. Remember, I want to get you out of here as much as you do.”

“How long will I be here?” Emily asked, the forced smile still painted on her face.

“Not long. They told me Monday. Tuesday at the latest.”

Rita was moving away, back toward the stairs, but Emily didn’t want to let her go. “What happens then? On Monday?” she asked.

“I don’t know. All they said was ‘make her comfortable for a couple of days.’ They’ll be telling us where to turn you lose.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Emily tried.

“Who knows? It’s one of those computerized voices so you can’t tell anything. But they’ve already sent the first payment, so they’re for real. I’m not asking any questions.”

Emily took a deep breath. “I could pay you much more. If you let me out of here, you could name your price. My husband is very wealthy.”

Rita scowled. “Yeah, I bet you could. I’ve seen you someplace before. Probably in the society columns. I always look at the society pages. It’s like a mailing list of suckers waiting to be taken.”

“I suppose I’ve been in the papers,” Emily answered.

“Yeah, well, they said you’d try to up the ante. But they said I could end up in a place where money wouldn’t matter. So just try to relax. You’ll be out of here soon enough.”

Rita turned to the stairs.

“Do you suppose I could have a book,” Emily called after her. “It’s a lot of time to spend by yourself with nothing to do but worry.”

“Sure, I’ll bring you the paper as soon as he’s done with it. And don’t worry. It’s only going to be a couple of days.”

Emily was still staring toward the stairs long after she had heard the door slam shut.

Mike was hunched over the table, already half-finished with his meal. He had opened another bottle of beer and he was tipping up to his lips while he chewed. His fingers left greasy smudges on the bottle.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” Rita said sarcastically. “Where did you learn your manners?”

“I could starve to death waitin’ for you. What the fuck were you two talkin’ about?

“About her,” Rita said as she fixed her plate. “I know her. She’s in the society columns. Mrs. ‘The Donald’ or something like it. She told me her husband would double whatever they’re paying me.”

“Payin’ us,” he reminded her. “I’m the one who’s sittin’ on her.”

She bowed profusely. “A thousand pardons.” That was the trouble with Mike. He thought like a thug. His ambition was to take more hits than Dillinger did in a bloody shootout with the police. The subtleties of avoiding shootouts with the police seemed beyond his grasp. Rita knew that he was dangerous to keep around. Sooner or later, Mike would get confused by someone they were conning, think he was in trouble, and turn a misdemeanor scam into a capital offense. But, so far, she had been able to control him. He was even showing signs of learning. And she had to admit that the guy was an Adonis. It was hard to face the end of the day without him and she always started each new day with a smile.

That was what had brought them together. She was doing a telephone scam in Trenton, making random calls for a nonexistent charity, collecting credit card numbers and then hitting ATM machines. No more than a hundred on each card so that the mark might not even notice when he got his statement. It promised to be good for a thousand a day, for about two weeks. Then she would have to move on.

Her mistake was in not letting the local wise guy in on the deal and cutting him in for half. So Mike had been dispatched to help Rita see the light of day. His real name was Milo. The “Mike” came from the first syllable of his last name, which was a nightmare of unpronounceable combinations of consonants. When he grabbed Rita, he liked what he grabbed, and she made it clear that there were other things he could do to her besides beating her senseless. He had taken fifteen hundred back to the Don and then begged out to visit his dying mother in California. Mike and Rita had been a thing ever since.

“She wanted to know how long we were going to hold her,” Rita said while she cut her chicken into slender strips.

Mike sputtered his beer. “Christ, I hope you didn’t tell her.”

“Sure I did. It will keep her from getting antsy. I told her we’d be dropping her off someplace.”

“Into the harbor. Or into a sewer. It ain’t gonna make no difference to her.”

“There you go again,” she said despairingly. “Thinking like a hood. Nobody is going to hurt her.”

Mike shook his head in disbelief. “What do you think … this is a practical joke? One of your two-bit scams. This is a real slick operation. She’s been kidnapped by some serious players. I’ll bet they’re askin’ for a bundle.”

“So,” she challenged. “She’s got plenty of money. She’ll pay.”

“It won’t make a fuckin’ bit of difference whether she pays or not. They won’t want her walkin’ around. Hell, I don’t want her walkin’ around. We’re the ones she’ll pick out of the lineup.”

“She won’t know where to find us,” Rita argued. “She can’t hurt us.”

“Well, the people who lifted her won’t want to take that chance. And neither do I. Long about Saturday, we’ll get a call tellin’ us to get rid of her. And I’ll be ready with a nice six-foot hole behind the garage.”

“Listen, Mike. We’re not killing anyone. It’s a lot tougher to walk away from a murder rap than from small con. I didn’t sign up for a lethal injection.”

Rita was a changed person when she went back down to pick up the dinner plate. She was all business, reluctant to risk even a moment of eye contact with her prisoner. “Do you want to use the powder room before I lock up?”

“You don’t need that shackle,” Emily reasoned. “I can’t go anywhere.”

She held out the handcuffs. “We have better things to do than sit up listening to you climbing through the ceiling. But I’ll only shackle one hand, just to be sure you stay in bed. Now, do you want to use the facilities or not?”

“You really think you know her?” he asked when Rita was back upstairs. His question had purpose. Something was stirring under the lacquered hair.

“I know I’ve met her. Or at least seen her picture. I just can’t put a name on the face.”

He pointed to the newspaper he had been reading. “If she’s so important, how come she didn’t make the papers. When somethin’ happens to important people, it makes the paper. But there’s not a word about anyone gettin’ kidnapped.”

Rita realized he had a point. But then she argued, “Probably the police don’t want to put out her name so that they don’t get a lot of crank calls. You know what happens when people find out that someone important is in trouble.”

“Well, maybe we ought to find out. We’re the ones stuck with her. We ought to know who it is that we’re mindin’.”

Rita thought for a minute and then decided, “It’s not important. We’re getting paid.”

“Could be damn important,” Mike told her. “What are we gettin’ paid? A couple of lousy grand?”

“Ten grand. And there’s nothing lousy about ten grand.”

“What do you think they’re gettin’?”

“Who?” Rita said as she poured orange juice over a double shot of vodka.

“The guys runnin’ this show. If she’s some rich bitch, I’ll bet they’re askin’ a coupla hundred thousand. But we’re the ones takin’ all the risks. We should be gettin’ a lot more than ten.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe fifty.”

She looked at him carefully, uncertain of whether he had gone completely crazy or whether, for the first time, he was making a lot of sense. “Mike, they said ten. I don’t think they’d go as high as fifty.”

He smiled. “Bet her old man will.”

She squinted. “Are you trying to get us killed? Right now, no one gives a damn about us. But you know better than I what could happen if we get the wrong people angry. These guys don’t plea-bargain. You take over their play and they take you straight to the river.”

Mike smirked at his own cleverness. “We’re not goin’ to cut anybody out. I know better than that. We’re just goin’ to set up a little side deal of our own. The people who lifted her won’t know anythin’ about it.”

“They’ll know when they ask for the ransom and find out that it’s already been paid.”

“You think they’ll believe the guy? ‘Jesus, you already paid? Well, then just disregard this notice.’ C’mon, Rita, they won’t give a damn. We’re peanuts next to what they’re as-kin’.”

Rita thought for several seconds. There were always pretenders who tried to cash in on a kidnapping. The real players wouldn’t waste a second trying to find out who might have been paid pocket change. It wasn’t a bad scam. All they had to do was find out who she was and then send a ransom note to her old man demanding $50,000. Whether he paid or not, they would still hold and release the lady just as they were told. So it was really just a side bet that no one would have to know about. If it didn’t work, they lost nothing. And if the guy fell for it and paid their ransom, then they were fifty thousand to the good.

“It sounds too easy,” she told him. He was about to argue but she held up a silencing hand. “But maybe that’s because it is easy. Maybe it could work.”

“What have we got to lose?” Mike laughed.

“Our kneecaps, or maybe even our brains. I’ll tell you what. I’ll find out who she is. I’m not saying we’ll do this and I’m not saying we won’t. But I’ll try to get her to tell me her name and then we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed reluctantly. But I won’t wait for Rita to coax a name out of the bitch, he thought. It’ll take me no more than ten seconds to get her name and anything else we want to know about her.

“Mitchell Price was at the restaurant,” Walter said, as soon as Angela had opened her front door. “The son of a bitch was sitting at a table along the back wall, hiding behind one of those computer nerds he has lunch with. But I caught him peeking over the guy’s shoulder. He had a clear view, right up the aisle, to my table in the window.”

He had left the bank at six o’clock and walked the fourteen blocks to her apartment, his legs pumping like the drive rods of a steam engine. Now he was ranting, venting his explosive anger.

“Calm down, Walter. Relax,” Angela said, trying to be comforting.

But Walter would have none of it. He fired his dark blue suit jacket at the sofa and charged to the bar in the kitchen where he splashed scotch on top of a tumbler of ice cubes. Angela retrieved the coat, brushed it with her hand and hung it in the closet. When she reached the kitchen, Walter waved the scotch bottle in her direction. She shook her head and whispered, “No thanks,” trying not to interrupt his diatribe.

“The little prick was laughing at me, knowing he had me by the short hairs. I felt like going back to his table and driving my fist right through that bonded smile.”

“It couldn’t be. He’s too smart to do something that obvious,” Angela reasoned. “If he set the restaurant up as a signal, why would he ever let you catch him there?”

“Because he wants me to know that it’s him. He wants me to know that he’s the one who’s ruining me at the bank. Hell, he may even plan to pick up the money and put it in his pocket so I can watch him spending it. And there’s not one damn thing I can do about it.” He took a long swallow from his glass.

Angela moved next to him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Walter, I think you’re overwrought. Please, sit down and try to relax.”

He gave her a grateful but tense smile and carried the drink to the sofa. Angela settled directly across from him. “Now tell me slowly. Why would you think it could be Mitchell?”

“Because if I wire that money, I’m in gross violation of bank rules. I’d be finished.”

Angela nodded that she understood his reasoning. “But, still, to go there himself and risk having you see him …”

“Dammit, he wasn’t risking anything. He could sit there and smirk at me and what could I do about it? I can’t have him arrested for having lunch at Casper’s.”

“Still,” she wondered aloud, “it could be just a coincidence. Maybe there’s some way we could find out when he made the date. Or maybe the other person picked the place.”

Walter sat thoughtfully for a moment and then agreed with her. Andrew Hogan could check it out. He told her about his meeting with the bank’s security officer and explained that Hogan was bending the bank’s rules to help him.

She was surprised and asked why Hogan would do a favor for any of the officers. Hogan didn’t polish anyone’s apple and he had no true friends on the executive floor.

“Why not?” Walter sneered. “It’s only until Friday. So if he catches someone by Friday, he’s a hero, and if he doesn’t, he goes to the board and follows policy. He’s not going to let any money leave the bank.”

He went to the bedroom phone and dialed Andrew’s office. When he came back, Angela was in the kitchen, starting a potluck dinner.

“He wasn’t in. And I didn’t want to leave a message on his voice mail. Christ, Mitch Price wouldn’t have any problem breaking into Hogan’s voice mail. He’s the one who designed the whole goddamned voice mail system.” He began fixing himself another drink while he regurgitated the tangled string of clues that he had thought up since the instant when he recognized his associate at the restaurant. “There are lots of things I should have caught onto,” he rambled angrily. “Wire the funds! No one knows more about our leased line situation than he does. It’s another one of his electronic wonders. He could easily tap into it and he’d know instantly if I were to try to trick him. It’s like the messenger said. If I went to the police, he’d know instantly.”

He poured a glass of wine for her and set it next to the cutting board where she was beginning a salad.

“Another thing,” Walter went on. “The guy who came to my house said he got his instructions from a computerized voice. Price knows how to do those things. Every time you call the bank, you talk to one of his computerized clerks. It would be a cinch for him to pull it off.”

She dumped the salad into a colander and rinsed it under the faucet, glancing at Walter to show her interest.

“Hogan says it’s someone inside who truly understands my job. Mitch knows it. I have to describe exactly what I’m doing so that he can design the perfect computer and communications system for the job.”

Angela didn’t seem to agree with him, but she didn’t want to add to his obvious frustration. It was easier for her to just nod to show she was listening and shake her head to share his anger. She listened patiently to all the evidence that pointed toward Mitchell Price. There was no doubt that the man had all the computer and communications skills needed to monitor all the details of Walter’s business life. And he had sat through many long meetings with Andrew Hogan’s underworld characters as part of the effort to build secure walls around all the bank’s electronic records and files. He knew all the leaks. But when Walter finally lapsed into silence, Angela suggested that he was stretching the evidence too far. “It just doesn’t make sense for him to risk everything in a criminal act so that he can beat you to the presidency,” she said. And then, when Walter seemed annoyed that she disagreed with him, Angela added, “Bottom line, Walter, is that Mitchell Price doesn’t have the balls.”

Walter nodded thoughtfully and, for the first time since he had come through the door, cracked a half smile. “I suppose he doesn’t,” he allowed. And then he seemed suddenly to realize exactly what Angela had been doing. She was fixing their dinner.

“I really shouldn’t stay,” he mumbled. “I should be at home, waiting by the telephone. If anyone knew that I was here … when … Emily …”

She paused with the pasta in her hand, hovering over the boiling water. “Well, if you really think it’s best …”

But instead of backing away, he pressed even closer to her. “God, but I need to be with you. I’ll go crazy if I’m alone with nothing to do but think.”

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him more affectionately than passionately. “I wish I could help you,” she whispered soundlessly. “I want so much to help you.”

His kiss was more passionate. “Maybe I could stay for a little while,” he suggested.

Angela pulled back. “I’d like you to stay. But I guess you’re right, it’s not a very good idea. You might have to account for your time and if you’re asked where you were the first day after your wife was kidnapped, you wouldn’t want to say that …” Her voice trailed off, leaving the obvious unspoken. How would it look if his first reaction were to rush into the arms of his mistress? He might think of it as a needed moment of consolation. But to people who didn’t know him, it might seem a tawdry moment of adultery and evidence of his total disregard for Emily’s life.

“Who would ask me?” Walter suddenly demanded. “Who would I have to account to?”

“Well, Andrew Hogan now. And later, maybe the police. I’m not saying it would ever come to that, but …”

He cut her off. “My God, you’re not suggesting that someone might think that I …”

“There’s no way of telling,” she said.

He turned away from her, his arms suddenly flailing in bewilderment. “How could anyone think that I would … hurt Emily?” Then he wheeled back toward her, his eyes wide. “Sweet Jesus, you don’t think that I have anything to do with this?”

“Of course not! I love you.” She stepped forward to embrace him, but he backed away.

“What if you didn’t love me? Would you think that I could do something like this?”

“Don’t be silly. All I meant was that you’re in the middle of an investigation, and if someone were trying to discredit you …”

“No! That’s not what you meant. You meant that I was probably a suspect. ‘Man kills his wife so he can marry his girlfriend.’ That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”

“Of course not,” Angela snapped back. But then she added, “Well, yes … in a way. What I meant was that if you stay here, that’s how it might look to others. But I didn’t mean that I was thinking that way. I know you too well to even imagine you doing anything so dreadful.”

He leaned against the refrigerator. “You’re right. What a damn idiot I’ve been. I’m a married man, in love with another woman. She won’t give me a divorce, at least not without a messy scandal. So I … oh, Jesus, people could think that, couldn’t they? The police could think I’d want to get rid of her.” He seemed about to sink in despair. But he suddenly shouted, “Andrew Hogan! I’ll bet that’s what he’s thinking right now.”

She moved squarely in front of him, her hands hard on his shoulders. “Don’t do this to yourself. No one is accusing you. No one suspects you. I was just trying to protect you. To keep the wags from talking.”

Walter took her hands in his and held onto them as if they were a lifeline. “I can’t be alone tonight,” he said. “I’ll go crazy, Angela.”

She led him into her bedroom, expecting to comfort and console him. But in her arms, he came alive, his passion becoming almost frantic. They rolled over each other for nearly an hour, knotting themselves in the bedclothes, so that when they finished their lovemaking, they couldn’t work themselves apart. Walter seemed to forget his problems and laughed at the situation they had gotten themselves into.

“If you can lift your shoulder, I think I can pull the blanket free,” she said.

“It’s tied up in the sheet. You have to roll toward me so I can get the sheet free.”

But once they were lying separately, his morose mood returned. “I must be a real bastard,” he berated himself. “How could I do this? I’m laughing with joy at being with you. And Emily might be locked in some goddamned closet. She might be starving. Jesus, she could already be dead.”

Angela sat bolt upright. “Don’t put us together with what happened to Emily. We both betrayed her the first time we got into bed together. We knew what we were doing. We knew it was wrong. What’s happened to her doesn’t make us any worse than we already are.”

He was nodding. “I know, I know. But it feels worse. I should be experiencing some terrible pain. But I don’t feel any pain when I’m with you. I guess I feel guilty that I’m not torn apart by her disappearance. I’m not sure that I want her to come back and that’s god-awful. That’s really despicable!”

“You want her to come back,” Angela said, “and you’ll do everything in your power to get her back. I don’t care what it costs you and I particularly don’t care what it costs the bank. We both have to know that she’s home and safe. Then we’ll both go to her and tell her about us. That’s the only way we can get on with our lives. Otherwise, every time we’re together, you’ll be feeling guilty. Whenever you look at me, you’ll be wondering what happened to her.”

“You’re right,” Walter decided. “I’ve got to keep the two things separate. Our love has nothing to do with her being kidnapped.”

Angela went on. “There’s got to be closure on your marriage to Emily before there can be any marriage with me. You see that, don’t you?”

“Of course. I didn’t mean that I didn’t want her back. I was only saying that I must be some sort of unfeeling bastard to be able to laugh when she could be …” He choked, unable to finish the thought.

Angela leaned down and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Don’t torture yourself thinking about what might be happening. Just do whatever it takes to bring her back safely.”

It was nearly nine o’clock when Walter thought about leaving. His car was in the parking garage across the street where he had left it early that morning and he could be home in Short Hills by eleven. But why? There was nothing for him there. It would make much more sense for him to call a local hotel, get some sleep, and be in his office early in case anything developed.

“A hotel?” Angela shook her head in despair. “Why don’t you just stay here. I’ll get up early so that I can fix you some breakfast.”

“Like you said,” Walter answered. “Staying might not be the best idea. Someone might ask …”

“You’ve already stayed. It’s not going to look any better if you leave at ten than if you leave at five in the morning. Either way, you’re going to be telling someone about us.”

He wavered, wanting desperately to hold on to her through the long night, but afraid to appear so completely unconcerned at his wife’s disappearance.

When he left her building, Walter went straight across the street to the garage. It would raise fewer questions, he thought, if the car were parked closer to the bank. He had decided to sleep on the couch in his office, close to his business phone. It would look better if it were obvious that he had kept an all-night vigil. And he had a change of clothes in his locker at the fitness center.

When he pulled out of the garage, he nearly hit the rental car that was parked across from Angela’s. He glanced apologetically at Helen Restivo, who was sitting behind the wheel.