“Hell, no! What’re you talking about?”

“They said, the police, that she was missing-”

Witt’s guts twisted. “They were talking about London.”

“London? But she’s only a kid-” Zach swallowed hard.

“You weren’t with her?”

Zach, stricken, shook his head.

“Christ.” His entire world was collapsing and he knew where to put the blame.

“What happened to her?” Zach asked.

“She’s missing,” Witt said.

“Missing? But she was at the party. I saw her. You saw her.”

“It happened later. Ginny’s gone, too. That’s all we know.” Through his silent fear, Witt forced himself to turn his attention to the boy who was nearly beaten beyond recognition. “Are you all right?”

Zach gritted his teeth. “I’ll live.”

“So how’d this happen?” Witt demanded, then picked up the phone and dialed three digits. “Is McHenry still there? I sent a man for him. Well, just tell him to come down here, on the double. Yeah, my office. What? Oh, it’s Zach. He’s back and he’s been roughed up. Looks serious.” He slammed down the receiver and motioned two police officers off a green leather couch. “Come on, you’d better lie down. Looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m okay.”

Witt felt his temper snap. “Just do it, okay? For once in your life, Zach, don’t fight me. Lie on the couch and let McHenry examine you, for crying out loud!”

Zach looked like he was about to snarl back a hot retort, but instead he sat on the couch as Dr. McHenry walked through the door. A spry man nearing seventy, he’d been Witt’s physician for years and the best doctor money could buy. McHenry knew his stuff, but he could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, which made him invaluable.

“I’d hate to see the other guy,” the doctor quipped, as he helped peel off Zach’s shirt. Witt’s stomach turned over at the sight of the ugly wound, red and angry, that sliced down Zach’s skin.

“Okay, Zach, start talking,” Witt said, sitting on the corner of his desk. He reached for a fresh cigar while the old one smoldered in his overflowing ashtray. Zach, sullen and wincing as the doctor attended his wounds, didn’t say a word. As usual. “Look, Zach, I don’t care what you think of me. Hell, nothing matters but London’s safety, so you’d better tell me what happened to you tonight. Your sister’s life could depend on it.”

Zach sent him a look of pure hatred, but Witt didn’t care. He turned his gaze to Jack Logan and stared straight into the detective’s eyes. “And nothing that we hear in this room goes any further, right?”

Logan nodded curtly, and satisfied, Witt settled back in his chair. “We’re listening, Zach.”

Zach closed his eyes, hoping the room would stop swimming. He wanted to lie, but didn’t and told his story, with only two slight changes. He didn’t admit that his stepmother had turned him on during their dance at the party and he kept Jason’s name out of the mess. He didn’t rat on his brother and claimed to have made the arrangements with Sophia himself. Why, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he wanted to deal with Jason himself. Or maybe he held some latent brotherly affection for the older brother who had been a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember. Or maybe he was just scared shitless.

Doc McHenry didn’t say a word as he worked over Zach. He grunted to himself as he applied ointment and something that burned like hell, then began stitching his shoulder back together and tended to the gash above his ear. Once satisfied with his stitches, he worked on Zach’s face. “You’re nose is broken again, kid, but it’ll give you character in your old age,” the doctor said, cleaning off the dried blood. Each time he touched Zach’s nose, Zach nearly passed out all over again. “This is something for the pain.” He found a hypodermic needle in his black bag, rolled down the waistband of Zach’s pants, and punched the needle into Zach’s butt. “And another tetanus booster.”

Zach refused to be mortified that McHenry had shown his ass to his father and several of Logan’s men. He didn’t give a damn what the old man or the doctor did to him. It wasn’t any worse than dealing with the cops.

Finally Detective Sergeant Jack Logan had his turn. Zach felt the skepticism in Logan’s eyes as he asked questions, noticed the way two officers shared a dubious look when he told them about the prostitute. No matter what he said, he knew they thought he was lying.

Even though Logan went through all the motions, recording the conversation while the officers took a few notes, Zach read the disbelief in the old policeman’s eyes.

“These men who attacked you,” Logan finally said as McHenry packed up his doctor’s bag. “Rudy and Joey?”

“That’s what they called each other.”

“You ever seen them before?”

“Never.”

“He’s got to go to the hospital,” the doctor interrupted.

Logan didn’t miss a beat. “Look, Doc, we’re trying to find Witt’s little girl. I shouldn’t have to tell you that time is critical. We just need Zach to come down to the station and look at a few pictures, that’s all.”

“I’d advise against it.”

Witt’s frown deepened. “Zach?”

His mouth tasted foul, his head thundered, and his shoulder throbbed like holy hell, but he nodded to his father. “I’ll go.”

There was nothing further McHenry could do. He pulled Witt aside, warned him about something, but Zach couldn’t make out what. They rode in a squad car to the police station and, seated in a small room with flickering fluorescent lighting and the thin smell of stale cigarettes and old coffee, Zach flipped through pages of mug shots and stared at black-and-white pictures through a haze of pain.

“What about this one?” an officer would ask and Zach would focus, only to shake his head. There were more people in the room than had been in the hotel. As the hours passed, officers would come and go, glancing at him as they strapped on weapons, took statements, or told dirty jokes.

“Him. What about him?”

The questions didn’t stop and Zach stared at photograph after photograph-grainy black-and-whites of men he’d never seen. He thumbed the pages, shook his head, and thumbed some more. His father was in the room, pacing, looking as if he wished he could tear someone, anyone, limb from limb.

The pictures started to look alike and swim before his eyes. His back ached and he felt as if he hadn’t slept for a hundred years. One officer sat on the corner of the table, watching his reactions, while another went out for coffee.

Zach slumped in his chair and craved a cigarette. The coffee didn’t help.

“That’s it. Nothing,” a burly officer said over a yawn as another, a slim woman who had just come on duty, started gathering the books.

“I guess Rudy and Joey weren’t processed here,” Officer Ralph O’Donnelly said as he squashed out the butt of his cigarette in his empty coffee cup.

“Rudy?” The woman glanced from Logan to Witt.

“Yeah, the kid, here, heard their names.” Officer O’Donnelly stood and stretched. His back popped loudly.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, searching through the books again and flipping one open. She shoved the open pages under Zach’s nose. “Look again.”

Every eye in the room was on Zach, as aching, he ran his finger under the pictures and forced his eyes to each face. They blurred for a second, but he kept looking and he felt the air in the room charge. “I don’t think-”

“Look again! Imagine your man clean-shaven or with different-colored hair or whatever,” Logan muttered angrily. “Let’s get an artist in here.”

Zach gritted his teeth, eyeing the mug shots, knowing that there wasn’t a clue on the page, when he stopped at a shot on the bottom row. The hair was different, longer now, and a beard and mustache in the photo covered what appeared to be a pockmarked jaw, but the eyes, the malicious eyes, were the same.

His throat barely worked as he laid a finger on the incriminating shot. “I think-”

“Rudolpho Gianotti,” the woman officer said with a satisfied grin. Zach got the impression she liked beating the men at their own game. “A speed-head who hangs out with Joseph Siri.”

“Hell,” Witt ground out. He strode across the room and glared at the mug shots. Red in the face, he trembled. “I bet they’re connected with Polidori.”

“Bingo,” the woman said. “The vice squad is checking them out-drugs and prostitution, maybe even some penny-ante gambling.”

“I told you!” Witt growled, kicking at the leg of the table. “When I get my hands on Polidori, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Let’s go!”

“Whoa!” the woman officer said. “We’re not talking about the old man. These guys”-she tapped a short-clipped nail on Rudy Gianotti’s mug shot-“are involved with the kid. Mario.”

Witt’s eyes darkened to the color of midnight. He hated the son as much as the old man. “Bring him in, Jack. Let’s talk to him.”

“We will,” Logan assured him, “but first, let’s find Gianotti and Siri. See what they have to say, what they know. Then we’ll round up Mario Polidori.”

“And his old man.”

“Maybe.”

Witt’s face twisted in ugly rage. “He’s behind it, Jack. I told you that from the beginning. He took my little girl and God only knows what’s happened to her.”

“Don’t worry, Wit, we’ll find her.” Logan’s voice lowered and Zach didn’t really care what was said. The room was spinning, his head reeled, and his bones seemed to melt. He blinked to stay awake, but blackness enveloped him. With a moan, he slid from the chair and lost consciousness.


Two days later, Zach woke up in a hospital room, his shoulder on fire, his mouth tasting like puke. He couldn’t breathe right because something-cotton wadding, he guessed-was rammed up his nostrils. Bandages swathed his head and held his shoulder together and everything reeked of antiseptic.