Musil heard that a lot these days. It was the boy he’d managed to save from the killer. Anton Ciobanu. The FBI had used what happened to get positive press after a difficult incident earlier in the summer. One in which he’d also been involved, unfortunately. A young man had accidentally died when Musil tried to bring him in for questioning about an online banking crime, falling off a Brooklyn rooftop while trying to run from his family’s apartment, and nearly taking Musil down to the street with him. But Jot was uncomfortable with both the praise and criticism. He did his job to the best of his ability and tried to make the world a little better. That was all.

“Ms. Hughes, on another subject, I’m calling about your cousin.”

“Steve?”

“Yes. I—”

“Is he OK?” she interrupted. Her voice was suddenly anxious—the voice of someone who had been bracing for a bad-news call. “Have you heard something about him?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to cut you off. But he’s aboard the Stalwart. That ship that went missing near China.”

“Yes.”

“It’s been a nightmare since I heard about that. Like he disappeared twice.”

“Yes, I can understand—”

“You know about the first time?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The police insisted he was on the ship. So I took their word for it. I had no choice. But I’ve been worrying for months.” A pause. “Detective...you say you don’t have new information?”

“It’s Agent, ma’am. And no, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Then, why are you contacting me?”

Musil was thinking it would be difficult to explain his reasons over the phone. “Ma’am,” he said, “can we arrange to meet in person? I would like to follow up on your police report.”

“Certainly,” she said. “But, please, tell me...is Steve in some kind of trouble?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“The two of us grew up together, you know. We’ve been tight our whole lives. Like brother and sister.”

“Oh?”

“I always watch his place while he’s gone. Come by once a month just to make sure it’s OK. That’s why I never believed he would leave without a word. And even if he did...he’s had two months to contact me from on board the ship. Why wouldn’t he?”

Musil thought it was a very reasonable question. “Ms. Hughes, do you still live in Pennsylvania?”

“Yes. East Stroudsburg.”

“That’s in the Poconos, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Musil cradled the receiver between his neck and shoulder, took his smartphone out of his pocket and tapped the location into a map.

“I’m in Manhattan right now,” he said. “If you’re home, I can be there within ninety minutes. Would that be all right?”