By ten-thirty Wednesday morning, Leigh's anxiety was almost beyond bearing. Detective Littleton had phoned three hours earlier to say that although the map Leigh had drawn hadn't been of much help the night before, she and Detective Shrader were already on the road again, following it through the mountains. She promised to call again as soon as they had anything to report.

All other incoming telephone calls were obviously being held by the hospital switchboard, because sometime during the night, someone had put a pile of phone messages on her nightstand. With nothing else to do to occupy her time, Leigh reread the phone messages that she'd only scanned earlier.

Jason had phoned six times; his next-to-last message had been frantic and curt: "The hospital switchboard is holding your damned calls, and you can't have visitors. Tell your doctors to let me up to see you and I can be there in three hours. Call me, Leigh. Call me first. Call me. Call me." He'd evidently called again, immediately after he'd hung up, because the time on the next message was only two minutes later. This time he wanted to reassure her about the play: "Jane is holding her own in your role, but she's not you. Try not to worry too much about the play." Leigh hadn't given a thought to the play or to her understudy, and her only reaction to Jason's message was a sense of amazement that he could imagine she'd care what happened to the damned play right now.

In addition to Jason's messages, there were dozens of telegrams and phone calls from business and personal acquaintances of Logan's and hers. Hilda had called, but the housekeeper had left no message except "Get well." Leigh's publicist and her secretary had both called, asking for instructions as soon as Leigh felt up to calling them.

Leigh continued leafing through the messages, finding a little bit of comfort in everyone's genuine concern—until she came to the message from Michael Valente. It read, "My thoughts are with you. Call me at this number if I can be of help in any way." His message instantly struck her as being too personal, very presumptuous, and completely inappropriate, but she realized her reaction was based more on her negative reaction to the man himself, than on what he'd said.

Unable to endure inactivity any longer, Leigh put the messages down, shoved the table with her untouched breakfast tray aside, and reached for the telephone. The hospital switchboard operator seemed startled and awed when she identified herself. "I'm sorry if you've been overloaded with phone calls," Leigh began.

"We don't mind, Mrs. Manning. That's what we're here for."

"Thank you. The reason I was calling," Leigh explained, "is that I wanted to be certain you aren't holding any calls that might come from the police department or from my husband."

"No, no, of course not. We would let the police through at once, and we all know your husband is missing. We'd never hold his call. Your doctor and the two police detectives from New York City gave us complete instructions about handling your calls. We're to put through any caller who says they have any information whatsoever about your husband, but we're to take messages from all other callers, except reporters. Calls from reporters are to be transferred to our administrator's office, so he can handle them."

"Thank you," Leigh said, weak with disappointment. "I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble."

"I've been praying for you and your husband," the operator said.

The sincerity and simplicity of that almost made Leigh cry. "Don't stop," she said, her voice strangled with fear and gratitude.

"I won't, I promise."

"I need to make some long distance calls," Leigh said shakily. "How can I do it from this phone?"

"Do you have a telephone credit card?"

Leigh's credit cards, wallet, and electronic phone book had all been in her purse in her car, but she knew her telephone credit card number by heart because she used it often. "Yes, I have one."

"Then all you have to do is dial nine for an outside line and use your card in the usual way." Despite what the detectives had said, Leigh tried" to call Logan on his cell phone. When he didn't answer, she called Hilda to see if she'd heard anything, but the worried housekeeper could only repeat what she'd told the detectives.

Leigh was in the process of calling Jason when a hospital staff nurse bustled into her room and interrupted her. "How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Manning?"

"Fine," Leigh lied as the nurse checked the tubes and containers attached to Leigh's body.

"Haven't you been using your morphine drip?" she asked, her expression puzzled and accusing.

"I don't need it. I feel fine." In truth, every inch of her body, from her toes to her hair, either ached or throbbed, and the nurse undoubtedly knew that. She stared at Leigh in frowning disbelief until Leigh finally relented and added, "I don't want the morphine because I need to be alert and sensible this morning."

"You need to be free of pain and resting comfortably so that your body can heal," the nurse argued.

"I'll use it later," Leigh promised.

"You also need to eat," she commanded, pushing the table with Leigh's breakfast tray up close to the bed.

As soon as she left, Leigh moved the breakfast tray out of the way and reached for the telephone. She woke Jason up.

"Leigh?" he mumbled sleepily. "Leigh! Jesus Christ!" he sputtered coming awake. "What the hell is going on? How are you? Have you heard from Logan? Is he all right?"

"There's been no word from Logan," Leigh said. "I'm okay. A little sore and banged up, that's all." She could feel Jason's conscience warring with his self-interest as he fought against his urge to demand to know when she could return to the play. "I need a favor," she said.

"Anything."

"I may want to hire my own people to help search for Logan. Who should I call to arrange it? Private detectives? Do you know anyone like that?"

"Darling, I can't believe you have the slightest doubt. How do you think I caught Jeremy cheating on me? How do you think I avoided paying off that charlatan who claimed—"

"Could you give me the name of the firm and the phone number?" Leigh interrupted.

By the time Leigh got a pen out of the drawer beside her bed and wrote down the phone number on the back of a telegram, she was hurting so badly she could scarcely think. She hung up and lay back against the pillows, concentrating on breathing without intensifying the pain in her ribs. She was still doing that when the nurse who'd been in the last time returned to her bedside and saw the untouched breakfast tray. "You really must eat, Mrs. Manning. You haven't eaten anything in days."

Leigh's private duty nurse had been much easier to ignore, but she'd gone home to sleep and wasn't due to return until evening. "I will, but not now—"

"I insist," the nurse countered as she moved the portable table over Leigh's lap. She whisked the plastic covers off the dishes. "What would you like first?" she inquired pleasantly. "The applesauce, the wheat germ with skim milk, or the poached egg?"

"I don't think I could swallow any of those things."

Frowning, the nurse glanced at the little list beside the tray. "This is what you ordered last night."

"I must have been delirious."

Evidently the nurse agreed, but she would not be deterred from achieving her goal. "I can send someone down to the cafeteria. What do you normally like to eat for breakfast?"

The simple question filled Leigh with such longing for her old life, her safe, lovely routine, that she felt the sting of tears. "I usually have fruit. A pear—and coffee."

"I can handle that," the nurse said cheerfully, "and I won't have to send someone down to the cafeteria, either."

She'd barely left the room when Detectives Shrader and Littleton walked into it. Leigh shoved herself upright. "Did you find the cabin?"

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry. We have no news to report, just some more questions to ask you." He nodded toward the breakfast tray. "If you were about to eat, go ahead. We can wait."

"The nurse is getting me something else," Leigh said.

As if on cue, the nurse arrived, pushing a cart that bore a gigantic basket of pears nestled in gold satin and entwined with gold ribbon. "This basket was out at the nurses' station. A volunteer brought it up and said it was for you. These aren't just pears, they're works of art!" she enthused, removing a huge, glossy pear from its golden nest and holding it up to admire. She peered at the basket from all sides. "There doesn't seem to be a card. It must have fallen off. I'll look around for it," she said as she gave the pear to Leigh. "I'll leave you alone with your visitors now."

The pear in her hand reminded Leigh of her last conversation about breakfast with Logan, and her eyes filled with sentimental tears. She cupped it in her hands, brushing her fingertips over its smooth skin while she thought of Logan's skin, his smile; then she held it to her heart, where all her other memories of Logan were stored, safe and alive. Two tears slipped between her lashes.

"Mrs. Manning?"

Embarrassed, Leigh brushed the tears away. "I'm sorry—It's just that my husband always teases me about being addicted to pears. I've had one for breakfast almost every day for years."

"I imagine a lot of people know about that?" Detective Littleton asked casually.

"It's not a secret," Leigh said, laying the pear aside. "He's joked about it from time to time in front of people. These pears were probably sent by my housekeeper, or my secretary, or even more likely, by the market that gets them for me when I'm home." She nodded toward two brown vinyl chairs. "Please—sit down."

Littleton pulled the chairs over to Leigh's bed while Shrader explained the situation. "Your map wasn't as helpful as we'd hoped it would be. The directions were a little contradictory, the landmarks missing or obscured by snowbanks. We're checking with all the realtors in the area, but so far, none of them know anything about the house and property you've described."

A thought suddenly occurred to Leigh—a solution so obvious that she was dumbfounded they hadn't thought of it themselves. "I know I was close to the cabin when I had the accident. Whoever found me on the road will know exactly where that was! Have you spoken to him?"

"No, we haven't spoken to him yet—" Shrader admitted.

"Why not?" Leigh burst out. "Why are you wandering all over the mountains, trying to follow my map, when all you have to do is talk to whoever rescued me?"

"We can't talk to him, because we don't know who he is."

Leigh's head was beginning to pound with angry frustration. "He can't be very hard to locate. Please ask the ambulance drivers who brought me here. They must have seen him and talked to him."

"Try to be calm," Shrader said. "I understand why you're upset. Just let me bring you up to date on the situation with your rescuer."

Sensing that the situation was more complex than she'd thought a few moments before, Leigh tried to do as he asked. "All right, I'm calm. Please bring me up to date."

"The man who found you Sunday night brought you down the mountain to a little motel on the outskirts of Hapsburg called the Venture Inn. He woke up the motel's night manager and told him to call nine-one-one. Then he convinced the manager that you'd be better off in a room with a heater and blankets until help arrived. After the two men carried you into a room, your rescuer told the manager that he was going back to his vehicle for your belongings. He never returned. When the night manager went looking for him a few minutes later, his vehicle was gone."

Leigh's anger drained out of her body, leaving her limp and despondent. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the pillows. "That's crazy. Why would anyone do something like that?"

"There are several possible explanations. The most likely one is that he was the same guy who ran you off the road. Afterward, he felt guilty, so he went back to see if he could find you. Once he found you, he started worrying about being blamed for the accident, so he made sure you were in good hands at the motel, then split before the police and ambulance arrived. Whether he was actually the guy who ran you off the road or not, he definitely had some reason for not wanting to talk to the police.

"The motel manager told us the guy was driving a black or dark brown four-door sedan—a Lincoln, he thought—an old one, and pretty battered up. The manager is in his seventies, and he didn't notice much else, because he had his hands full trying to help get you out of the vehicle. His recollection of the driver is a little better, and he's agreed to work with one of our sketch artists in the city tomorrow. Hopefully, they'll come up with a decent likeness that we can use if your husband still hasn't turned up."

"I see," Leigh whispered, turning her face away. But all she could really see was Logan's happy expression as he kissed her good-bye Sunday morning. He was out there somewhere—hurt or snowbound, or both. Those were the only alternatives Leigh was willing to consider. The possibility that Logan might already be beyond help or rescue was too shattering to contemplate.

Detective Littleton spoke for the first time, her tone hesitant. "There's one more thing we wanted to ask you about—" Leigh blinked back the tears burning her eyes and forced herself to look at the brunette. "This morning, Officer Borowski came back on duty after his regular days off, and he notified us that you reported a stalker in September. It was Officer Borowski who took down the information, and he thought we ought to know. Has the problem continued?"

Leigh's heart began to thud in deep, terrified beats that resounded up and down her body, and fear made her voice shake so badly it was nearly inaudible. "Are you thinking that a stalker ran me off the road, or that he might have done something to my husband?"

"No, no, not at all," Detective Littleton said with a warm and reassuring smile. "We're only trying to be helpful. The main roads are clear now, and the side roads are being cleared. Phone and electric service has been reinstated except in a very few isolated areas where they're still working on the lines. Your husband is bound to turn up any minute now. We thought you might like us to see what we can find out about the identity of your stalker while we're still working with you. If you don't want us to—"

"I'd appreciate it if you would," Leigh said, clinging to Detective Littleton's explanation because she wanted to believe it.

"What can you tell us about your stalker?"

Leigh described the events that had worried her.

"You said he sent you orchids," Littleton said when Leigh finished. "Have you looked at any of the cards on these flowers?"

"No."

Littleton stood up and went to the white orchids first. "They're from Stephen Rosenberg," she said, reading the card.

"He's one of the backers of the play," Leigh told her.

One by one, Littleton began reading Leigh the messages and names on the other cards. When she was halfway through, she nodded toward the stacks of phone messages and telegrams on Leigh's nightstand. "Have you looked those over carefully?"

"Most of them," Leigh said.

"Would it be all right if Detective Shrader goes through them while I'm doing this?"

It was fine with Leigh, but Shrader didn't look very enthusiastic as he began going through the stack. When the name on the last bouquet was also one Leigh recognized, Littleton picked up her jacket and Shrader stood up, too, trying to finish his own task on his feet. He was reading one of the last messages when his entire attitude underwent a sudden, unpleasant transformation. He stared at Leigh, studying her as if seeing her in an entirely new, and unflattering, light. "So, I guess Michael Valente is a good pal of yours?"

The expression on his face, and even on Littleton's, made Leigh feel soiled by association.

"No, he is not," Leigh stated emphatically. "I met him for the first time at a party celebrating the play's opening Saturday night." She didn't want to say more, didn't want to mention that the party had been at her home, and she especially didn't want them to know that Logan had been discussing a business deal with Valente. She didn't want to say anything to make these detectives think Logan was anything but a thoroughly upright businessman and loving husband who was missing. Which he was.

Both detectives seemed to accept her explanation. "I imagine you attract a lot of creeps and kooks when you're a big star," Shrader said.

"It goes with the job," Leigh said, trying to joke and failing miserably.

"We'll let you get some rest now," he said. "You have our cell phone numbers if you need to reach us. We're going to try following your map again. Normally, it's easy to locate the site of an accident like yours, but there's so much snow piled up along the sides of the road that it's difficult to spot the indications we're looking for."

"Call me if you find out anything—anything at all," Leigh pleaded.

"We will," Shrader promised. He held his temper in check while Littleton stopped at the nurses' station and asked about the card that was missing from the basket of pears. He held his temper while the nurse looked for it and couldn't find it, but when he reached the bank of elevators, he unleashed it on Sam. "What you did in there was completely senseless! You scared the shit out of her with that stalker crap. She didn't buy your reasons for asking. She knew exactly what you were thinking."

"She's not stupid. Pretty soon she'd have remembered him, and then she'd have been terrified that he could be responsible for what's happened," Sam retorted. "It's better that she knows we've already thought of it and are following up."

"Following up what?" he scoffed. "Her stalker is still in the romantic, gift-giving stage, which is probably where he'll stay until someone else catches his eye. Secondly, stalkers aren't spontaneous—they fantasize about the moment they'll come out in the open. They plan and they fantasize, and they don't like deviating. They don't decide to make their move in the middle of an unexpected, unpredictable blizzard, unless they could plan for that, too—which is not possible."

The arrival of the elevator distracted him, and when Sam saw that it was empty, she tried to explain her reasoning. "Don't you find it odd that her husband vanished on the same night that she was nearly killed—and then mysteriously rescued? That's just too many coincidences."

"Are you suggesting one stalker is behind all that? How many stalkers do you think she has?"

Sam ignored his sarcasm. "I think it's possible he could have been following her when he saw her car go over the embankment, and he stayed there to rescue her." Once she said it aloud, Sam wished she hadn't, because even to her it sounded ludicrous.

"That's your theory?" he mocked. "A stalker who turns into a knight in shining armor?" Without waiting for a reply, he said, "Now, let me give you my theory: Manning got stuck in the blizzard and for one reason or another, he can't get out. Mrs. Manning lost control of her car in the same blinding snowstorm and went off the road. Here's why I like that theory: The same thing happened to hundreds of people in that blizzard on Sunday! Here's why I don't like your theory: It's improbable. In fact, it's outlandish. In short, it sucks."

Instead of resenting his accurate summation, Sam looked at him for a moment, and then she laughed. "You're right, but please don't soften your opinions for my sake."

Shrader was a man, therefore being "right" was both a compliment—which immediately improved his mood—and also a very high priority. "You should have discussed your theory with me before you inflicted it on Mrs. Manning," he pointed out, but in a more pleasant voice.

"I didn't develop it until after we got here," Sam admitted as the elevator doors opened on the first floor. "It was the pears that finally sent me in that direction. They represent a personal knowledge of her habits—'insider' information—and there wasn't a card with them. Then, when I saw how strongly Mrs. Manning reacted to them…"

"She told you why she reacted that way."

They were already partway across the lobby when Sam decided to make a detour, which Shrader incorrectly assumed was to the ladies' room. "I'll meet you at the car," she told him.

"Prostate trouble?" he joked. "You already stopped on the way upstairs."

Sam walked over to the reception desk, where several new floral arrangements were waiting to be delivered to patients' rooms. She showed her badge to an elderly volunteer with blue tinted hair and a name tag that said she was Mrs. Novotny. "Was a big basket of pears delivered here this morning?" Sam asked her.

"Oh, yes," the volunteer said. "We were all marveling at the size of those beautiful pears."

"Did you happen to notice the truck or car that delivered them?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. It was a black car—the kind movie stars drive—I know, because two teenagers were sitting right over there at the time, and they were admiring it. One boy said it cost at least three hundred thousand dollars!"

"Did they mention what kind of car it was?"

"Yes. They said it was a…" She paused, deep in thought, and then she brightened. "They said it was a Bentley! I can describe the man driving it, too: He was wearing a black suit and a black hat with a visor on it. He carried the pears in here and put them on my desk. He said they were for Mrs. Leigh Manning, and he asked me to please see that she gets them as soon as possible. I told him I would."

Sam felt completely foolish for obsessing over what was obviously an innocuous basket of expensive fruit delivered in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. Shrader had been totally right. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Novotny, you've been very helpful," Sam assured her automatically, because she thought it was important to make every cooperative citizen feel as if they'd been valuable. It was a way of saying "thank you for being willing to get involved."

Mrs. Novotny was so flattered that she tried to be even more helpful. "If you want to know anything else about the man driving that car, you could ask the person who sent the pears, Detective."

"We don't know who sent them," Sam said over her shoulder. "There was no card with them."

"The envelope fell off."

Something about the way she said that made Sam stop and turn.

Mrs. Novotny was holding a square envelope in her hand. "I was planning to send this upstairs to Mrs. Manning with a volunteer, but they've been busy all morning. Almost all the beds here are filled because of the blizzard. Lots of folks fell, or got in car wrecks, or had heart attacks from shoveling snow."

Sam thanked her profusely, took the envelope, and continued across the lobby. She opened the envelope, not because she expected to discover anything meaningful inside it, but because she'd already embarrassed herself with Shrader and upset Mrs. Manning over the basket of fruit that it should have been attached to. She removed a small folded sheet of engraved stationery from the envelope and read the handwritten message on it. Then she stopped in midstride. And read it twice more.

Shrader had gotten their car out of the lot and it was at the curb just outside the main doors. Puffs of exhaust were pumping out of the tailpipe and a hard, thin coat of frost had already built up on the windshield. He was scraping it off with his credit card—an entertaining procedure with the windshield wipers running at top speed and his knuckles bare. She waited in the car until he got in and began blowing on his cold hands and rubbing them together; then she offered him the folded note. "What's that?" he asked between puffs on his fingers.

"The note that came with Mrs. Manning's pears."

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Because you're cold," she said, "and I think this will… electrify you."

Shrader clearly thought that was unlikely, and he demonstrated that opinion by ignoring the note and continuing to rub his hands together. When he finished, he put the Ford into gear, looked in the rearview mirror, and pulled away from the curb. Finally, he reached for the note, casually flipped it open with his thumb, and as they neared a stop sign at the pedestrian crosswalk, Shrader finally allotted it a sideways glance.

"Holy shit!" He slammed down on the brake so hard that Sam's seat belt locked and the rear end of the car fish-tailed on the icy drive. He read it again, then he slowly lifted his big dark head and gazed at her, his brown eyes bright with wonder and anticipation—a very happy rottweiler who'd just been given a juicy sirloin. He shook his head as if to clear it. "We've got to call Captain Holland," he said, pulling the Ford over to the curb. Chuckling silently, he punched numbers on his cellular phone. "What a coup, Littleton! If Logan Manning doesn't show up soon—healthy and hale—you've just handed NYPD a case that's going to make you a heroine and Holland the next police commissioner. Commissioner Trumanti will be able to die a happy man." Into the phone he barked, "This is Shrader. I need to talk to the captain." He listened for a moment, then said, "Tell him it's an emergency. I'll hold on."

He took the phone away from his ear long enough to press the mute button; then he announced, "If you weren't already Holland's fair-haired angel, you'd be that from now on."

Sam suppressed a jolt of alarm. "What do you mean, I'm his 'angel'?"

Shrader gave her an abject, hangdog look. "Forget I said that. Whatever is between you and Holland is none of my business. It's real clear now, though, that you've got more going for you than just your looks. You've got tremendous instincts, you've got tenacity, you've got ability! That's what matters."

"What matters to me at this moment is that you implied Captain Holland has some sort of partiality for me, and I want to know why you think that."

"Hell, everybody at the Eighteen thinks that!"

"Oh, gee, that makes me feel much better," she said sarcastically. "Now answer my question or I'll show you 'tenacity' like you have never—"

The person on the other end of the phone said something, and Shrader held up his hand to silence Sam's outburst. "I'll hold on," he said; then he looked at Sam, gauging the degree of determination in her facial expression, and decided he believed her threat. "Consider the evidence," he said, after pressing the mute button again. "You're a rookie detective, but you wanted Homicide at the Eighteen and you got Homicide. We've got cases coming out the wazoo, but Holland doesn't want to give you any of those cases; he wants a nice clean case to start you out on. You need a permanent partner, but Holland won't assign you to just anybody. He wants to pick your partner personally—"

Sam grasped at the only lame explanation she could come up with at the moment. "Holland is handling assignments for everyone right now, since Lieutenant Unger's position is still open."

"Yeah, but Holland hasn't assigned you to a partner, because he wants to make sure your partner is someone real nice, someone you're 'compatible' with."

"Then how could he have picked you?"

Shrader grinned at her gibe. "Because he knows I'll 'look out for you.' "

"He told you to look out for me?" Sam gaped at him in shocked disgust.

"In exactly those words."

She digested that for a moment; then she shrugged in pretended disinterest. "Well, if that's all it takes to make everyone think there's something odd going on, then you're all a bunch of gossipy old women."

"Give us a break, Littleton. Take a look at yourself—you're not exactly the typical female cop. You don't swear, you don't get mad, you're too proper and ladylike, and you don't look like a cop."

"You haven't heard me swear," Sam corrected him, "and you haven't seen me get angry yet, and what's wrong with the way I look?"

"Nothing. Just ask Holland and some of the other guys at the Eighteen—they think you look real fine. Of course, the only other female detectives at the Eighteen are a lot older than you and fifty pounds heavier, so they don't have a lot to compare you with."

Sam shook her head in disgust and hid her relief, but his next statement jarred her and ended that momentary respite. "Since you want to know the whole truth," he said, "according to the grapevine over at headquarters, you've got some sort of clout—friends in high places—something like that."

"That's just typical," Sam said, managing to look scornfully amused. "Whenever a woman starts succeeding in a male-dominated profession, you guys would rather attribute her success to anything, anything, except ability."

"Well, you got plenty of that," Shrader shocked her by saying; then he broke off abruptly as Holland finally took his call and evidently began by chewing Shrader out for holding on and running up his cellular phone bill.

"Yes, sir, Captain, I know—probably five minutes. Yes, sir, Captain, but Detective Littleton discovered something I felt you'd want to know about immediately."

Since Shrader was the senior detective on the case, and also "in charge of her," Sam expected him to take some sort of credit for her discovery, or at least to claim the satisfaction of telling Holland about it himself, but to Sam's surprise, Shrader handed the phone to her with a wink. "Holland says this had better be good."

By the time Sam disconnected the call, she had no doubt that Captain Thomas Holland thought her information justified an expensive phone call.

In fact, he thought it warranted the full and immediate use of all of the NYPD's available personnel and resources.

"Well?" Shrader said with a knowing grin. "What did Holland say?"

Sam handed his phone back to him and summarized the conversation. "Basically, he said that Mrs. Manning is going to get more help from the NYPD in the search for her husband than she ever imagined."

"Or wanted," Shrader said flatly. He glanced up at the hospital in the general direction of the third floor and shook his head. "That woman is one hell of an actress! She fooled me completely."

Sam automatically followed his gaze. "Me, too," she admitted, frowning.

"Cheer up," he advised her as they pulled away from the curb. "You've made Holland a happy man, and by now, he's on the phone with Trumanti, making the Commissioner a happy man. By tonight, Trumanti will make the mayor a happy man. The biggest problem for all of us," he said as he put the car into gear, "will be keeping what we've got a secret. If the Feds get wind of it, they'll try to find some way to muscle in on the case. They've been trying to nail Valente on a dozen charges for years, but they can never make them stick. They aren't going to be happy when the NYPD succeeds where they've failed."

"Isn't it a little too early for all this ecstasy?" Sam said. "If Logan Manning turns up alive and well, there is no 'case.'"

"True, but something tells me that isn't going to happen. It's time for lunch," he added after a glance at the clock on the dashboard. "I owe you an apology for shooting holes in your theory earlier. I'll buy you a hamburger for lunch."

His extraordinary offer made Sam do a double take. Shrader was so cheap that everyone at the Eighteenth joked about it. In the few days they'd been in the mountains together, he'd already stuck her for several cups of coffee and vending machine snacks at the hospital. In view of that, and his earlier attitude about her "theory," Sam decided on a revenge she knew would torture him: "You owe me a steak for dinner."

"Not a chance."

"I know just the place. But first, Captain Holland wants us to make some phone calls to the local authorities."