"I want to meet. Maybe we can compare notes, figure out who stole the money."

"I'm not in the city. And I don't have my notes. They're with the FBI."

"I have mine."

No answer.

"Just tell me where and when," Nate said. "I can be there tomorrow."

"Are you in Manhattan?"

Kopp was coming around. Nate considered lying but changed his mind. "No. I resigned from the Times."

"And when you introduced yourself as Walter Boyle, New York Times—"

"Just trying to jog your memory. And besides, it's not a felony to impersonate a journalist, is it?"

Another chuckle. Apparently under the Men-in-Black shades, Kopp had concealed a sense of humor.

"I'm moving back home," Nate said. "I'm in New Hampshire, but I could be in New York in just a few hours."

"New Hampshire, huh? That where Marisa is?"

"Yeah. She's been hiding behind the Old Man on the Mountain for eight years."

"Thought that thing fell."

"She probably knocked it down."

The man chuckled again. "Okay, I hear what you're saying." He stopped talking, and Nate waited through the silence. He wasn't going to speak again until Kopp told him yes or no. One thing he'd learned, once you make a request, you keep quiet and make the other person turn you down. Most people didn't like to disappoint, though he doubted Garrison Kopp cared much about that.

Finally Kopp spoke. "Look, my son's going to his mom's after school tomorrow. He'll be gone all weekend. Why don't I come up there?"

"I just need an hour of your time." The last thing Nate needed was Kopp hanging around, scaring Marisa. "I hate for you to drive all the way up here."

"It'll give me something to do. And it'll take us more than an hour, if you really want to learn anything."

"I could meet you in Boston."

"I'm happy to come to you."

How could Nate refuse? He dug deep, trying to find an excuse, but whatever he said at this point, Kopp would take as confirmation that Marisa was nearby. "Great. I'm in a little town called Nutfield."

"Never heard of it."

"There's a restaurant in town called McNeal's. What time can you be there?"

"I drop my son off at eight-thirty. About how long will it take me?"

"Five hours, give or take."

"Fine. Two o'clock. See you then."

* * *

THE LUNCH CROWD HAD mostly headed home or back to work by the time Nate got to McNeal's the following afternoon. The remodeled restaurant smelled of today's special—corned beef and sauerkraut. He asked for a booth near the back.

The TVs over the bar displayed college basketball, and the hum of one of the games played over the speaker.

He'd just given his drink order to the waitress—her name tag read Bonnie—when Sam walked in. She pointed to the table she wanted, the one adjacent to his.