“I’ve spoken to Mr. Macallister, yes.”

“What about her husband’s family? He’s got a mother or something, I seem to remember. And the father’s a real piece of work, from what I hear. Mr. Digby Senior, some kind of bigwig in oil.”

“Miss Macallister, you might be surprised to know that the FBI actually knows how to conduct a thorough investigation without recourse to any of your useful suggestions.”

“Touched a nerve, did I? Everything coming up dry? You’ve come to the end of the line?” I stub out the cigarette. “The end of the line being me, of course. Deadest of dead ends. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more use to you.”

“Yes, I can see the regret in your eyes, Miss Macallister.” He closes the notebook and replaces it in the inside pocket of his jacket. As he does so, I catch a glimpse of a mammoth chest.

I snap my fingers.

“Sumner Fox! Of course. Football. You were all the rage for a few years. Some college or another, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says. “Some college or another. Here’s my card, Miss Macallister. I urge you to contact me at the earliest possible instant, should you receive any word at all from your sister.”

I take the card from his meaty fingers and slip it into the pocket of my slacks. “Life or death, is it?”

He squints at me carefully, as if my head’s turned into a sun. “Just call that number, please, as a matter of urgency. And Miss Macallister? You’ll understand this conversation should be kept strictly confidential.”

I zip my lips. “You can trust me, Mr. Fox.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll show myself out.”

AFTER HE LEAVES, I light another cigarette and take my time settling my vital humors. I stand right before that great wall of glass and stare between the monoliths toward my narrow section of the East River—all the miniature boats inching along the glittering summer water, all the acres of close-packed buildings stretching out beyond them. I think about how many people live inside those buildings. I think about the buildings beyond those buildings, the buildings beyond those, the parks and yards and nice suburban houses of Long Island, old Roosevelt Field where Lindbergh took off for Paris early one morning. It took him thirty-six hours to get there, which is perseverance, if you ask me. I admire perseverance. You find yourself some purpose and you stick to it, like a dog with a bone, no matter how many times the world tries to yank that bone away.

Now, was Lindbergh right to do it? Well, of course he was. But only because he made it to Paris.