The rain had been falling since Thursday. By Sunday it had the consistency of verdict—inevitable, indifferent, and slightly acidic.

I was sitting in my office on Madison Avenue, staring at a client proposal for a hair product I did not believe in, when Victor walked in without knocking. He never knocked. The door was locked, but he had a key, and even before he had the key, he had a way of appearing in rooms that suggested locks were suggestions.

"Dory," he said. He said it the way he always did—short, slightly nasal, like the name was a coin he was testing for weight.

"Victor." I closed the proposal. The client would get a revised version tomorrow that said the same thing in different words and charged thirty percent more. "What do you want?"

"You look tired."

"I look like a woman who has been negotiating with insurance adjusters since six this morning. It is Sunday. They do not take Sundays seriously."

He sat down opposite my desk without being invited. He was wearing a grey suit that cost more than my first car and shoes that had never known rain. He looked like a man who had been photographed for the society pages and a man who had been photographed for police mugshots in three different cities. Sometimes he was both photographs at once.

"I have information," he said. "It concerns Ruth."

The pen in my hand stopped moving. I set it down on the desk with care, aligning it perfectly parallel to the desk's edge. "Where is she?"

"That's not the question you should be asking."

"Then what is?"

He leaned forward. The rain tapped against the window. Somewhere below, a siren passed and did not stop.

"The question is: do you want her alive?"

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