My veins are flammably dry. I need a drink.

I pivot from the door and stumble over Punch’s bowl; it skids across the floor, slopping water over the brim. I swear, then catch myself. I need to focus. I need to think. A slug of merlot will help.

It’s velvet in my throat, plush and pure, and I feel it cool my blood as I set the tumbler down. I survey the room, my vision clear, my brain oiled. I’m a machine. A thinking machine. That was the nickname, wasn’t it, of a character in some century-old detective novel by Jacques someone-or-other—a ruthlessly logical PhD who could solve any mystery by application of reason. The author, as I recall, died on the Titanic after ushering his wife into a lifeboat. Witnesses saw him sharing a cigarette with Jack Astor as the ship sank, breathing smoke against the waning moon. I suppose that’s one scenario you can’t think your way out of.

I too am a PhD. I too can be ruthlessly logical.

Next move.

Someone must be able to confirm what happened. Or at least to whom. If I can’t start with Jane, then I’ll start with Alistair. He’s the one with the deepest footprint. He’s the one with a history.

I walk up to the study, the plan evolving in my mind with each step. By the time I slant a glance across the park—there she is again, in the parlor, silver cell pressed to one ear; I flinch before settling myself at my desk—I’ve got a script, I’ve got a strategy. Besides, I’m good on my feet (I tell myself, sitting).

Mouse. Keyboard. Google. Phone. My tools. I throw one more look at the Russell place. Now her back is to me, a cashmere wall. Good. Keep it that way. This is my house; this is my view.

I enter the password on my desktop screen; a minute later, I find what I’m looking for online. But before I tap the code into my phone, I pause: Could they trace the number?

I frown. I set the phone down. I grasp the mouse; the cursor stirs on the desktop screen, then travels down to the Skype icon.

A moment later, a crisp alto greets me. “Atkinson.”

“Hi,” I say, then clear my throat. “Hi. I’m looking for Alistair Russell’s office. Only,” I add, “I’d like to speak to his assistant, not to Alistair.” A pause at the other end of the line. “It’s a surprise,” I explain.

Another pause. I hear the rattle of a keyboard. Then: “Alistair Russell’s employment was terminated last month.”

“Terminated?”

“Yes. Ma’am.” She’s been trained to say that. It sounds grudging.

“Why?” Stupid question.

“I have no idea. Ma’am.”

“Could you transfer me to his office?”

“As I said, his—”

“His former office, I mean?”

“That would be the Boston office.” She’s got one of those young-woman voices that frills upward at the end of a sentence. I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yes, the Boston—”

“I’m transferring you now.” Cue the music—a Chopin nocturne. A year ago I could have told you which one. No: Don’t get distracted. Think. This would be easier with a drink.

Across the park, she moves out of sight. I wonder if she’s speaking to him. I wish I could lip-read. I wish—

“Atkinson.” A man this time.

“I’m looking for Alistair Russell’s office.”

Instantly: “I’m afraid Mr. Russell—”

“I know he’s no longer there, but I’d like to speak to his assistant. Or his former assistant. It’s a personal matter.”

After a moment, he speaks again. “I can put you through to his desk.”

“That would be—” Once more with the piano, a rill of notes. Number 17, I think, B major. Or is it number 3? Or number 9? I used to know this.

Concentrate. I shake my head, my shoulders, like a wet dog.

“Hello, this is Alex.” Another man, I think, although the voice is so light and glassy that I’m not entirely sure, and the name’s no help.

“This is—” I need a name. Missed a step. “Alex. I’m another Alex.” Jesus. Best I could do.

If there’s a secret handshake among Alexes, this Alex does not extend it. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I’m an old friend of Alistair’s—Mr. Russell’s—and I just tried him at his New York office, but it seems he’s left the company.”

“That’s right.” Alex sniffs.

“Are you his . . .” Assistant? Secretary?

“I was his assistant.”

“Oh. Well, I was wondering—a couple of things, actually. When did he leave?”

Another sniff. “Four weeks ago. No, five.”

“That’s so strange,” I say. “We were so excited for him to come down to New York.”

“You know,” says Alex, and I hear in his or her voice the warmth of a revving motor: There’s gossip to be shared. “He still went down to New York, but he didn’t transfer. He was all set to stay within the company. They bought a house and everything.”

“Did they?”

“Yes. A big one in Harlem. I found it online. A little Internet stalking.” Would a man relish behind-the-back talk this much? Maybe Alex is a woman. What a sexist I am. “But I don’t know what happened. I don’t think he went anywhere else. He can tell you more than I can.” Sniff. “Sorry. Head cold. How do you know him?”

“Alistair?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, we’re old college friends.”

“From Dartmouth?”

“That’s right.” I hadn’t remembered that. “So did he—I’m sorry to phrase it this way, but did he jump or was he pushed?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to find out what went down. It’s all super-mysterious.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“He was so well-liked here,” Alex says. “Such a good guy. I can’t believe they’d fire him or anything.”

I make a sympathetic noise. “I do have one other question for you, about his wife.”

Sniff. “Jane.”

“I’ve never met her. Alistair tends to compartmentalize.” I sound like a shrink. I hope Alex doesn’t notice. “I’d like to get her a little ‘welcome to New York’ present, but I’m not sure what she likes.”

Sniff.

“I was thinking a scarf, except I don’t know what her coloring is.” I gulp. It sounds lame. “It sounds lame, I know.”

“Actually,” says Alex, voice dropped low, “I’ve never met her, either.”

Well, then. Maybe Alistair really does compartmentalize. Such a good shrink I am.

“Because he totally compartmentalizes!” Alex continues. “That’s the exact word.”

“I know!” I agree.

“I worked for him for almost six months and never met her. Jane. I only met their kid once.”

“Ethan.”

“Nice boy. A little shy. Have you met him?”

“Yes. Ages ago.”

“Nice boy. He came in once so they could go to a Bruins game together.”

“So you can’t tell me anything about Jane,” I remind Alex.

“No. Oh—but you wanted to know what she looks like, right?”

“Right.”

“I think there’s a photo in his office.”

“A photo?”

“We had a box of stuff to send down to New York. Still have it. We’re not sure what to do with it.” Sniff and cough. “Let me go check.”

I hear the phone scuff the desk as Alex sets it down—no Chopin this time. Chew my lip, peek at the window. The woman is in the kitchen, staring into the depths of the freezer. For a lunatic moment I imagine Jane packed in there, her body glazed with frost, her eyes bright and rimy.

The scratch of the receiver. “I’ve got her in front of me,” says Alex. “The photo, I mean.”

My breath catches in my throat.

“She’s got dark hair and light skin.”

I exhale. They’re both dark-haired and light-skinned, Jane and the impostor. Not helpful. But I can’t ask about her weight. “Right—okay,” I say. “Anything else? You know what—could you maybe scan the photo? And send it to me?”

A pause. I watch the woman across the park slide the freezer door shut, leave the room.

“I’ll give you my email address,” I say.

Nothing. Then:

“Did you say you’re a friend of . . .”

“Of Alistair’s. Yes.”

“You know, I don’t think I should be sharing his personal materials with anyone. You’ll have to ask him about this.” No sniff this time. “You said your name was Alex?”

“Yes.”

“Alex what?”

I open my mouth, then click the End Call button.

The room is silent. From across the hall, I can hear the tick of the clock in Ed’s library. I’m holding my breath.

Is Alex calling Alistair right now? Would he or she describe my voice? Could he dial my landline, even my cell phone? I stare at the cell on the desk, watch it for a moment, as though it’s a sleeping animal; I wait for it to stir, my heart thrumming against my ribs.

The phone lies there immobile. An immobile mobile. Ha.

Focus.