“She’s from Livingston too. Same age, same class.”

“Name?”

“Aimee Biel.”

The name didn’t mean anything to him, but he really didn’t know Katie’s friends very well. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Any of you know a girl named Aimee Biel?”

No one said anything.

“Hey, I asked a question here. She’d be Katie’s year.”

The boys shook their heads. Joan didn’t move. His eyes met hers. She shook her head slowly.

“There’s more,” his contact said.

“Like what?”

“They found a link to your daughter.”

“What kind of link?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been eavesdropping. But I think it has something to do with where they both went missing. Do you know a guy named Myron Bolitar?”

“The old basketball star?”

“Yeah.”

Rochester had seen him a few times. He also knew that Bolitar had had run-ins with some of Rochester’s nastier colleagues.

“What about him?”

“He’s involved.”

“How?”

“He picked up the missing girl in midtown Manhattan. That’s the last time she was seen. She used the same ATM as your Katie.”

He felt a jolt. “He what?”

Dominick’s contact explained a bit more, about how this Bolitar guy had driven Aimee Biel back over to Jersey, how a gas station attendant saw them arguing, and how she just disappeared.

“The police talk to him?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t think very much. He lawyered up.”

“He . . .” Dominick felt a red swirl build in his head. “Son of a bitch. Did they arrest him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not enough yet.”

“So, what, they just let him walk?”

“Yeah.”

Dominick Rochester didn’t say anything. He got very quiet. His family noticed. They all went very still, afraid to move. When he finally spoke again, his voice was so calm, his family held their breaths.

“Anything else?”

“That’s it for now.”

“Keep digging.”

Dominick hung up the phone. He turned toward the table. His whole family was watching him.

Joan said, “Dom?”

“It was nothing.”

He felt no need to explain. This didn’t involve them. It was his job to handle stuff like this. The father was the soldier, the one who kept vigil so that his family could sleep untroubled.

He headed to the garage. Once inside, he closed his eyes and tried to smother the rage. It wouldn’t happen.

Katie . . .

He eyed the metal baseball bat. He remembered reading about Bolitar’s injured knee. If he thought that hurt, if he thought a mere knee injury was pain . . .

He made some calls, did a little background. In the past, Bolitar had gotten in trouble with the Ache brothers, who ran New York. Bolitar was supposedly a tough guy, good with his fists, who hung out with a psycho named Windsor Something.

Taking on Bolitar would not be easy.

But it wouldn’t be all that difficult either. Not if Dominick got the best.

His cell phone was a throwaway, the kind you can buy in cash with a false name and toss away after you use up your minutes. No way to trace it back to him. He grabbed a fresh one off the shelf. For a moment he just held it and debated his next move. His breathing was labored.

Dominick had busted his share of heads in his day, but if he dialed this number, if he did indeed call the Twins, he was crossing a line he’d never gone near before.

He thought about his daughter’s smile. He thought about how she had to wear braces when she was twelve and how she wore her hair and the way she used to look at him, a long time ago, when she was a little girl and he was the most powerful man in the world.

Dominick pressed the digits. After this call, he would have to get rid of the phone. That was one of the Twins’ rules, and when it came to those two, it didn’t matter who you were, didn’t matter how tough or how hard you’d scraped to buy this fancy house in Livingston, you don’t mess around with the Twins.

The phone was answered on the second ring. No hello. No greeting at all. Just silence.

Dominick said, “I’m going to need both of you.”

“When?”

Dominick picked up the metal bat. He liked the weight of it. He thought about this Bolitar guy, this guy who drove off with a missing girl and then lawyered up, who was free now and probably watching TV or enjoying a nice meal.

No way you let that slide. Even if you gotta bring in the Twins.

“Now,” Dominick Rochester said. “I need you both now.”

CHAPTER 18

When Myron arrived back at his house in Livingston, Win was already there.

Win was sprawled out in a chaise lounge on the front lawn. His legs were crossed. He wore khakis sans socks, a blue shirt, a Lilly Pulitzer tie of dizzying green. Some people could wear anything and make it work. Win was one of those people.

He had his face tilted to the sun, eyes closed. He did not open them as Myron approached.

“Do you still want to go to the Knicks game?” Win asked.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“You mind if I take someone else then?”

“No.”

“I met a girl at Scores last night.”

“She’s a stripper?”

“Please.” Win held up a finger. “She’s an erotic dancer.”

“Career woman. Nice.”

“Her name is Bambi, I think. Or maybe Tawny.”

“Is that her real name?”

“Nothing about her is real,” Win said. “By the way, the police were here.”

“Searching the place?”

“Yes.”

“They take my computer?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Fret not. I arrived before them and backed up your personal files. Then I erased the hard drive.”

“You,” Myron said. “You’re good.”

“The best,” Win said.

“Where did you back it up?”

“USB hard drive on my key chain,” he said, dangling it, his eyes still closed. “Kindly move to the right a little. You’re blocking my sun.”

“Has Hester’s investigator learned anything new?”

“There was an ATM charge on young Ms. Biel’s card,” Win said.

“Aimee took out cash?’