“These calls are from Martin Sklar,” I drew a star next to it and wrote his name in the margin. My hand shook only a little. “The international calls are from me, from my cell phone.” I marked those, too. “I don’t recognize the other numbers. Do you know what they are?”

“The Manhattan ones are mostly a gym off Union Square called Sinotique, and a couple of restaurants that deliver. She used the name Claudia Moore with them, by the way.” Renfrew took the list out of my hands. “There are a bunch of calls from Chicago, made with pre-paid calling cards on different pay phones. Those only started in the middle of November.”

Were the calls for Claudia or her impostor? As far as I knew, my sister didn’t have any friends in Chicago. Had one of her old crowd moved there recently? “What about Kaylee Quan? Did you find her yet?”

“She’s in the wind,” said Bruxton. “We called her husband last night. He’s still in Hong Kong. He didn’t sound worried about her. Hard to say if he knows where she is, or just doesn’t care.”

CHAPTER 13

“He was an absolutely terrifying man. He looked like a criminal, perhaps even a terrorist.” Sarah Lyons looked impeccable, almost regal, as she spoke, reminding me again of a forty-something Grace Kelly. She was beautiful and poised and haughty.

“Can you describe him?” Detective Renfrew asked her. We were sitting together in the detectives’ break room at the precinct on Pitt Street. It was arguably cozier than the interrogation cell I’d been in the day before, but its dingy yellow walls and tiny window to the outside permitted no light or air circulation. When I’d come into the precinct the detectives had put me “on ice,” as Renfrew had phrased it, in the break room. They’d sent me to the interrogation room after Sarah had come in, but they hadn’t followed me in for a few minutes. Then the detectives had swooped over and moved us to what they called “more comfortable” surroundings, back in the break room. If they were this confused about details, I had little hope their investigation would amount to anything. We were seated at a folding metal table that looked only slightly more substantial than a card table. Bruxton was next to me, taking notes and keeping quiet for once.

“Well, he was tall, perhaps six foot three, and broad-shouldered. He wore a suit. He might have been Arab, or Pakistani. He had a very deep voice and a British accent.” Sarah’s description was impressive. Claudia had told me that Tariq Lawrence’s half-Pakistani, half-English heritage had led him to be mistaken for every nationality from Argentine to Turkish, but people rarely guessed the truth. “He was quite the frightening presence,” Sarah added. “I thought about calling the police the last time he showed up. ”

“Why was that, Ms. Lyons?”