“Why would I drop everything to meet a man I don’t know?” Stride asked.

“Like I said, he knows you. Look him up, Mr. Stride. See what kind of a man he is. Then come to Chicago. And come alone, no other police, okay?”

“I’m hanging up,” Stride said. “If Mr. Jones wants to talk to me, he can call me at the office.”

“He said to give you a message,” the man interjected quickly.

“What is it?”

“He said to remind you that the girl had secrets.”

Stride didn’t reply. Serena felt his muscles tense and his arousal vanish. The silence stretched out.

“Are you still there, Mr. Stride?”

“Yes.”

“Does that message mean something to you?”

“You know it does.”

“Will you come to Chicago?”

Serena looked at Jonny, puzzled.

“I’ll be there,” Stride said. “Tell me when and where.”

The caller rattled off a meeting place at O’Hare, then hung up. Serena dropped the phone on the sofa and folded her arms over her chest.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Who the hell is Hubert Jones?”

“I don’t know, but I need to get to the office early to find out,” Stride said. “Then I’m heading to Minneapolis to grab a flight to Chicago.”

“To chase a stranger?”

“To chase Dada,” he said.

31
___________

“I don’t like small planes,” Maggie announced, strapping herself into the white leather seat of Peter Stanhope’s Learjet 25. She tightened the seat belt until it nearly cut off the blood flow across her tiny waist. “Does this thing have oxygen masks? I bet you have to use little nose plugs.”

“Relax,” Serena said. “Pretend you’re rich.”

“I am rich,” Maggie reminded her.

“So why don’t you own one of these things?”

“Because I don’t like small planes!”

Serena laughed. “Don’t be such a baby. This is better than driving.”

“The only reason we’re not driving is because you don’t want to argue with me about the radio station.”

“We still have to rent a car in Fargo,” Serena said. “Dibs on country.”

“I have my iPod with me. We can listen to my Bon Jovi collection.”

“I have my iPod, too. Martina.”

“Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“Alan Jackson.”

“White Zombie.”

“Shania.”

“Oh, please,” Maggie scoffed. “I don’t listen to any singer with bigger tits than me.”

“Doesn’t that pretty much rule them all out?” Serena asked.

Maggie stuck out her tongue.

Serena leaned her arm on the glossy wooden shelf beside her seat and stared out the window as the jet lined up on the Duluth runway. Beside her, Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingernails into the armrest. The plane accelerated with a roar and lifted at a sharp angle into the breezy air. The climb was bumpy, with the jet’s wings waggling like a shimmy dancer. Serena had flown in and out of Las Vegas so many times, riding the rocky thermals of the desert mountains, that turbulence no longer bothered her.

The plane headed straight west. Below them, she saw miles of forest dotted with jagged lakes, like the black footprints of retreating glaciers. Towns were thinly spread across the northern half of Minnesota. So were the roads and highways. Time passed quickly as the jet streaked over the land, crossing just south of the giant fingers of Leech Lake. Without clouds, Serena could see straight down. As they neared the western section of the state, the forested wilderness gave way to lush squares of farmland, ranging in color from muddy taupe to deep green, jutting up against one another like stripes in a flag.