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trees. Hold on.”
    The phone clattered, and Heath heard the click of a keyboard. From where he stood, he could see the pasture across the road through his living room window. Deceptively placid, whiteface cattle grazed on the hock-high grass. Just hauled in from winter grazing lands, the Herefords were actually as wild and unpredictable as drunk cowpokes on Saturday night.
    “You still there?” his deputy finally said.
    Heath turned to grab a notepad. “Yeah, I’m here.”
    “Got a writin’ stick handy?”
    “Yeah, go.”
    “Registered owner, Meredith Lynn Kenyon, last name spelled Kilo, Echo, November, Yankee, Oscar, November.”
    Heath grunted with satisfaction as he wrote down the name. Network computer access had its advantages.
    “White female,” Charlie continued. “Birth date, 4/23/70. Five feet, four inches, one hundred and six pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, and a negatory on organ donation.” He paused to give Heath time to write. “Address, 1423 Hereford Lane. That’s your place, ain’t it?”
    “No, I’m at 1420.”
    “Got a problem with that new neighbor?”
    “Nothing I can’t handle. A little misunderstanding, is all. I need her name so I can call and apologize. If information can’t give me her number, I’ll get back to you.”
    “Son, your technique with the ladies needs work. Just go over and apologize, then ask her name. Wink and smile real nice while you’re at it. Works every time.”
    Heath chuckled, remembering how furious Meredith Kenyon had been when she stormed into the house. “Thanks for the advice, Charlie. I’ll remember that.”
    “She a looker, or what?”
    Heath recalled her fragile build. “Not bad. A little on the thin side. Pretty face.”
    “Nice rack?”
    “Charlie, go home to Mabel and scratch your itch. She’s just my neighbor lady, all right? I didn’t notice her bra size.”
    “I can’t go home to Mabel. I’m on duty, remember? And don’t lie to me. When the day comes you don’t notice a woman’s bra size, you’ll be stone blind.”
    Heath was shaking his head as he hung up the phone. Gazing down at the information he’d just scribbled, he shoved another spoonful of macaroni into his mouth. Tapping his pen on the counter, he pictured Meredith Kenyon.
    A generous “B” cup, no question about it. He only wished she had a few other generous traits. A more forgiving nature, just for starters.
     
    The lights of Manhattan cast a rosy glow through the unbreakable glass window of Glen Calendri’s penthouse study. He blocked out the muted drone of the traffic that passed by on the street thirty-six floors below him, listening instead, with growing impatience, to the voice coming over his speaker phone.
    With each passing second, he tapped his pen on the desktop a little more loudly, the sound rhythmic at first, then increasing in tempo and volume until it resembled the rat-a-tat-tat of an automatic weapon with a silencer. With one final tap, he shoved back in his chair, chucking the pen onto the blotter.
    “Damn it, Sanders! The bitch couldn’t have vanished into thin air. How’n hell do you think she got out of the city, on a magic carpet?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. Maybe that Scotty fellow beamed her up.”
    Allen Sanders’ sigh of frustration echoed over the speaker into the room. “Boss, I’m doin’ the best I can here.”
    “Well, your best isn’t good enough.”
    “We can’t come up with any leads. The last trace we got on her was that bank withdrawal. Not a damned thing since then. No paper trail, and she’s not usin’ plastic.”
    “She had to use some form of transportation. Did you check the bus stations? It can’t be that difficult to track a woman traveling with a kid.”
    “We checked everywhere, boss, and then went back andchecked again. Every airport, every bus station. The trains, too. My guess is, she bought herself a used car from a private owner. Prob’ly paid cash and used another name. The broad’s