"Yep."

Myron shook his head. "I still don't believe it."

"What don't you believe?"

"Suzze. You saw her in here. She was pregnant. She was happy."

Esperanza sat back and looked at him for several beats. "Do you remember when Suzze won the US Open?"

"Of course. What does that have to do with anything?"

"She'd cleaned up her act. She focused solely on her tennis, and bam, right away, Suzze wins a major. I never saw someone want something so badly. I can still see that final cross-court forehand to win, the look of pure undiluted joy on her face, the way she threw her racket up in the air and turned and pointed at you."

"At us," Myron said.

"Don't patronize me, please. You've always been her agent and her friend, but you can't be blind here. I want you to think what happened next."

Myron tried to remember. "We had a huge party. Suzze brought the trophy with her. We drank out of it."

"And then?"

Myron nodded, seeing where Esperanza was going. "She crashed."

"Big-time."

Four days after the biggest victory of her career-after appearing on the Today Today show, show, Late Show with David Letterman Late Show with David Letterman, and a bunch of other high-profile venues-Myron found Suzze crying, still in bed at two in the afternoon. They say that there is nothing worse than having a dream come true. Suzze had thought the US Open trophy would bring her instant happiness. She thought her breakfast would taste better in the morning, the sun would feel better on her skin, that she'd look in the mirror and see someone more attractive, smarter, more worthy of love.

She thought that winning would change her.

"Just when things were at their best for her," Esperanza said, "she started using again."

"And you think that's what happened here?"

Esperanza raised one weighing hand, then the other. "Happiness, crash. Happiness, crash."

"And her visit to Karl Snow after all the years? Do you think that's a coincidence?"

"Nope. But I think he brought up a lot of emotion. That plays for her using, not against. Meanwhile I checked the addresses you gave me from Suzze's GPS. The first, well, you figured that one out-Karl Snow's ice cream parlor. The rest are all easy to explain, except I don't have a clue about that second one."

"The intersection in Edison, New Jersey?" Then: "Wait. Didn't you say Kitty's disposable phone was purchased at T-Mobile in Edison?"

"Right." Esperanza brought something up on the computer. "Here's the Google Earth satellite picture."

Myron looked. A ShopRite. A Best Buy. A bunch of stores. A gas station.

"No T-Mobile," Esperanza said.

But, Myron thought, worth a drive anyway.

23.

Myron's car Bluetooth picked up his cell phone. He spent the first half hour on the phone with clients. Life doesn't stop for death. If you ever need proof of that, head back to work.

A few minutes before arriving, Win called.

"Are you armed?" Win asked.

"I a.s.sume you upset Herman Ache."

"I did."

"So he's involved with Gabriel Wire?"

"It would seem so, yes, except for one thing."

"What's that?" Myron asked.

"I presented him with our theory about them controlling Wire via blackmail and gambling debts."

"Right."

"After several minutes," Win said, "Mr. Ache finally admitted that our theory was correct."

"Which means?"

"Herman Ache would lie about what he ate for lunch," Win said.

"So we're missing something."

"Yes. In the meantime, arm yourself."

"I'll pick up a gun when I get back," Myron said.

"No need to wait. There is a thirty-eight under your seat."

Terrific. Myron reached under his seat, felt the b.u.mp. "Anything else I need to know?"

"I birdied the last hole. Shot two under par for the round."

"Talk about burying the lead."

"I was trying to be modest."

"I think," Myron said, "that at some point, we will need to talk to Gabriel Wire face-to-face."

"That might mean storming the castle," Win said. "Or at least his estate on Adiona Island."

"Think we can get through his security?"

"I'll pretend you didn't ask that."

When Myron arrived at the intersection in Edison, he parked in the lot of yet another strip mall. He looked to see whether there was an ice cream parlor in this one-he'd start there this time if that was the case-but no, this one was somewhat more generic, Strip Mall USA, featuring a Best Buy, a Staples, and a shoe store called DSW that had the approximate square footage of a small European princ.i.p.ality.

So why here?

He worked out yesterday's timeline in his head. First Suzze received a phone call from her husband Lex Ryder. The call lasted forty-seven minutes. Thirty minutes after hanging up, Suzze placed a call to Kitty's disposable cell phone. That call was shorter-four minutes. Okay, fine, what next? There was a time gap now, but four hours later, Suzze confronted Karl Snow at his ice cream parlor about the death of his daughter Alista Snow.

So he needed to try to fill in the four hours.

Following the logic of the GPS, sometime between Suzze's four-minute phone call with Kitty and Suzze's visit to Karl Snow, she had driven down here, to this intersection in Edison, New Jersey. Suzze hadn't put an actual address into the GPS, like she did with Karl Snow's mall. She had just put this intersection. There was a strip mall on one corner. A gas station on another. An Audi dealer on the third. Nothing but woods on the fourth.

So why? Why not put a real address?

Clue One: Suzze had come here right after calling Kitty. Considering their rather long and complicated relationship, a four-minute call seemed awfully brief. Possible conclusion: Suzze and Kitty had talked just long enough to set up a meet. Second possible conclusion: They'd agreed to meet here, at this intersection.

Myron looked for a restaurant or coffee shop, but there were none. It seemed highly unlikely that the two former tennis greats had decided to buy shoes or office supplies or electronics, so that ruled out the rest of one corner. He glanced down the road on the left and then the right. And there, past the Audi dealer, Myron spotted an ornate sign that caught his attention. The lettering was done in an Old English font and read: LENDALE MOBILE ESTATES.

It was, Myron saw after crossing the road, a trailer park. Even trailer parks had gone the way of Madison Avenue and spin doctors, what with the fancy sign and use of the word "estates" as though it were a beloved stop on an elite house tour in Newport, Rhode Island. The trailers were laid out along a grid of roads with names like Garden Mews and Old Oak Drive, though there seemed to be no indication of either a garden or an oak, old or not, and Myron was not sure what a mews was.

Even from his spot on the road, Myron could see several For Rent signs. New conclusion: Kitty and Mickey were staying here. Maybe Suzze didn't know the exact address. Maybe a GPS wouldn't recognize Garden Mews or Old Oaks Drive, so she'd given Suzze the closest intersection.

He didn't have a photograph of Kitty to show around, and even if he did, that would just be too suspicious. He couldn't stop and knock on trailer doors either. In the end, Myron opted for a good old-fashioned stakeout. He got back in his car and parked near the manager's office, giving him a pretty good view of most of the trailers. So how long could he park here and wait? An hour, maybe two. He called his old friend Zorra, a former Mossad agent who was always game for a stakeout. Zorra would head down and take over in two hours.

Myron settled in, used the time to make calls to his clients. Chaz Landreaux, his oldest NBA player and a former All-Star, was hoping to scratch out another year in the pros. Myron kept calling general managers, trying to get the popular veteran a tryout, but there was no interest. Chaz was heartbroken. "I just can't let go yet," he told Myron. "You know what I mean?"

Myron did. "Keep working out," Myron said. "Someone will give you a chance."

"Thanks, man. I know I can help a young team."

"I know it too. Let me ask you something else. Worst-case scenario. If the NBA isn't in the cards, how would you feel about playing a year in China or Europe?"

"I don't think so."

Looking out his front windshield, Myron spotted a trailer door open. This time, however, his nephew, Mickey, came out. Myron sat up. "Chaz, I'll keep working on it. Let's talk tomorrow."

He hung up. Mickey still held the door open. He looked back inside the trailer for a moment before letting the door shut. He was, as Myron had noted last night, a big kid, six-four, and weighing around two-ten. Mickey walked with his shoulders back, his head high. It was, Myron realized, the Bolitar walk. Myron's father walked like that. Brad walked like that. And Myron too.

You can't escape your genes, kid.

Now what?

There was, he guessed, a slight chance that Suzze had spoken or met with Mickey. But really that seemed unlikely. Better to stay here. Better to wait until Mickey was gone and then approach the trailer, hoping Kitty was still inside. If not, if Kitty wasn't there and he needed to track down Mickey, that wouldn't be difficult. Mickey wore a red Staples employee polo. It was safe to a.s.sume that Mickey was heading to work.

Did Staples hire employees that young?

Myron wasn't sure. He pulled down the visor. He knew that the sun's reflection would make it impossible for Mickey to spot him. As his nephew came closer, Myron could make out the name tag on his shirt. It read: BOB.

Stranger and stranger.

He waited until Mickey turned toward the intersection before getting out of his car. He walked toward the highway and took a quick look. Yep, Mickey was heading to the Staples. Myron turned back and headed down Garden Mews. The park was clean and well kept. There were lawn chairs in front of some trailers. Others had plastic daisies or those pinwheel decorations stuck into the ground. Chimes blew in the wind. There was also a wide variety of lawn ornaments, the Madonna being far and away the most popular.

Myron reached the door and knocked. No answer. He knocked harder. Still nothing. He tried to peer into a window, but the shades were pulled. He circled the trailer. Every window shade was down in the middle of the day. He moved back to the door and tried the k.n.o.b. Locked.

The lock was a spring latch, probably not new. Myron wasn't an expert on breaking in, but the truth is, "loiding" an old spring-latch lock was pretty easy. Myron made sure no one was looking. Years ago, Win had taught him how to break in with a thinner-than-credit-card card. The card had sat dormant in his wallet, always there but unused, like an adolescent carrying a condom but without the hope. He took it out now, made sure no one was looking, and slid the card into the door frame, getting between the latch tongue to depress it and thus unlock the door. If the trailer door had a dead bolt or a dead latch or even a dead locking plunger, this would all be for naught. Luckily the lock was cheap and flimsy.

The door swung open.

Myron quickly stepped inside and closed it behind him. The lights were out and with the shades all pulled down, the room held a ghastly glow.

"h.e.l.lo?"

No reply.

He flipped the light switch. The bulbs sputtered their way to illumination. The room was pretty much what one might expect from a trailer rental. There was one of those ninety-nine-dollar, too-much-a.s.sembly-required grid "entertainment centers" with a handful of paperbacks, a small television, and a beat-up laptop computer. There was a coffee table in front of a sleeper couch that had not seen a coaster since the first moon landing. Myron could tell the couch was a sleeper because there was a pillow and folded blankets on it. Mickey probably slept here, his mother taking the bedroom.

Myron spotted a photograph on the end table. He flicked on the lamp and lifted it into view. Mickey was in a basketball uniform, his hair messed, the ringlets in front pasted to his forehead by the sweat. Brad stood next to him, his arm draped around his son's neck as though he was about to put him in a loving headlock. Father and son sported enormous smiles. Brad gazed at his son with such obvious love, the moment so intimate Myron almost felt like turning away. Brad's nose, Myron could see, had a definite bend now. But more than that, Brad looked older, his hair starting to recede from the forehead, and something about that, about the pa.s.sage of time and all they'd missed, made Myron's heart break anew.

From behind him, Myron heard a noise. He spun quickly. The sound had come from the bedroom. He moved to the door and peered inside. The main room was neat and tidy. The bedroom looked like a tornado had ripped through it, and there, in the eye of the storm, asleep (or worse) on her back, was Kitty.

"h.e.l.lo?"

She didn't move. Her breath came in short, raspy pants. The room smelled of old cigarettes and what might have been beer sweat. He moved closer to the bed. Myron decided to do a little poking around before he woke her. The disposable cell was on her bedside table. He checked it. He recognized the calls from Suzze and Joel "Crush" Fishman. There were three or four other calls, some with what looked like an overseas number. He punched them into his BlackBerry and e-mailed them to Esperanza. He searched Kitty's pocketbook and found her and Mickey's pa.s.sports. There were dozens of stamps for countries on every continent. Myron tore through it, trying to figure out the timeline. A lot of the stamps were smeared. Still it looked as though Kitty had entered the United States eight months ago from Peru.

He put the pa.s.sports back in the purse and rifled through it. There were no surprises at first, but then he started to feel along the lining and-h.e.l.lo-he felt the hard lump. He reached in, slid the seam open with his fingers, and pulled out a plastic bag with a small amount of brown powder in it.

Heroin.

Anger almost got the better of him. He was about to wake her up with a kick to the bed when he spotted something on the floor. For a moment he just blinked in disbelief. It was there, on the floor near Kitty's head, where you might toss a book or magazine if you were falling asleep. Myron bent down to get a closer look. He didn't want to touch it, didn't want to get fingerprints on it.

It was a gun.

He looked around, found a T-shirt on the floor, and used it to lift the gun into view. A .38. Same as the one sitting in Myron's waistband, courtesy of Win. What the h.e.l.l was going on here? He was half tempted to report her to family services and leave it at that.

"Kitty?"

His voice was louder now, harsher. No movement. This wasn't sleep. She was pa.s.sed out. He kicked the bed. Nothing. He debated throwing water on her face. Instead he tried to gently slap her face. He leaned over her and smelled the stale breath. He traveled back again, to when she was that adorable teenager dominating center court, and his favorite Yiddish expression came back to him in a rush: Man plans, G.o.d laughs.

This was not a kind laugh.

"Kitty?" he said again, a little harsher now.

Her eyes suddenly opened wide. She rolled quickly, startling Myron back, and then he realized what she was doing.