They're treating me like we've known each other for years.

But I know enough to be damn careful-they didn't get around all this money by being stupid shit kickers.

And what about those women? I want to ask what that was about, but they haven't said a word... .

"TCU?" Badde said.

"Texas Christian," Garcia explained. "In Fort Worth, thirty miles from here, aka 'Cowtown, Where the West Begins.' And, Rapp, for the record, I know that about Mike because I was there every step of the way. We were even in the same fraternity. Then I came to Dallas for law school. Southern Methodist is, if it's possible, probably more out of control than TCU."

Santos then laughed, and slapped Badde on the back.

"Oh, hell. It's true. I was in the ranch management program."

"Ranch management?"

Santos nodded, then gestured at the pickup.

"Let's get rolling. I need a drink. We can talk on the way."

- The gate in the chain-link fence rolled opened, and the tall black Ford pickup truck roared through it. Mike Santos was behind the wheel.

"My family," Santos explained, "has spreads in Argentina, Brazil, and Colombia. Cattle, mostly. My father wanted to get something going here, so he sent me to boarding school in San Antone-where Bobby and I met in eighth grade-then college. Big ranches are big business, and that ranch management program is like an MBA-an MBA in cow shit."

Santos, grinning, glanced over at Badde, who was in the front passenger seat. Bobby Garcia had taken the seat behind Santos, so that he could see Badde when he turned to talk.

Badde was impressed with the truck. It rode surprisingly comfortably, and its interior had heavy leather and wooden panel accents throughout, giving the cabin the rustic feel of a lodge. There was stitching in the leather that, like the badge on the front fender, read KING RANCH EDITION and had the "Running W" brand that had been, among other things, seared into the hides of countless herds since the ranch's founding in 1853.

"Like this King Ranch?" Badde said. "What's up with that?"

"King's is one of the biggest spreads in the world. Takes up damn near all of South Texas. My father wasn't looking for that-just something big enough down along the border. I oversee my cousins who run it."

"So how did you go from that to what you're doing now?" Badde said. "The private equity?"

Santos grunted. "You ever smell cow shit, Rapp?"

Badde, looking out the windshield at the dramatic colorful skyline of downtown Dallas in the near distance, had to think about that. After a long moment he shook his head, then looked at Santos. "Maybe once, as a kid, out in Pennsylvania's Amish country. If I did, I don't really remember it."

"Well, you're not missing a damn thing."

Badde then snorted.

"What?" Santos said.

"I just remembered I did. It was in Lancaster County. In a tiny town called Intercourse."

Santos laughed.

"I'm calling bullshit on that," Bobby Garcia said from the backseat, but Badde saw that he was grinning.

Badde turned on his politician's big toothy smile and shook his head. "No. And get this: Intercourse actually isn't far from a place called Blue Ball."

Garcia now laughed.

"You'd think it would be far the hell away," he said.

"They were dairy cows," Badde said. "It was a long damn time until I drank milk again after that trip."

"There you go," Santos said. "I decided that I didn't want to spend a lifetime smelling shit-especially back home. But because I was still a Colombian national and my student visa was all but expired, I had to find something fast so I could legally stay in the States. I wanted to go into venture capital and that got me-got Bobby and me, after starting OneWorld Private Equity Partners-introduced to the Fed's EB-5 green card program."

OneWorld funded a huge part of the casino, Badde thought.

And is funding part of the new sports complex.

Each of those to the tune of a hundred million.

I'd like to get more than the crumbs I'm getting... .

"Speaking of that," Garcia said, "Yuri says you're doing good things in Philly with PEGI."

Hearing the Russian billionaire businessman's name always made Badde uncomfortable. Especially in the same sentence as PEGI.

And he just pronounced "Peggy" right.

How much do these guys know about Yuri's involvement? That is, the intimidation beyond the money. He's made it clear that there are consequences for failing to meet his high expectations.

"PEGI is working," Badde said, trying not to overplay it.

It's been a pain in the ass. But it is looking like it will work.

If no one pokes their damn nose in it... .

The Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative was a special program developed-and solely administered-by the city council's Housing and Urban Development Committee. Specifically by its chairman, one H. Rapp Badde, Jr. He had conceived it after attending an urban-renewal conference with Jan in Bermuda.

PEGI was helping pave the way for new projects-including those of Yuri Tikhonov. The first had been the Lucky Stars Casino & Entertainment. And soon to begin construction was a new indoor sports and live music coliseum that could fit sixty thousand fans under its retractable roof. It was owned by Diamond Development, forty-nine percent of which was in the hands of Tikhonov. The rest, the fifty-one percent majority, belonged to minority-owned companies such as Urban Ventures LLC, of which Badde quietly had a piece, one much smaller than he preferred.

"And," Santos added, "that as mayor, you will make even better things happen. But first you have a hotel to build, yes?"

Badde met his eyes and said, "I certainly hope so. About being mayor, I mean. And I'm definitely going to build the hotel. Just takes money."

And I'm not going to deal with Yuri having a piece of this project.

"I don't think there'll be any trouble finding that money," Garcia said.

Santos slowed the truck. Badde saw that they were just shy of downtown proper. A towering stone-faced complex loomed ahead. Before it, centered in a large berm of lush green grass, was a block of granite the size of a city bus. Chiseled in four-foot-tall black roman lettering was: TWO YELLOWROSE PLACE. Badde then saw individual signage for street-level high-end retail stores and restaurants and for a hotel, clearly a luxury one, he'd never heard of.

Across the street from the complex was an equally impressive high-rise residential building.

Santos steered the truck into the high-rise's cobblestone driveway and pulled to a stop before the enormous well-lit front doors. Doormen on either side of the doors were swinging them open, and out marched three stylishly dressed women. One was olive-skinned, one cocoa-skinned, the third ivory-skinned-and all looking like stunning fashion models. They seemed to float across the walkway as they headed toward the revolving door to the bar of a chophouse next door.

Philadelphia City Councilman H. Rapp Badde, Jr., could not stop himself.

"Is there not a single ugly woman in this town?" he blurted.

Santos and Garcia laughed.

"It'll take a second to get you your room," Santos said, "then we can head over there for a little something liquid to cut the trail dust."

Their doors were opened by valets in red blazers.

"Welcome back, Mr. Santos, Mr. Garcia," one said, and to Badde added, "Welcome, sir."

"Yeah," he replied, flashing his well-practiced politician's smile.

IV.

[ONE].

Little Palm Island, Florida Sunday, November 16, 10:01 P.M.

Matt, approaching the entrance to the restaurant's bar, could see Amanda through the big window that overlooked the patio deck. She was standing with Chad at the bar, and it took a moment before she saw him coming up the tiki-torch-lit path. She said something to Chad, who nodded, and then she walked outside to meet Matt.

Matt went up the short flight of steps to the deck, watching appreciatively as the ocean breeze blew her dress and hair. But then he noticed that there was something in her expression that he couldn't quite place.

I know she's upset. But there's more to it than just that... .

He reached the top of the steps.

"Hey, you okay?" he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

"Chad is ordering our meals now," she said. "I don't think I can eat, though. I'm sorry, Matt. I've just been sick to my stomach over this." She paused, glanced out at the ocean for a long moment, then went on: "I know what it's like to be taken, to be powerless, and cannot get over that that might be happening right now to Maggie."

She was anxiously flipping the phone in her hand.

He looked at that and said, "I've been juggling calls, too."

"I imagine one was to Jason? Maggie is why he called earlier?"

I knew she'd pick up on that!

I'm not going to lie about it-I don't want to lie to her about anything.

"Yeah. Something strange is going on with Maggie's disappearance. He won't tell me what it is-won't tell me anything. But he did say he wants to know if we hear from her, which suggests to me that they believe she's alive."

"That's something, I guess," she said, with no enthusiasm.

"You have any luck with anything?"

"I talked with Mrs. McCain. This afternoon Maggie sent a text to her cousin Emma."

"They heard from her? That's good news."

"I don't think it helped. Especially since Mrs. McCain is more than a little upset that no one can reach Maggie. She used one of those websites that lets you send anonymous texts and e-mails." Amanda shook her head. "She may have meant well, but it really backfired with her family."

"What did she say?"

Amanda thought for a moment, then quoted: "'Tell everyone I'm fine, I love them, and not to worry. Explain later. Will be in touch soonest. Hugs.'"

"That's all?"

"That was it."

Matt grunted. "Pretty damn vague. And doesn't begin to address what happened at her house."

Amanda nodded.

"Because the text was sent anonymously," she then said, "how would they know it's legit? Couldn't someone be forcing her to send it?"

"Yeah, there's always that possibility. But hard to say. What doesn't make sense is why, if she's okay, she's going out of her way not to be reachable. If there was a way to get to her, we could ask for proof of life."

"What would be proof?"

"A photograph of her holding, say, the front page of today's newspaper or even holding a laptop with Mickey's website on the screen with some current news story. Hell, with her story on it. Anything that shows her alive doing something that's recognizable as right now."

She thought for a moment, then in a hopeful tone said, "She did begin the text with 'Spider.'"

"'Spider'?"

"Mrs. McCain said it's the nickname Maggie sometimes calls her cousin. It alludes to Emma's modern dances, to how she moves. And to the spider rolls that are her favorite. They shared one Saturday night at that Rittenhouse sushi place, the one near your apartment."

Matt shook his head. "Not exactly proof of life. But that could help confirm the message is legit. Not many people know she's missing. And bad guys, even if they had the cousin's phone number, would have no reason to contact her, let alone know to call her by a nickname. They'd go right for the big money-her parents."

"So then that's probably why it's being considered legit," Amanda said. "But it's clear she's not 'fine.' Not being reached and only sending messages is anything but fine."

"And that's been the only communication, just the one text?"

Amanda nodded. "As far as I know. Mrs. McCain did ask me to see what you thought about the police asking if she had any knowledge of Maggie letting girls from Mary's House stay at her place. That's suggestive, no?"