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in the house. She plays the piano very well. So do the girls. We’re both bookaholics, but she especially loved reading in this room.”
    He sat in a club chair covered in rust-tone leather. “I appreciate that you came to Atlanta. I’ve heard you’re very good at difficult cases. How can I help you?” he asked.
    I sat across from him on a matching rust-tone-leather couch. On the wall behind him were photographs of the Parthenon, Chartres, the pyramids, and an honorary plaque from Chastain Horse Park. “There are a lot of people working to find Mrs. Connolly, and they’ll go down a lot of avenues. I’m not going to get into too many details about your family. The local detectives can go there.”
    “Thank you,” the judge said. “Those questions are devastating to answer right now. To go over and over. You can’t imagine.”
    I nodded. “Are you aware of any local men, or even women, who might have taken an inappropriate interest in your wife? A long-standing crush, a potential obsession? That’s the one private area I’d like to go into. Then, any little things that strike you as out of the ordinary. Did you notice anyone watching your wife? Are there any faces you’ve seen around more than normal lately? Delivery men? Federal Express or other services? Neighbors who are suspicious in any way? Work associates? Even friends who might have fantasized about Mrs. Connolly?”
    Brendan Connolly nodded. “I see what you’re getting at.”
    I looked him in the eye. “Have you and your wife had any fights lately?” I asked. “I need to know if you have. Then we can move on.”
    Wetness suddenly appeared in the corners of Brendan Connolly’s eyes. “I met Lizzie in Washington when she was with the
Post
and I was an associate at Tate Schilling, a law firm there. It
was
love at first sight. We almost never fought, hardly ever raised our voices. That’s still true. Agent Cross, I love my wife. So do her daughters. Please help us bring her home. You have to find Lizzie.”

Chapter 15
    THE MODERN-DAY GODFATHER. A forty-seven-year-old Russian now living in America and known as the Wolf. Rumored to be fearless, hands-on, into everything from weapon sales, extortion, and drugs to legitimate businesses such as banking and venture capital. No one seemed to know his true identity, or his American name, or where he lived.
Clever.
Invisible.
Safe from the FBI. And anybody else who might be looking for him.
    He had been in his twenties when he made the switch from the KGB to become one of the most ruthless cell leaders in Russian organized crime, the Red Mafiya. His namesake, the Siberian wolf, was a skillful hunter, but also relentlessly hunted. The Siberian was a fast runner and could overpower much heavier animals—but it was also hunted for its blood and bones. The human Wolf was also a hunter who was hunted—except that the police had no idea where to hunt.
    Invisible. By design.
Actually, he was hiding in plain sight. On a balmy evening, the man called Wolf was throwing a huge party at his 20,000-square-foot house on the waterfront in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The occasion was the launch of his new men’s magazine, called
Instinct,
which would compete with
Maxim
and
Stun.
    In Lauderdale, the Wolf was known as Ari Manning, a wealthy businessman originally from Tel Aviv. He had other names in other cities. Many names, many cities.
    He was passing through the den now, where about twenty of his guests were watching a football game on several TVs, including a 61-inch Runco. A couple of football fanatics were bent over a computer with a statistics database. On a nearby table was a bottle of Stolichnaya encased in a block of ice. The vodka in ice was the only real Russian touch that he allowed.
    At six-foot-two, this Wolf could carry 240 pounds and still move like a big and very powerful animal. He circulated among his guests, always smiling and joking, knowing that no one in the room understood why he smiled, not one of