"The blond detective I saw at the Ferris autopsy."

Ryan nodded. "Birch has been trying to contact Purviance for several days now. She's not at Ferris's warehouse. She's not at home. The lady appears to have vanished."

"Did anyone tell her not to leave town?"

"She isn't a suspect. I couldn't order her to stay put. I did suggest it would be useful to be able to touch base, but I doubt Purviance plays by any rulebook but her own."

"Any evidence of a planned trip?"

Ryan shook his head.

"That's not good," I said.

"No. It's not. Birch is on it."

Ryan came to me and placed a hand on each of my shoulders.

"Friedman and I are going to stick to Kaplan like white on rice. We'll know every place this turkey goes, everything he does, everyone he sees."

"Friedman's rope."

"We're betting Kaplan'll tie himself a noose."

Ryan drew me close.

"You'll be on your own for a while."

"I'll be fine."

"You've got my mobile number."

I broke free and gave Ryan a falsely bright smile. "Don't hold your breath, handsome. I'm dining with a tall, debonair man tonight."

"Bit bald."

"Bald is the new beautiful."

Ryan smiled. "I hate it when you get all weepy over me."

"Go." I turned Ryan toward the door. "Heart-pumping surveillance awaits."

When Ryan had gone, I phoned Jake to settle on a restaurant. No answer.

My watch said five. I'd been up since dawn, and was starting to fade.

Power nap? Why not. Jake would call within the hour.

Seconds later I was awakened by a noise at my door.

A key? A rattling k.n.o.b?

Disoriented, I looked at the clock.

Seven thirty-two.

I flew across the room.

"Jake?"

No answer.

"Ryan?

Something swished on the tile at my feet. Looking down, I saw a folded paper slide through the crack.

I opened the door.

A young woman was scurrying down the corridor. She wore a hijab, hijab, dark dress, and oxfords. dark dress, and oxfords.

"Miss?"

Without stopping the woman spoke over her shoulder. "This man hurt your room."

With that the woman rounded the corner, and her footsteps receded down the stone steps.

I closed and locked my door. Outside, traffic hummed. Inside, the room screamed silence.

Bending, I picked up and unfolded the paper. On it were the same words the woman had spoken. And a single name. Hossam al-Ahmed.

Was the woman a maid? Had she witnessed the break-in to my room? Why come forward now? Why in this manner?

s.n.a.t.c.hing up the phone, I asked for Mrs. Hanani. I was told the manager had gone for the day. I left a message, asking that she call me.

Placing the note in my purse, I called Jake. Still no answer. Was he still out? Had he tried to contact me? Had I slept through his call?

I tried again at seven forty-five, eight, and eight-fifteen. At eight-thirty I gave up and went down to the Cellar Bar.

Though my dinner was good, I was too agitated to appreciate the chef's efforts. I kept wondering why Jake hadn't returned my calls.

Could he still be at the Rockefeller?

But hadn't Jake planned to swing by his site first, then visit Bloom at the Rockefeller? Had he changed his mind about visiting Bloom? Maybe decided against driving alone with the shroud bones?

But he couldn't still be at the dig. It was dark.

Maybe he'd called my room, gotten no answer, and decided to dine with his crew.

Had I been so tired I'd slept through the ring? I doubted it.

The more I mulled it over, the more worried I became.

Across the bar, I could see two dark-skinned men seated at another alcove table. One was short and wiry, with skull-tight hair and a gap between his front teeth. The other was a beluga, with long, thin wisps pulled into a ponytail.

I thought of Hossam al-Ahmed. Who was he? Had he really ransacked my room? Why?

The men in the alcove were drinking juice, not speaking. A yellow candle lit their table. Shadows slid upward, morphing their features into Halloween masks.

Were the men watching me? Was my imagination in overdrive?

I snuck a peek.

The beluga removed shades from a pocket, slipped them on, and gave me an oily smile.

My eyes snapped back to my plate.

Signing for my meal, I hurried to my room and again called Jake.

No answer.

Maybe the headache had intensified, so he'd pulled the plug on his phone and crashed.

For lack of a better plan, I took a bath. My usual remedy for agitation. No go.

Who were the guys in the bar?

Who was Hossam al-Ahmed?

What had happened to Courtney Purviance?

Where was Jake?

How was Jake? Was he having a relapse? Had he thrown an embolism? Developed a subdural hematoma?

Mother Mary! I was going completely schizoid.

While toweling off, my eyes fell on Ryan's phone records, dry now, but browned and rippled from their encounter with the c.o.ke.

Why not? It would keep my mind from worrying about Jake.

Propping myself in bed, I turned on the lamp and stared out the window. Thin wisps of fog blurred the minaret's top.

While not the full, majestic sweep of Jerusalem, my view was rea.s.suring. Night sky. Lots of it. The same sky that had hung in this place forever.

My focus moved inward.

Arrows of light played on my dimmed ceiling. The day's heat had waned, and the room was pleasantly cool. A perfumed dampness permeated the air.

I closed my eyes and listened, the printouts lying on my upraised knees.

Traffic. The tinkle of a shopkeeper's bell. Cats meeting cats in the courtyard.

A car alarm cut the night with staccato beeps.

Opening my eyes, I took up Ryan's printouts.

I was faster than I'd been on my first go-round. I could see patterns now, and recognized more numbers.

But the bath had been more calming than I'd thought. My lids grew heavy. More than once, I lost my place.

I was about to kill the light when a number caught my attention. Was it drowsiness, or was something wrong there?

I ran the sequence again and again.

I felt blood making the rounds in my brain.

Grabbing the phone, I dialed Ryan.

36.

"RYAN HERE."

"It's Tempe."

"How was dinner?" Subdued.

"Jake never showed."

Slight hitch. Surprise.

"I'll have the cad flogged."

"Turned out for the better. I may have found something in the phone records."

"I'm listening."

"When did Ferris take Miriam to Boca?" I asked.

"Mid-January." Ryan was keeping his answers short. I pictured him and Friedman folded like pretzels in a darkened car.

"Okay. Here's the sequence as I've been able to piece it together. On December twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth, calls were made from the Mirabel warehouse to the Renaissance Boca Raton Hotel. That was Ferris making arrangements."

"Okay."