Twisted

well?”
    “What do you mean?” Sachs asked.
    “It’s just that she didn’t look very good when she was in. That man she was with . . . well, he had his arm around her the whole time. I was thinking maybe she was sick.”
    Sachs asked if they could come in and speak with her.
    “Of course. If I can help.”
    Sachs told Carly what the woman had said.
    “Not feeling well? And some man?” The girl frowned. “Who?”
    “Let’s go find out.”
    As they approached the door, though, Sachs stopped. “Do me a favor,” she said to the girl.
    “Sure. What?”
    “Borrow one of your mother’s jackets. You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

    The branch manager of the bank explained to Sachs and Carly, “She went into her safety deposit box downstairs and then cashed a check.”
    “You don’t know what she did down there, I assume?” the policewoman asked.
    “No, no, employees are never around when customers go into their boxes.”
    “And that man? Any idea who he was?”
    “No.”
    “What did he look like?” Sachs asked.
    “He was big. Six-two, six-three. Balding. Didn’t smile much.”
    The police detective glanced at Carly, who shook her head. “I’ve never seen her with anybody like that.”
    They found the teller who’d cashed the check but Susan hadn’t said anything to her either, except how she’d like the money.
    “How much was the check for?” Sachs asked.
    The manager hesitated—probably some confidentiality issue—but Carly said, “Please. We’re worried about her.” The woman nodded to the teller, who said, “A thousand.”
    Sachs stepped aside and called Rhyme on her cell. She explained what had happened at the bank.
    “Getting troubling now, Sachs. A thousand doesn’t seem like much for a robbery or kidnapping, but wealth’s relative. Maybe that’s a lot of money to this guy.”
    “I’m more curious about the safe deposit box.”
    Rhyme said, “Good point. Maybe she had something he wanted. But what? She’s just a businesswoman and mother. It’s not like she’s an investigative reporter or cop. And the bad news is, if that’s the case, he’s got what he was after. He might not need her anymore. I think it’s time to get Nassau County involved. Maybe . . . Wait, you’re at the bank?”
    “Right.”
    “The video! Get the video.”
    “Oh, at the teller cage, sure. But—”
    “No, no, no,” Rhyme snapped. “Of the parking lot. All banks have video surveillance of the lots. If they parked there it’ll have his car on tape. Maybe the tag number too.”
    Sachs returned to the manager and she called the security chief, who disappeared into a back office. A moment later he gestured them inside and ran the tape.
    “There!” Carly cried. “That’s her. And that guy? Look, he’s still holding on to her. He’s not letting her go.”
    “Looks pretty fishy, Rhyme.”
    “Can you see the car?” the criminalist asked.
    Sachs had the guard freeze the tape. “What kind of—”
    “Chevy Malibu,” the guard said. “This year’s model.”
    Sachs told this to Rhyme and, examining the screen, added, “It’s burgundy. And the last two numbers on the tag are seventy-eight. The one before it could be three or eight, maybe six. Hard to tell. It’s a New York plate.”
    “Good, Sachs. Okay. It’s up to the uniforms now. Lon’ll have them put out a locator. Nassau, Suffolk, Westchester and the five boroughs. Jersey too. We’ll prioritize it. Oh, hold on a minute. . . .” Sachs heard him speaking to someone. Rhyme came back on the line. “Susan’s ex is on his way over here. He’s worried about his daughter. He’d like to see her.”
    Sachs told Carly this. Her face brightened. The detective added, “There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go back to the city.”

    Amelia Sachs and Carly Thompson had just returned to the lab in Rhyme’s town house when Anthony Dalton arrived. Thom led him inside and he stopped abruptly, looking at his daughter. “Hello, honey.”
    “Dad! I’m so glad you came!”
    With both affection and concern in his eyes, he stepped toward the girl and hugged her hard.
    Dalton was a fit man in his late forties with a boyish flop of salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a complicated ski jacket, straps and flaps going every which way. He reminded Rhyme of the college professors he sometimes shared the podium with when he was lecturing on forensics at criminal justice colleges.
    “Do they know anything?” he asked,