She looked at people, searching for Wheldon as she passed. In his YouTube videos, he was a neatly dressed reporterish-looking middle-aged white guy.

There was no one who looked like that in front of the red ropes, so she went to the corner and waited on the light. On the opposite side of it, she saw a couple of dog walkers standing there, allowing their dogs to greet each other.

Of course, she thought.

Why not take the dog out for a stroll at midnight in Times Square in the freezing cold? To meet Buzz Lightyear for a break-dancing lesson maybe? Makes sense.

As she arrived at the opposite curb, she realized one of the dog walkers was staring at her. He was a pale, fiftyish man in a long dark overcoat.

Was it Wheldon? Ruby thought. The neat hair and reporterish look were the same, and he seemed to be about the same age. Though he hadn’t mentioned any dog.

Or had the FBI found her? Ruby thought, gnawing on her lip. They looked reporterish, too.

They didn’t break eye contact as she went past him north up Broadway. She was coming to the corner of 45th when she noticed that he was coming up behind her. She stopped short, freaking out a little. He handed her something before he kept going like a shot with the dog around the corner of 45th.

She kept going straight up Broadway and waited until she got across the next side street before she looked at it.

It was a flyer for an Irish pub on 50th Street.

12:30 was written in Sharpie along its bottom.

38

The hearty, happy smell of steak and Guinness made Ruby smile when she came in out of the cold through the door of O’Lunney’s Times Square Pub.

After all the traveling and cold and walking and worrying, she suddenly felt ravenously hungry and very tired.

She looked at the people at the half-filled bar, the jewel-colored rows of shining bottles behind it.

“Hey, there you are. This way, miss,” said a pleasant-looking goateed man in a dapper gray suit as he came out from behind the bar.

He led her down some steps to a downstairs bar and past it to a dark booth where the neat man from the corner stood as she approached.

“Welcome to the jungle, Ruby,” Wheldon said as she stepped over.

“Where’s your dog?” Ruby said.

Wheldon laughed as she sat.

“What dog?” he said with a wink.

“You are Eric Wheldon?”

“At your service,” he said.

“An Irish coffee, please,” she said to the waitress when she came over.

“I’d also like a menu, too, if we’re staying. I’m starving,” Ruby said, unbuttoning her coat as the waitress left.

“No, we should actually be leaving in a minute,” Wheldon said, glancing at the stairs. “We should keep moving.”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t slept an hour straight since I called you. I’m about to drop. Is it really necessary?”