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“I was looking for my son.”

“In that alley?”

“Yes. I saw a friend of his…” The pain returned. He could see how this would go. It would take some time to explain. And then what? What would this cop find anyway?

He needed to reach Tia.

“I’m in a lot of pain right now,” Mike said.

Guttierez nodded. “I understand. Look, here’s my card. Call if you want to talk some more or fill out a complaint, okay?”

Guttierez put his card on the night table and left the room. Mike ignored it. He fought through the pain, reached for the phone, and dialed Tia’s cell phone.

18

LOREN Muse watched the street surveillance tape from near where her Jane Doe’s body was dumped. Nothing jumped out at her, but then again, what had she expected? Several dozen vehicles drove past that lot at that hour. You couldn’t really eliminate any. The body could be in the trunk of even the smallest car.

Still she kept watching and hoping and when the tape rolled to the end, she had gotten a big fat goose egg for her trouble.

Clarence knocked and stuck his head in again. “You’re not going to believe this, Chief.”

“I’m listening.”

“First off, forget that missing man. The Baye guy. Guess where he was?”

“Where?”

“A Bronx hospital. His wife goes away on business and he goes out and gets mugged by a hooker.”

Muse made a face. “A Livingston guy going for a hooker in that area?”

“What can I tell you-some people like slumming. But that’s not the big news.” Clarence sat down without being asked, which was out of character. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and there was a hint of a smile breaking through the fleshy face.

“The Cordovas’ Acura MDX is still in the hotel lot,” he said. “The local cops knocked on some doors. She’s not there. So I went backward.”

“Backward?”

“The last place we knew where she was. The Palisades Mall. It’s a huge mall and they got a pretty extensive security setup. So I called them.”

“The security office?”

“Right, and here’s the thing: Yesterday, around five P.M., some guy came in to say he saw a woman in a green Acura MDX walk to her car, load some stuff in, and then walk to a man’s white van parked next to her. He says she gets in the van, not forced or anything, but then the door closes. The guy figures, no big deal except another woman comes along and gets in the woman’s Acura. Then both cars drove out together.”

Muse sat back. “The van and the Acura?”

“Right.”

“And another woman is driving the Acura?”

“Right. So anyway, this guy reports it to the security office and the guards are like, uh, so? They don’t pay any attention-I mean, what are they going to do? So they just file it. But when I call, they remember and pull the report. First off, this all took place right outside the Target. The guy came in to make the report at five fifteen P.M. We know that Reba Cordova made her purchase at Target at four fifty- two P.M. The receipt is date-stamped.”

Bells started clanging, but Muse wasn’t sure where they were coming from.

“Call Target,” she said. “I bet they have surveillance cameras.”

“We’re coordinating with Target’s home office as we speak. Probably take a couple of hours, no more. Something else. Maybe important, maybe not. We were able to figure out what she bought at Target. Some kid DVDs, some kid underwear, clothes-all stuff for kids.”

“Not what you buy if you plan on running away with a paramour.”

“Exactly, unless you’re taking the kids, which she didn’t. And more than that, we opened her Acura in the hotel lot, and there is no Target bag inside. The husband checked the house, in case she stopped home. No Target stuff there either.”

A cold shiver started up near the base of Muse’s neck.

“What?” he asked.

“I want that report from the security office. Get the guy’s phone number-the one who reported seeing her get in a van. See what else he remembers-vehicles, descriptions of the passengers, anything. I’m sure the security guard didn’t go over all that with him. I want to know everything.”

“Okay.”

They talked another minute or two, but her mind whirred and her pulse raced. When Clarence left, Muse picked up her phone and hit the cell phone for her boss, Paul Copeland.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Muse asked.

“I just dropped Cara off.”

“I need to bounce something off you, Cope.”

“When?”

“Soon as possible.”

“I’m supposed to meet my bride-to-be at some restaurant to final- ize the seating chart.”

“The seating chart?”

“Yeah, Muse. The seating chart. It’s this thing that tells people where to sit.”

“And you care about this?”

“Not even a little.”

“Let Lucy do it, then.”

“Right, like she doesn’t already. She drags me to all these things, but I’m not allowed to speak. She says I’m just eye candy.”

“You are, Cope.”

“Yes, true, but I have a brain too.”

“That’s the part of you I need,” she said.

“Why, what’s up?”

“I’m having one of my crazier hunches, and I need you to tell me if I’m on to something or going off the deep end.”

“Is it more important than who sits at the same table as Aunt Carol and Uncle Jerry?”

“No, this is just a homicide.”

“I’ll make the sacrifice. On my way.”

THE sound of the phone woke Jill up.

She was in Yasmin’s bedroom. Yasmin was trying too hard to fit in with the other girls by pretending to be extra boy-crazy. There was a poster of Zac Efron, the hottie from the High School Musicalmovies on one wall, and another of the Sprouse twins from The Suite Life. There was one of Miley Cyrus from Hannah Montana-okay, a girl, not a hottie, but still. It all seemed so desperate.

Yasmin’s bed was near the door while Jill slept by the window. Both beds were blanketed with stuffed animals. Yasmin once told Jill that the best part about divorce was the competitive spoiling-both parents go out of their way with the gifts. Yasmin only saw her mom maybe four, five times a year, but she sent stuff constantly. There were at least two dozen Build-A-Bears, including one dressed like a cheerleader and another, perched next to Jill’s pillow, that was done up like a pop star with rhinestone shorts, a halter top, and a wire microphone wrapped around her furry face. A ton of Webkinz animals, including three hippos alone, spilled onto the floor. Back issues of J-14and Teen Peopleand Popstar!magazines littered the nightstand. The carpet was deep shag, something her parents told her had gone out in the 1970s but seemed to be making an odd comeback in teen bedrooms. There was a brand-new iMac on the desk.

Yasmin was good with computers. So was Jill.

Jill sat up. Yasmin blinked and looked over at her. In the distance, Jill could hear a rumbling voice on the phone. Mr. Novak. There was a Homer Simpson clock on the nightstand between them. It read seven fifteen A.M.

Early for a call, Jill knew, especially on a weekend.

The girls had stayed up late last night. First they went out for dinner and ice cream with Mr. Novak and his annoying new girlfriend, Beth. Beth was probably forty years old and laughed at everything Mr. Novak said like, well, like the annoying boy-crazy girls at their school did to make a boy like them. Jill thought you outgrew that at some stage. Maybe not.

Yasmin had a plasma TV in her room. Her father let them watch as many movies as they wanted. “It’s the weekend,” Guy Novak said with a big smile. “Have at it.” So they microwaved some popcorn and watched PG-13 and even one R-rated film that would probably have freaked out Jill’s parents.