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hiding a lot from me, but he was still a large amount of fun.
    It had stopped raining, so we went up to Planet Hollywood for lunch and sat looking out at Times Square. “This is so kitsch,” Xander said. “Want a strawberry margarita?”
    “Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?”
    So it was that we were both slightly pissed—well, pissed enough to think that my confusion over getting the “check” vs. getting the “bill” was hilarious—when we wandered out to look up at the MTV studios and my phone rang. It was Macbeth, and I may have greeted him a little merrily, because he asked in a pained voice, “Sophie, have you been drinking?”
    “No! Well,” I giggled, “let me clarify that. Yes.”
    “It’s six in the afternoon.”
    “Well, that’s eleven p.m. in England.” Right? Or was I too pissed to work out the time difference properly?
    “You have work to do.”
    “Such as? You never called me last night.”
    “Figured there was nothing for you to do. Listen—I’ve had stuff monitoring Shapiro’s suite all night and all today. There’s been no sign of him. He went out yesterday aftern…n…hasn’t b…seen…” The line crackled, and I missed part of what he said.
    “What?”
    “He’s vanished.”
    Uh-oh. “Does he have a laptop or anything you can hack into?”
    “No. There’s nothing here. Listen, that guy you were with yest…day—Harvey Number Two—he was after Shap…too?”
    I glanced at Xander, who was watching a troupe of orange-clad dancers wriggling about up in the MTV studio. “Yes,” I dropped my voice, “but he won’t tell me why. Not the real reason.”
    “You think…s lying?”
    “Omitting things.”
    “Try and get…of him.”
    “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
    I could hear him laughing. “Is this anything Luke c…hear about?”
    I deliberated. Technically, yes, but in the real world… “Tell him and I’ll—I’ll paint your nails pink.”
    Obviously this was a dire enough threat for him. “My lips are sea…ry an…et it out…him. Oh, an…ophie?”
    “Yes?”
    “I…go…wants…ria…p you…”
    “What? You’re breaking up. Macbeth?”
    “…”
    “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
    “…”
    Great.
    I ended the call and looked up at Xander.
    “Xander,” I said, and he turned his head to me fractionally. “Are we far from Central Park?”
    “Seventeen blocks.”
    “Can we go there? I’ve always wanted to go there.”
    He tore himself away from MTV and we started up Broadway. On the way he pointed out the Hershey’s store, where I went and bought lots of junk for Luke. Hell, if he didn’t like it I could give it a good home.
    Central Park amazed me. I knew it was big, but Xander said it was eight hundred and forty acres and a hundred and fifty years old. There were massive bits of rock sticking up out of the grass and, after walking a few blocks in we were suddenly miles away from the city. Buying a couple of ice-cold bottles of water, we sat down on one of the rocky outcrops and I fussed over my feet again. I’d bought some baby wipes from a chemist—sorry, drugstore—and cleaned off the dust and sweat and carefully repackaged my tootsies with tape and plasters. Xander watched me for a while, then he asked, “So why are you really here?”
    “Well, my feet hurt, and I wanted somewhere to sit down—”
    “I mean in New York.”
    “Oh. I told you, business.”
    “Business that lets you sleep in until eleven and go out shopping all day?”
    “Yes,” I said stubbornly, snipping off a bit of waterproof tape.
    “Wow. Great job.”
    “Right back at you. Don’t you have work to do?”
    He shrugged. “Until I get my money I can’t afford any materials.”
    “What kind of work do you do? Do you paint?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Helpful. “Or is it more like 3D art? Sculpture, collage, performance art?”
    “What do you know about art?”
    “I have an A level in it.” Only just.
    “What’s that?”
    I looked at him. He