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Santos slowed the truck. Badde saw that they were just shy of downtown proper. A towering stone-faced complex loomed ahead. Before it, centered in a large berm of lush green grass, was a block of granite the size of a city bus. Chiseled in four-foot-tall black roman lettering was: TWO YELLOWROSE PLACE. Badde then saw individual signage for street-level high-end retail stores and restaurants and for a hotel, clearly a luxury one, he’d never heard of.
Across the street from the complex was an equally impressive high-rise residential building.
Santos steered the truck into the high-rise’s cobblestone driveway and pulled to a stop before the enormous well-lit front doors. Doormen on either side of the doors were swinging them open, and out marched three stylishly dressed women. One was olive-skinned, one cocoa-skinned, the third ivory-skinned—and all looking like stunning fashion models. They seemed to float across the walkway as they headed toward the revolving door to the bar of a chophouse next door.
Philadelphia City Councilman H. Rapp Badde, Jr., could not stop himself.
“Is there not a single ugly woman in this town?” he blurted.
Santos and Garcia laughed.
“It’ll take a second to get you your room,” Santos said, “then we can head over there for a little something liquid to cut the trail dust.”
Their doors were opened by valets in red blazers.
“Welcome back, Mr. Santos, Mr. Garcia,” one said, and to Badde added, “Welcome, sir.”
“Yeah,” he replied, flashing his well-practiced politician’s smile.
IV
[ONE]
Little Palm Island, Florida
Sunday, November 16, 10:01 P.M.
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Matt, approaching the entrance to the restaurant’s bar, could see Amanda through the big window that overlooked the patio deck. She was standing with Chad at the bar, and it took a moment before she saw him coming up the tiki-torch-lit path. She said something to Chad, who nodded, and then she walked outside to meet Matt.
Matt went up the short flight of steps to the deck, watching appreciatively as the ocean breeze blew her dress and hair. But then he noticed that there was something in her expression that he couldn’t quite place.
I know she’s upset. But there’s more to it than just that. . . .
He reached the top of the steps.
“Hey, you okay?” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.
“Chad is ordering our meals now,” she said. “I don’t think I can eat, though. I’m sorry, Matt. I’ve just been sick to my stomach over this.” She paused, glanced out at the ocean for a long moment, then went on: “I know what it’s like to be taken, to be powerless, and cannot get over that that might be happening right now to Maggie.”
She was anxiously flipping the phone in her hand.
He looked at that and said, “I’ve been juggling calls, too.”
“I imagine one was to Jason? Maggie is why he called earlier?”
I knew she’d pick up on that!
I’m not going to lie about it—I don’t want to lie to her about anything.
“Yeah. Something strange is going on with Maggie’s disappearance. He won’t tell me what it is—won’t tell me anything. But he did say he wants to know if we hear from her, which suggests to me that they believe she’s alive.”
“That’s something, I guess,” she said, with no enthusiasm.
“You have any luck with anything?”
“I talked with Mrs. McCain. This afternoon Maggie sent a text to her cousin Emma.”
