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“Amy,” she said, “how’d you like to drive my car for a couple of days?”

“The BMW? Sure. But—”

“And I’ll drive yours,” Alex said. “But you need to bring it over to me. Stop that, Jamie. Stop kicking sand.”

“Are you sure? It’s a Toyota with a bunch of dents.”

“Actually, that sounds perfect. Come to the southwest side of Roxbury Park, and pull over in front of a white Spanish apartment building with wrought-iron gates in front.”

Alex was unprepared
by temperament and training for the situation in which she now found herself. All her life had been spent in the sunlight. She obeyed the rules. She was an officer of the court. She played the game. She didn’t run yellow lights; she didn’t park in the red; she didn’t cheat on her taxes. At the firm, she was regarded as by-the-book, stodgy. She told clients, “Rules are made to be followed, not twisted.” And she meant it.

Five years earlier, when she discovered her husband was screwing around on her, she threw him out within an hour of learning the truth. She packed his bag and put it outside the door, and had the locks changed. When he came back from his “fishing trip,” she spoke through the door and told him to get lost. Matt was actually screwing one of her best friends—that was Matt’s way—and she never again spoke to that woman.

Of course, Jamie had to see his father, and she made sure that happened. She delivered her son to Matt at the appointed time, on the
dot. Not that he ever returned her son on time. But it was Alex’s view that the world stabilized one person at a time. If she did her part, she felt eventually others might do theirs.

At work she was called idealistic, impractical, unrealistic. She responded that in lawyer-speak,
realistic
was another word for
dishonest.
She stuck to her guns.

But it was true that sometimes she felt she limited herself to the kinds of cases that did not challenge her illusions. The head of the firm, Robert A. Koch, had said as much. “You’re like a conscientious objector, Alex. You let other people do the fighting. But sometimes we have to fight. Sometimes, we can’t avoid conflict.”

Koch was an ex-Marine, like her father. Same kind of rough-and-tumble talk. Proud of it. She’d always shrugged it off. Now she wasn’t shrugging anything off. She didn’t know what was going on, but she felt pretty sure she couldn’t just talk her way out of it.

She was also sure nobody was going to stick a needle into her, or her son. To prevent that, she would do whatever had to be done.

Whatever
had to be done.

She replayed in her mind the incident at the school. She hadn’t had a gun. She didn’t own a gun. But she wished she had had one. She thought,
If they were trying to do something to my son, could I have killed them?

And she thought,
Yes. I could have killed them
.

And she knew it was true.

A white
Toyota Highlander with a battered front bumper pulled up. She saw Amy sitting in the car. Alex said, “Jamie? Let’s go.”

“Finally!”

He started toward their apartment, but she steered him in another direction.

“Where’re we going?”

“We’re taking a little trip,” she said.

“Where?” He was suspicious. “I don’t want to take a trip.”

Without hesitation, she said, “I’ll buy you a PSP.” She had stead
fastly refused for a year to buy him one of those electronic game things. But now she was just saying whatever came to mind.

“For real? Hey, thanks!” More frowns. “But which games? I want Tony Hawk Three, and I want Shrek—”

“Whatever you want,” she said. “Let’s just get in the car. We’re going to drive Amy back to work.”

“And then? Where are we going then?”

“Legoland,” she said.

The first thing that came into her mind.

Driving back
to the office, Amy said, “I brought your father’s package. I thought you might want it.”

“What package?’

“It came to the office last week. You never opened it. You were at trial with the Mick Crowley rape case. You remember, that political reporter who likes little boys.”

It was a small FedEx box. Alex tore it open, dumped the contents on her lap.

A cheap cellular phone, the kind you bought and put a card in.

Two prepaid telephone cards.

A tinfoil-wrapped packet of cash: five thousand in hundred-dollar bills.

And a cryptic note: “In Case of Trouble. Don’t use your credit cards. Turn off your cell phone. Don’t tell anyone where you are going. Borrow somebody’s car. Page me when you are in a motel. Keep Jamie with you.”

Alex sighed. “That son of a bitch.”

“What is it?”

“Sometimes my father annoys me,” she said. Amy didn’t need to hear details. “Listen, today’s Thursday. Why don’t you take a long weekend?”

“That’s what my boyfriend wants to do,” she said. “He wants to go to Pebble Beach and watch the old car parade.”

“That’s a great idea,” Alex said. “Take my car.”

“Really? I don’t know…what if something happened to it? I got in an accident or something.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alex said. “Just take the car.”

Amy frowned. There was a long silence. “Is it safe?”

“Of course it’s safe.”

“I don’t know what you’re involved in,” she said.

“It’s nothing. It’s a mistaken-identity thing. It’ll be worked out by Monday, I promise you. Bring the car back Sunday night, and I’ll see you in the office Monday.”

“For sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Amy said, “Can my boyfriend drive?”

“Absolutely.”

CH057

G
eorgia Bellarmino
would never have known, if it hadn’t been for the cereal box.

Georgia was on the phone with a client in New York, an investment banker who had just gotten a DOE appointment; they were talking about the house he was buying for his family move to Rockville, Maryland. Georgia, who was Best-Selling Realtor of the Year in Rockville for three years running, was busy going over the terms of the purchase when her sixteen-year-old daughter, Jennifer, called from the kitchen, “Mom, I’m late for school. Where’s the cereal?”

“On the kitchen table.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Look again.”

“Mom, it’s empty! Jimmy must have eaten it.”

Mrs. Bellarmino covered the phone with her hand. “Then get another box, Jen,” she said. “You’re sixteen; you’re not helpless.”

“Where is it?” Jennifer said.

Banging doors in the kitchen.

“Look above the oven,” Mrs. Bellarmino said.

“I did. It’s not there.”

Mrs. Bellarmino told the client she’d call back, and walked into the kitchen. Her daughter was wearing low-cut jeans and a sheer top that looked like something a hooker would wear to work. These days, even junior high girls dressed that way. She sighed.

“Look above the oven, Jen.”

“I told you. I did.”

“Look again.”

“Mom, will you just get it for me? I’m late.”

Mrs. Bellarmino stood firm. “Above the oven.”

Jennifer reached up, opening the doors, stretching for the cereal box, which was right there, of course. But Mrs. Bellarmino was not looking at the box. She was looking at her daughter’s exposed stomach.

“Jen…you have those bruises again.”

Her daughter brought the box down, tugged at her top, covering her belly. “It’s nothing.”

“You had them the other day, too.”

“Mom, I’m late.” She was walking to the table, sitting down.

“Jennifer.
Show me.
”

With an exasperated sigh, her daughter stood and lifted her top, exposing her abdomen. Mrs. Bellarmino saw an inch-long horizontal bruise just above the bikini line. And another one, fainter, on the other side of the belly.

“It’s nothing, Mom. I just keep banging into the edge of the desk.”

“But you shouldn’t bruise…”

“It’s nothing.”

“Are you taking your vitamins?”

“Mom? Can I please just eat?”

“You know you can tell me anything, you know that—”

“Mom, you’re making me late for school! I have a French test!”

There was no point in pushing her now. In any case, the phone had started ringing—no doubt the New York client telephoning back. Clients were impatient. They expected realtors to be available every minute of the day. She went into the other room to take the call and opened her documents to review the numbers.

Five minutes later, her daughter yelled, “Bye, Mom!” and Georgia heard the front door slam.

It left her distinctly uneasy.

She just had a
feeling
. She dialed her husband’s lab in Bethesda. For
once Rob was not in meetings, and she was put right through. She told him the story.

“What do you think we should do?” she asked.

“Search her room,” he said promptly. “We have an obligation.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll call the office and tell them I’ll be late.”

“I’m flying later,” he said, “but let me know.”

CH058

B
arton Williams’s
Boeing 737 rolled to a stop at the Hopkins private terminal in Cleveland, Ohio, and the whine of the engines wound down. The interior of the aircraft was luxuriously appointed. There were two bedrooms, two full baths with showers, and a dining room seating eight. But the master bedroom, which took up the entire rear third of the plane, with a king-size bed and a fur throw and mood lighting, was where Barton spent most of the flight. He needed only one flight attendant, but he invariably flew with three. He liked company. He liked laughter and chatter. He liked young, smooth flesh on the fur, with the mood lighting low, warm, reddish, sensual. And, hell, forty thousand feet up in the air was the only place he could be sure he was safe from the wife.

The thought of the wife dampened his mood. He looked at the parrot standing on the perch in the living room of the plane. The parrot said, “You kidnapped me.”

“What’s your name again?” Barton said.

“Riley. Doghouse Riley.” Speaking in a funny voice.

“Don’t be smart with me.”

“My name is Gerard.”

“That’s right. Gerard. I don’t much like it. Sounds foreign. How about Jerry? That suit you?”

“No,” the parrot said. “It doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s stupid. It’s a stupid idea.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Is it really?” Barton Williams said, with a hint of menace in his voice. Williams knew this was a mere animal, but he was not accustomed to being called stupid—especially by a bird—and no one had done so in many, many years. He felt his enthusiasm for this gift cooling.

“Jerry,” he said, “you better be getting along with me, because I own you now.”

“People can’t be owned.”

“And you ain’t people, Jerry. You’re a damn bird.” Barton stepped close to the perch. “Now, let me tell you how it’s going to be. I’m going to give you to my wife, and I want you to behave, I want you to be amusing, I want you to compliment and flatter her and make her feel good. Is that clear?”

“Everyone else does,” Gerard said. He was mimicking the voice of the pilot, who heard it from the cockpit and snapped his head around to look back. “Jesus, I get sick of the old fart sometimes,” Gerard continued.

Barton Williams frowned.

Next he heard a precise imitation of the sound of jet engines in flight, and superimposed on that, a girl’s voice, one of the flight attendants: “Jenny, are you going to blow him or am I?”

“Your turn.”

Sigh. “Oh-kay…”

“Don’t forget to take him his drink.”

Click of a door opening and closing.

Barton Williams began to turn red. The bird continued:

“Oh, Barton! Oh, give it to me! Oh, you’re so big! Oh Barton! Yes, baby. Yes, big boy! Ooh I love it! So big, so big, aaaaaah!”

Barton Williams stared at the bird. “I believe,” he said, “that you will not be a welcome addition to my household.”

“You’re the reason our kids are ugly, little darlin’,” Gerard said.

“That’s enough from you,” Barton said, turning away.

“Oh Barton! Oh, give it to me! Oh, you’re so big! Oh—”

Barton Williams threw the cover over the bird’s cage.

“Jenny, honey,
you’ve got family in Dayton, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Williams.”

“You think anybody in your family would enjoy a talking bird?”

“Uh, well, actually—yes, Mr. Williams, I’m sure they would love it.”

“Good, good. I would appreciate it if you delivered him down there today.”

“Of course, Mr. Williams.”

“And if by some chance,” he said, “your family is not appreciative of feathered companions, just have them tie very heavy weights to his legs and drop him in the river. Because I never want to see this bird again.”

“Yes, Mr. Williams.”

“I heard that,” said the bird.

“Good,” Barton Williams said.

After the old man’s
limousine had gone, Jenny stood on the tarmac holding the covered cage. “What am I going to do with this thing?” she said. “My daddy hates birds. He shoots ’em.”

“Take him to a pet store,” the pilot said. “Or give him to somebody who’ll ship him to Utah, or Mexico, or someplace like that.”

Refreshing Paws
was an upscale store in Shaker Heights. There were mostly puppies in the store. The young guy behind the counter was cute, maybe a little younger than Jenny was. He had a good body. She walked in carrying Gerard in his covered cage. “You got any parrots?”

“No. We just have dogs.” He smiled at her. “What’ve you got there? I’m Stan.” His name tag said
STAN MILGRAM
.

“Hi, Stan. I’m Jenny. And this is Gerard. He’s an African grey.”

“Let’s have a look at him,” Stan said. “You want to sell him, or what?”

“Or give him away.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Owner doesn’t like him.”

Jenny whipped off the cover. Gerard blinked, flapped his feathers. “I’ve been kidnapped,” he said.

“Hey,” Stan said, “he talks pretty good.”

“Oh, he’s a good talker,” Jenny said.

“Oh, he’s a good talker,” Gerard said, mimicking her voice. Then: “Stop patronizing me.”

Stan frowned. “What’s he mean?”

“I am surrounded by fools,” Gerard said.

“He just talks a lot,” Jenny said, shrugging.

“Is there anything wrong with him?”

“No, nothing.”

Gerard turned to Stan. “I told you,” he said, emphatically. “I’ve been kidnapped. She is involved. She is one of the kidnappers.”

“Is he stolen?” Stan asked.

“Not stolen,” Gerard said.
“Kidnapped.”

“What kind of accent is that?” Stan asked. He was smiling at Jenny. She turned sideways, to show him her breasts in profile.

“French.”

“He sounds British.”

“He came from France, is all I know.”

“Ooh la la,” Gerard said. “Will you please listen to me?”

“He thinks he’s a person,” Jenny said.

“I
am
a person, you little twit,” Gerard said. “And if you want to hump this guy, go on and do it. Just don’t make me wait around while you wiggle your assets in front of him.”

Jenny turned red. The kid looked away, then smiled back at her.

“He’s got a mouth on him,” Jenny said, still blushing.

“Does he ever swear?”

“I never heard him do that, no.”

“’Cause I know someone who might like him,” Stan said, “as long as he doesn’t swear.”

“What do you mean, someone?”

“My aunt, out in California. She’s in Mission Viejo. That’s Orange County. She’s widowed, lives alone. She likes animals, and she’s lonely.”

“Oh, okay. That could be okay.”

“You are
giving me away
?” Gerard said, in a horrified tone. “This is
slavery
! I am not something you
give away.
”

“I have to drive out there,” Stan Milgram said, “in a couple of days. I could take him with me. I know she’d like him. But, uh, what’re you doing later tonight?”

“I could be free,” Jenny said.