"But you also said he had a daughter. Has she heard anything?"

"Actually, Jennifer's disappeared, too."

"What?"

"She's a graduate film student at NYU. The evening of the day Jim disappeared, Jennifer's roommate came home from a date and Jennifer wasn't there, but the FBI already was. There was no evidence she had packed anything, no note, nothing. They tried every number the roommate could think of, but just like her father, the girl had simply . . . vanished."

Gabe could only shake his head.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Do you make any sense of this, Drew? Any sense at all? Do you think this is politically related? Maybe it's just a coincidence of some sort, like an accident, or . . . or a mental crisis. Was the daughter stable?"

"A terrific kid. Some therapy after her mother died, but none for years as far as we can tell. No drugs, minimal drinker. No current boyfriend, but her last one had only good things to say."

"Was Ferendelli seeing anyone?"

"Not that we've been able to determine."

Gabe rubbed his eyes and studied the vaulted redwood ceiling.

"I wish I could help you, Drew," he said at last. "Really I do. But there's just too much going on here."

"Actually," Stoddard said, "Magnus Lattimore, my chief of staff, has been here in Tyler for a few days nosing about. He's discreet and very, very efficient, and he can move very quietly when he needs to."

"Like the guys in the suits and sunglasses out there."

"Just like them, yes."

"Terrific. I'm not sure I want to know what he learned."

"Well, let's see. Both of your partners say they can hold down the fort for the time between now and the election in November. Apparently you guys just hired a new physician's assistant named Lillian Lawrence, who's in a position to absorb a lot of the load that sending you off on a working sabbatical would generate. One of your partners said Lillian is probably smarter than you are anyway."

Gabe was unable to stifle a grin.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Sorry. He swore Magnus to secrecy."

"It's not that simple, Drew. In addition to my patients I have a commitment to my foundation."

"You mean Lariat?"

"Uh-oh. What'd Magnus learn about that?"

"He learned that over the years you've kept more than a few kids from heading down the wrong path by getting them involved in rodeo and other riding projects."

"So he must have learned how important it is to me . . . and me to it."

"What he learned is that there isn't a soul in southeast Wyoming with money to donate that you haven't successfully squeezed—most of them more than once."

"I've always been a determined little beaver when I set my mind to it."

"Well, yesterday Magnus had lunch with"—Stoddard opened the folder and scanned one of the pages—"Irene deJesus. She told him you never do much work around Lariat anyway."