They had no proof yet, but Loren was fairly sure Bolitar had gone to midtown and picked up Aimee Biel. They were working on getting surveillance videos from the nearby businesses. Maybe Bolitar’s car would be on one. But for now, it seemed like a fairly likely conclusion.

More from the time line:

3:11 A.M.: There was a credit card charge on Bolitar’s Visa account from an Exxon gas station on Route 4 in Fort Lee, New Jersey, right off the George Washington Bridge.

3:55 A.M.: the E-ZPass on Bolitar’s car showed him heading south on the Garden State Parkway, crossing the Bergen County tolls.

4:08 A.M.: the E-ZPass hit the Essex County tolls, showing that Bolitar was still traveling south.

That was it on the tolls. He could have gotten off at Exit 145, which would lead him to his residence in Livingston. Loren drew the route out. It made no sense. You wouldn’t go up over the George Washington Bridge and then down the parkway. And even if you did, it wouldn’t take forty minutes to get to the Bergen toll. It would take at most, that time of night, twenty minutes.

So where had Bolitar gone?

She went back to her time line. There was a gap of more than three hours, but at 7:18 A.M., Myron Bolitar placed a call to Aimee Biel’s cell phone. No answer. He tries twice more that morning. No answer. Yesterday he called the Biels’ home number. That was the only call that lasted more than a few seconds. Loren wondered if he talked to the parents.

She picked up her phone and dialed Lance Banner.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Did you tell Aimee’s parents about Bolitar?”

“Not yet.”

“I think,” Loren said, “that now might be the time.”

Myron had a new morning routine. The first thing he did was grab the newspaper and check for war casualties. He looked at the names. All of them. He made sure that Jeremy Downing wasn’t listed. Then he went back and took the time to read every name again slowly. He read the rank and hometown and age. That was all they put. But Myron imagined that every dead kid listed was another Jeremy, was like that terrific nineteen-year-old kid who lives down your street, because, simple as it sounded, they were. For just a few minutes Myron imagined what that death meant, that this young, hopeful, dream-filled life was gone forever, what the parents must be thinking.

He hoped that our leaders did something similar. But he doubted it.

Myron’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It read SWEET CHEEKS. That was Win’s unlisted number. Myron clicked it on and said hello.

Without preamble, Win said, “Your flight arrives at one p.m.”

“You work for the airlines now?”

“Work for the airlines,” Win repeated. “Good one.”

“So what’s up?”

“Work for the airlines,” Win said again. “Wait, just let me savor that line for a moment. Work for the airlines. Hilarious.”

“You done?”

“Hold on, let me get a pen so I can write that one down. Work. For. The. Airlines.”

Win.

“You done now?”

“Let me try again: Your flight arrives at one p.m. I will meet you at the airport. I have two tickets to the Knicks game. We will sit courtside, probably next to Paris Hilton or Kevin Bacon. Personally, I’m pulling for Kevin.”

“You don’t like the Knicks,” Myron said.

“True.”

“In fact, you don’t like going to basketball games. So why . . . ?” Myron saw it. “Damn.”

Silence.

“Since when do you read the Styles Section, Win?”

“One o’clock. Newark Airport. See you then.”

Click.

Myron hung up the phone and couldn’t help but smile. That Win. What a guy.

He headed into the kitchen. His father was up and making breakfast. He said nothing about Jessica’s upcoming nuptials. Mom, however, jumped from her chair, rushed over to him, gave him a look that suggested a terminal illness, asked if he was all right. He assured her that he was fine.

“I haven’t seen Jessica in seven years,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”

His parents both nodded in a way that suggested that they were humoring him.

A few hours later he took off for the airport. He had tossed and turned, but in the end he really was all right with it. Seven years. They had been over for seven years. And while Jessica had been the one with the upper hand throughout most of their time together, Myron had been the one who’d finally put an end to it.

Jessica was the past. He took out his cell phone and called Ali—the present.

“I’m at Miami airport,” he said.

“How was your trip?”

Hearing Ali’s voice filled him with warmth. “It was good.”

“But?”

“But nothing. I want to see you.”

“How about around two? The kids will be out, I promise.”

“What have you got in mind?” he asked.

“The technical term would be—hold on, let me check my thesaurus—‘a nooner.’ ”

“Ali Wilder, you little vixen.”

“That I am.”

“I can’t make it at two. Win is taking me to see the Knicks.”

“How about immediately following the game?” she asked.

“Man, I hate it when you play hard to get.”

“I’ll take that as yes.”

“Very much so.”

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You sound a little funny.”

“I’m trying to sound very funny.”

“Then don’t try so hard.”

There was an awkward moment. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. But it was too soon. Or maybe, with what he’d learned about Jessica, the timing was wrong. You don’t want to say something like that for the first time for the wrong reason.

So instead he said, “They’re boarding my flight.”

“See you soon, handsome.”

“Wait, if I get there in the evening, will it still be a ‘nooner’? Wouldn’t it be an ‘evening-er’?”

“That would take too long to say. I don’t want to waste any time.”

“And on that note . . .”

“Stay safe, handsome.”

Erik Biel sat alone on the couch while his wife, Claire, chose a chair. Loren noticed that. One would think that a couple in a situation like this would sit next to each other, draw comfort from each other. The body language here suggested that both wanted to be as far away from the other as possible. It could mean a rift in the relationship. Or it could mean that this experience was so raw that even tenderness—especially tenderness—would sting like hell.