“Okay,” said Sarah, who evidently hadn’t detected the beep at her end. “But don’t you want to hear my theory about why—”

“Gotta go!” I said, hit the button, and said, “Yeah?”

Trimble intuited that I’d taken another call. He leaned in again, and I tipped the phone toward him.

“Fuck, I was just about to hang up,” said Bullock on the other end. “What, are you playing with yourself? This call not important enough to you?”

“I’m sorry. It was my wife. I practically had to hang up on her.”

“You tell her—” a short cough “—what’s going on?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Because we don’t want her calling the cops, do we?”

“No.” I swallowed. Trimble, in less than a whisper, said, “Tell them to put your daughter on.” I said, “Let me talk to Angie.”

“She’s fine, don’t worry about her.”

“If you want me to deliver this car,” I said, “you’ll put her on the line.”

Bullock sighed. “Jesus, fine, whatever.” I could hear him say to someone else, “Bring the girl over here, her dad wants to talk to her.” Then some phone fumbling.

Then: “Daad.” It didn’t sound like her. At least, it didn’t sound like any Angie I knew.

“Angie, is that you?” I was trying, without much success, to keep the panic out of my voice.

“Hi, Daddy … I’m so tired.”

I could tell it was her now, but her words came out slowly, dreamily. “Honey, what’s wrong? Have they given you something?”

“I’m just really … really tired.”

“Have they hurt you?”

“Hmmm? No … Can you come and take me home? I want to go to bed. And I’ve got an essay to do, that’s due tomorrow …”

“Honey, I’m coming to get you, I’m—”

“There,” said Bullock. “You satisfied? She’s fine.”

“What have you done to her? What the fuck is wrong with her?”

“Just relax. We just gave her a little something to calm her nerves, you know? Make her comfortable. Mellow her out. Sort of like Roofies.” The colloquial for the date rape drug. “But we’re honorable people. We wouldn’t do anything improper.” He coughed, cleared his throat. It sounded as though he was taking a sip of water. “So, you ready?”

“Yes.”

“We’re at 32 Wyndham Lane. You know where that is?”

“No,” I said, but was writing down the address in my notebook.

“We’re a few blocks south of the university, Mackenzie, down in there.” He gave me more detailed directions. It was, if I had my bearings right, a pretty nice part of town. Not quite the Heights, but filled with old, big homes.

“I can find it,” I said.

“Come up the drive, you’ll see a three-car garage. Pull up to the center door.”

“All right.”

“And don’t do anything dumb. No cops.”