“The magazine,” she said.

“Exactly.”

“How can I help?” she asked.

“Start finding out all you can about what she was up to when she disappeared. Talk to her friends, roommates, sorority sisters, fellow cheerleaders—anyone.”

“Okay.”

“Also get her school records. Let’s see if there’s anything there. I want to see what courses she was taking, what activities she was involved with, anything.”

Esperanza threw open the door. “Meal Ticket. Line two.”

Myron checked his watch. Christian should be in the middle of practice by now. He picked up the phone. “Christian?”

“Mr. Bolitar, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

Myron could barely hear him. It sounded as if he were standing in a wind tunnel. “Where are you?”

“A pay phone outside Titans Stadium.”

“What’s the matter?”

“They won’t let me in.”

Jessica stayed in the office to make a few calls. Myron rushed out. Fifty-seventh Street to the West Side Highway was unusually clear. He called Otto Burke and Larry Hanson from the car. Neither one was in. Myron was not astounded.

Then he dialed an unlisted phone in Washington. Few people had this particular number.

“Hello?” the voice answered politely.

“Hi, P.T.”

“Ah shit, Myron, what the fuck do you want?”

“I need a favor.”

“Perfect. I was just telling someone, gee, I wish Bolitar would call so I could do him a favor. Few things bring me such joy.”

P.T. worked for the FBI. FBI chiefs come and go. P.T was a constant. The press didn’t know about him, but every president since Nixon had had his number on their speed dial.

“The Kathy Culver case,” Myron said. “Who’s the best guy to talk to about it?”

“The local cop,” P.T. answered without hesitation.

“He’s an elected sheriff or something. Great guy, good friend of mine. I forget his name.”

“Can you get me an appointment?” Myron asked.

“Why not? Serving your needs gives my life a sense of purpose.”

“I owe you.”

“You already owe me. More than you can pay. I’ll call you when I have something.”

Myron hung up. The traffic was still clear. Amazing. He crossed the Washington Bridge and arrived at the Meadowlands in record time.

The Meadowlands Sports Authority was built on useless swampland off the New Jersey Turnpike in a place called East Rutherford. From west to east stood the Meadowlands Race Track, Titans Stadium, and the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the former governor who was about as well liked as a whitehead on prom night. Angry protests equal to the French Revolution had erupted over the name, but to no avail. Mere revolutions are hardly worthy adversaries for a politician’s ego.

“Oh, Christ.”

Christian’s car—or he assumed it was Christian’s—was barely visible under the blanket of reporters. Myron had expected this. He had told Christian to lock himself in his car and not say a word. Driving away would have been useless. The press would have just followed, and Myron was not up for a car chase.

He parked nearby. The reporters turned toward him like lions smelling a wounded lamb.

“What’s going on, Myron?”

“Why isn’t Christian at practice?”

“You pulling a holdout or what?”

“What’s happening with his contract?”

Myron no-commented them, swimming through the sea of microphones, cameras, and flesh, squeezing his way into the car without allowing any of the slime to ooze in with him.

“Drive off,” Myron said.

Christian started the car and pulled out. The reporters parted grudgingly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bolitar.”

“What happened?”

“The guard wouldn’t let me in. He said he had orders to keep me out.”

“Son of a bitch,” Myron muttered. Otto Burke and his damn tactics. Little weasel. Myron should have been looking for something like this. But a lockout? That seemed a tad extreme, even by Otto Burke’s standards. Despite the posturing, they had been fairly close to signing. Burke had expressed strong interest in getting Christian to minicamp as soon as possible, to get him ready for the season.

So why would he lock Christian out?

Myron didn’t like it.

“Do you have a car phone?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

It didn’t matter. “Turn back around,” Myron said. “Park by Gate C.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just come with me.”

The guard tried to stop them, but Myron pushed Christian past him. “Hey, you’re not allowed in there!” he called after them. “Hey, stop!”

“Shoot us,” Myron said without stopping.

They strode onto the field. Players were hitting the tackle dummies hard. Very hard. No one was holding back. These were tryouts. Most of these guys were fighting for a spot on the team. Most had been high school and college superstars, accustomed to unadulterated greatness on the field. Most would get cut. Most would not allow the dream to end there, scrounging other teams’ rosters for a possible opening, holding on, slipping endlessly, dying slowly all the while.

A glamour profession.

The coaches blew whistles. The running backs practiced wind sprints. Kickers were knocking down field goals at the far goal post. Punters boomed slow lazy arcs high into the air. Several players turned and spotted Christian. A buzz developed. Myron ignored it. He had spotted his target, sitting in the first row on the fifty-yard line.

Otto Burke sat like Caesar at the Colosseum, that damn smile still plastered to his face, his arms spread over the seats on either side of him. Behind him sat Larry Hanson and a few other executives. Caesar’s senate. Occasionally Otto would lean back and award his entourage a comment that brought on aneurysm-like fits of laughter.

“Myron!” Otto called out pleasantly, waving one of those tiny hands. “Come on over. Have a seat.”

“Wait here,” Myron told Christian. He climbed the steps. The entourage, led by Larry Hanson, stood in unison and marched away.

Myron snapped a salute at them. “Hut two, three, four. Right face.” No one laughed. Big surprise.

“Sit down, Myron,” Otto said, beaming. “Let’s have a chat.”

“You haven’t been returning my calls,” Myron said.