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“It’ll be dark in about three hours,” Adam said, looking up from his watch. “Let’s make our phone calls, talk to the guys in New York, get the status on everything, make sure they stay alert. I have this gut feeling that Krimakov is going to try to get into NYU Hospital soon. Now we can tell them exactly who they’re up against. As you said, Thomas, there are always leaks. Detective Gordon, for example. I can see her telling everyone in sight. If he doesn’t act in the next twenty-four hours, then he won’t, because he’ll know it’s a trap.”

Adam looked down at Becca, who was staring intently at the house. He knew she was trying to visualize her mother there, perhaps standing next to her father, smiling at him, laughing. Only she wasn’t there, had never been a part of the two of them. He said, “Get rid of that ridiculous hair dye, will you, Becca?”

Thomas turned at his words. “That’s right. Your hair is very blond, just like your mother’s.”

“Mom’s was more blond than mine,” she said. “But all right, Adam, but I’ll have to go to the store. Who wants to go with me?”

“Me and about three other guys,” Adam said. The look on her face had changed, lightened, and he was pleased.

At seven o’clock that evening, Savich and Sherlock, Tommy the Pipe, and Hatch arrived at Thomas’s house for pizza and strategy, pizza first. Adam doubted there would be much helpful strategy, but it was good to have everyone together. Who knew what ideas might pop out after hot, cheese-dripping pizza?

Savich was carrying a baby draped over his right shoulder. The kid was wearing only diapers and a little white T-shirt. Adam looked at Savich, checked out the baby’s feet, and said, “You’re this little guy’s father?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Adam.” He lightly rubbed his hand over his son’s back. “Hey, Sean, you still awake enough to punch this guy in his pretty face?”

The baby sucked his fingers furiously and poked out his butt, making Savich grin.

“He’s nearly down for the count,” Sherlock said, lightly touching the baby’s head, covered with his father’s black hair. “He sucks his fingers when he doesn’t want to be disturbed and he knows you’re talking about him.”

“What do you think, Adam? Six-ounce free weights for my boy?”

Adam stared at the big man holding his kid who was madly sucking his fingers, then threw his head back and laughed. “This is not good. Jesus, I can nearly see him lifting three envelopes in each hand.” And he laughed and laughed. “Maybe he can even handle a stamp on each envelope.”

There were ten pizzas spread around Thomas Matlock’s living room an hour later. Hatch was hovering over the large pepperoni pizza, his shaved head glittering beneath a halogen floor lamp, talking even as he stuffed a big bite into his mouth. “Yipes, this sucker’s really hot. Oh boy, delicious. But hot, real hot.”

“I hope you burned your tongue,” Adam said as he pulled the hot cheese free of a slice of pizza from another box that was closer to him than to anyone else, and reverently lifted it up. “Serves you right for being a pig. God, I love artichokes and olives.”

“Nah, my tongue isn’t burned. It’s just a bit of a sting,” Hatch said, and pulled up another piece. After he took another big bite, he said, “Now, just to make sure everyone’s on the same page. All federal agencies are up to date on Krimakov. The New York Bureau guys are going over the car the guy dumped you out of, Becca, with every high-tech scan, every piece of sophisticated equipment they have. Haven’t found anything yet. I was really hoping they would find something, but this guy Krimakov is careful, real anal, one of the techs said. He didn’t leave anything helpful. Rollo and Dave, who just left Riptide yesterday, sent the FBI all the fingerprints we got in Linda Cartwright’s house, all the fibers we bagged. No word yet. The woman he killed in Ithaca, and stole her car—they’ve combed the hills for witnesses but came up empty. All that boils down to nada, nothing, zippo.” And then he cursed in some language Becca didn’t