"Sonny?"

"Oh, sorry. Sonny was what Terry used to call him. It was apparently a family nickname. His dad's name was Phil, too, so when he was a kid, they called him Sonny to differentiate. Anyway, Phil came by once when my wife was out. He told me he was trying to locate Terry because he owed her money." Lyle grunted. "Like I should believe that. My wife figured she was hiding from him. All I can say is, I hope to God he never found her."

"You think, even after they were divorced, that he might have tried to hurt her?"

"Phil doesn't get married, he takes prisoners. Same with his first wife. Her name was Candy. I never knew her personally, but I'd see him with her every now and then. We used to frequent the same bars. I'll tell you this much, she was one frightened woman. I saw him slap her around more than once. That guy's a mean son of a bitch."

"What happened to his first wife after their divorce?"

Lyle shrugged. "No idea." He tapped ash into the ashtray, then took another long drag. "How come you're so interested?"

"Chris. I stopped by their house this morning and Phil said she'd left town, gone on a trip. It sounded fishy to me. I talked to her mom later. She said Chris had left her a message around eight fifteen, said her car wasn't working right and that she was going to drop it off at Phil's mechanic's place. Phil was going to give her a ride back home."

Smoke drifted out of Lyle's nose. "You think he did something to her?"

"I think somebody's lying and I don't think it's Chris."

"Jesus." Lyle stubbed out his cigarette. "Call the police."

"I did. But they can't do anything until she's gone for twenty-four hours."

Lyle shook his head. "Figures."

As Bram's gaze traveled over the living room, he noticed an open bottle of Johnny Walker Red sitting on top of the TV set.

Lyle turned around to see what Bram was looking at.

"Listen, Lyle, are you sure you should be flying tonight?"

"None of your goddamn business," said Lyle, jerking to a standing position. "It's nobody's goddamn business. Not yours. Not Vince's. Not Bob's. I know what my limits are."

"Bob's?"

"You're all the same. You think because a guy takes a little drink every now and then, his judgment goes AWOL. I drank when I was in Nam, and I drink now. So what? Doesn't make me an alcoholic. You ask me, people use that term pretty damn freely."

He seemed so instantly belligerent, Bram assumed he'd had the conversation before. "Did Bob think you had a problem with alcohol?"

"So what if he did? He didn't know everything. He wasn't God."

"Did he threaten to talk to Sunrise Airlines if you didn't get help?"

"Get out," said Lyle, lurching past him and disappearing into the kitchen.

Bram got up and followed. He found Lyle standing at the kitchen sink with his back to the door. Next to the sink was another bottle of Johnny Walker Red. This one was empty. "Answer me. Did Bob threaten to talk to your employer?"

"Yes!"

"Did you fight about it? Did you-"

He whirled around. "What are you saying?"

"Were you the one at his house that night?"

In one lightning-quick movement, Lyle was at his throat, pressing him backward, knocking over a chair and toppling the kitchen table. "You think I hurt Bob? Do you?" He grabbed Bram's lapels and slammed him into the wall. "He fucking saved my life! I owe him everything. Do you get that? I loved him. Guys like you . . . you can't begin to understand the bond we had. War is like fire, Baldric, fire that melted our souls together. We're brothers! You think I shot him? I would have done anything for him. Anything." His eyes were wild.

"I believe you," said Bram. "I do. Honestly."

Lyle glared at him a moment, his eyes boring into Bram's; then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, it ended. Moving back over to the sink, Lyle said, "Get out."

Bram eased around the table. "I believe you. But I agree with Bob. I think you need help."

Lyle bowed his head. "Just leave."

Bram felt that a hasty exit was, for now, the better part of valor.

On the way down in the elevator, his thoughts turned to the conversation he'd had several days ago with Sheldon Larr. At the time, Bram had shrugged it off, thinking Sheldon was just being his usual eccentric self. But Sheldon missed very little that happened around the Rookery Club. Perhaps he overheard a conversation between Lyle and Bob. Whatever the case, his words now took on an ominous meaning. They'd been talking about Bob Fabian, about who might have murdered him. Sheldon said he knew. But he'd been typically cryptic. He'd asked Bram to define the word "rook." Bram said it was a bird.

"And what do birds do?"

Bram could hear Sheldon's response even now.

"They fly, my dear. They fly."

32.

"I was about to send out the Marines," said Sophie, glancing up from her computer keyboard. She was sitting behind her desk in her office at the Maxfield.

Bram had just come in. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then sank down on the couch. "You didn't get my message?"

"The one about Chris being missing?"

"The one telling you I'd be late."

"Nope." She tapped in one last word, then turned her full attention on him. "Want the latest news flash?"

"Let me guess. There's been an arrest."

"Andy Gladstone. It happened this afternoon."

Bram shook his head. "I told Al they had the wrong guy."

"But here's the curveball. It wasn't for Bob Fabian's murder, or Loy's."

Bram was just about to take a sip of his java. He blinked his surprise at her over the top of the cup. "Whose, then?"

"Del Irazarian. They put Andy in a lineup and somebody identified him. That plus a bunch of damaging evidence found inside the room makes Andy their man."

"Evidence?"

"Money. Almost two hundred thousand in a briefcase that belonged to Andy. The police think Irazarian was blackmailing him. By the way, Anika moved into a suite upstairs. Apparently, she'd just told Andy she was leaving him when the cops arrived with the handcuffs."

Bram groaned. "Poor bastard."

"Phil may have murdered Bob and Ken Loy, but it looks like a good bet that Andy's responsible for Irazarian's death."

"I wish I knew what the hell was going on." Whatever the truth turned out to be, Irazarian was connected to Phil as well as Andy. Bram's mind was awash in disconnected facts and suspicions.

After the conversation he'd just had with Lyle, it looked as if he had a motive for Bob Fabian's murder, too. Here was another man who would have done anything for Bob. Ken Loy's death could easily have been part of a revenge plot-making Loy pay for the death of Valerie Fabian. But when it came to Bob himself, motives turned murkier. If Lyle thought Bob was about to tell Sunrise Airlines that he wasn't fit to fly-that he was a drunk who refused to get help- who was to say what he might do to protect himself? Bram recalled Lyle once saying that flying was all he knew, the only thing he was ever any good at. If his livelihood was suddenly threatened, at his age, his financial prospects were bleak at best. At worst, he could lose everything. A man might behave totally out of character to protect the life he'd always known. He might even go so far as to kill someone he claimed to love.

"What are you thinking?" asked Sophie.

"Are you up for a little adventure tonight?"

"Are you kidding? After sitting in this office most of the day? Just name it."

"I need a partner in crime."

"Crime, huh? Sounds interesting."

"A little breaking and entering."

Her expression brightened. "I love it when you talk sexy."

"We could get in trouble."

"I'll take my chances."

On the way to the mini storage garage later that night, the image of Chris, hurt, trapped, perhaps unconscious, drilled its way into Bram's consciousness. He had no idea where she was, but if he just kept picking at the edges of Phil's life, maybe he'd get lucky. If he couldn't find her, maybe he'd find a clue, something that would lead him to her before it was too late. It was that dread that he pushed away from him as he and Sophie cruised across the Roberts Street Bridge.

It was after midnight when they finally pulled up to the gate.

"You're pretty clever," said Sophie. "Renting that unit just to get inside."

Bram tapped in the code, then glanced into the backseat. "Let's hope that bolt cutter lives up to its hype."

Wind blew dry leaves across the lot as the Bentley eased through the entrance. High-beam lights sliced across the long rows of garages, casting most of their illumination along the edges of the property. They drove up and down the quiet lanes for a few minutes, seeing if anyone else was around.

"This place is like a graveyard," said Sophie, tucking her leather coat more tightly around her neck.

Making one last pass down the central track, Bram pulled the car up to Phil's double garage. "This is it."

Sophie squinted into the darkness. "Doesn't look like much of a lock."

"I talked to a guy while I was inspecting the garage I rented. He rents the one on the other side. He gave me some advice, told me to buy myself a standard lock. Seems that if you put some super-heavy-duty thing on it, it's like advertising you've got something expensive to steal. He said there isn't a lock that can't be broken anyway, so just go with the standard."

Bram eased out of the front seat. After grabbing the bolt cutter, he approached the door.

Sophie followed.

Before he could clamp it on, she put a hand on his arm. "Wait. I thought I heard something."

Bram turned around. "A car?" he asked in a whisper.

She nodded, pressing a finger to her lips.

They waited for a few seconds.

"What if it's Phil?" whispered Sophie.

Bram didn't have an answer. Stepping to the end of the garage, he scanned the lot for signs of life. After nearly a minute, he tiptoed back to Sophie. "Maybe you heard a car out on Old Mill Road."

"Maybe," said Sophie. As Bram lifted the bolt cutter, she added, "but it sounded closer."

Bram glared at her. "Come on. Let's get this open."

Just as the snipped lock dropped to the asphalt, headlights hit Bram square in the eyes. He whirled away, stuffing the bolt cutter under his coat. The light was so bright he couldn't see the car behind it, but whatever the make and model, it was heading straight for them.

Instinctively, Bram moved in front of Sophie, blocking her from view. "Pick up the lock," he whispered, barely moving his mouth.

Sophie eased down behind her husband's back and slipped the lock into her purse.

A moment later, the car turned off the lane, heading for another section of the lot.

"Boy, that was a close one," said Sophie, leaning back against the double garage door.

Bram wasn't convinced they were off the hook. What if the guy in the car was playing with them? Since he never got a good look at the driver's face, for all he knew, it could have been Phil. "We need to get this door open fast. I want to see what's inside and then get the hell out of here."

"I'm with you," said Sophie. She stood back as Bram bent down and heaved the heavy door upward.

Removing the flashlight from his side pocket, Bram pointed the beam inside, letting it wash over the interior. Two vehicles were parked inside. The rest of the space was filled with construction materials. Insulation. Boxes of nails, tools, paintbrushes, masking tape. Several air compressors. Various-sized windows.

"That's Chris's Escort," said Bram, stepping into the darkness.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. But what's it doing here?" The answer to that question might be one he didn't want to hear. He tried the door, but found that it was locked. Shining the light inside, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was empty. At least the car wasn't Chris's coffin.

Sophie had her own flashlight. She was moving around the other vehicle-a large truck. "This thing must belong to Phil's construction company. It says 'Banks Construction' on the side. And there's a number twelve."

"He's probably got a fleet of trucks. He numbers them so that he knows who's got what at any given time."

"Why's this one parked here?"