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as chief executive officer of University Hospital, was to talk well-heeled donors out of their money. Hardly a week went by when he wasn’t leading a small parade of potential benefactors through the hospital’s wards and labs and gleaming, efficient treatment centers, all smiles and pleasantries as he pried open their wallets.
    But this morning he felt genuine pity for the couple who sat before his handsome desk, a mother in tears and a father who looked as if he wanted to wreck the building.
    â€œThis is terrible,” he said, focusing on Lenore. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get your daughter back here, Mrs. Villanueva.”
    His chief administrator raised a cautioning finger. “Technically, sir,” she said, “Angela Villanueva is no longer a patient here.”
    Wexler absently stroked his beard, then shook his head. “This is no time for technicalities. A child is missing. She’s been abducted.”
    Del nodded vigorously. “Call the police. We’ve got to find Angie before it’s too late.”
    â€œI’ll do better than that,” said Wexler. Punching the intercom button on his desktop phone console, he called, “Amanda, put me through to the FBI’s Boston office.”
    *   *   *
    I T TOOK MORE than two hours for the FBI to send an agent to the hospital. Del had tried phoning his father-in-law’s cell phone, then his university office, finally his home. No answer, only canned messages.
    â€œWhere is he?” Lenore cried. “Where’s he taken Angie?”
    Wexler kept the Villanuevas in his office, ordered lunch for them, tried to get them to relax a little.
    â€œHe can’t have gotten far with her,” he soothed, as they sat at the round conference table in the corner of his office, over lunch trays. Lenore hardly touched the sandwich in front of her. Del tore at his like a tiger dismembering its prey.
    â€œMrs. Villanueva, please try to eat something,” Wexler coaxed. “You must keep up your strength.”
    Lenore reached for the plastic bowl of salad on her tray. “We’re taking up so much of your time…”
    â€œDon’t worry about that. Finding Angela is more important than my morning’s regular agenda.” He knew it was true, although he also fretted that he’d had to cancel the meeting with a committee of bankers that had taken him several months to arrange.
    The intercom buzzed. Wexler excused himself and hurried to his desk.
    â€œMr. Hightower is here,” his secretary’s voice announced. “From the FBI.”
    â€œShow him right in!”
    Jerry Hightower filled the doorway as he stepped into Wexler’s office. He was big, in every dimension, like a professional football lineman. Yet he seemed light on his feet as Wexler led him to the table where the Villanuevas were sitting.
    The FBI agent’s face was almost a coppery color; clearly he was a Native American. Unsmiling, black ponytail hanging down his back, eyes like onyx.
    He sat heavily between Lenore and her husband as the two of them poured out their fears to him. He listened patiently, letting them talk themselves out.
    Then he looked across the table to Wexler. “How was he able to take the kid out of the hospital?”
    Wexler gestured helplessly, both palms up. “It was a strictly correct procedure. He filled out all the proper forms.”
    Hightower made a sound that might have been a grunt. “All the proper forms. But he’s taken the child away from her parents.”
    â€œThat’s kidnapping!” Del snapped.
    â€œMaybe,” said Hightower.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Lenore asked.
    Hightower looked into her red-rimmed eyes and said simply, “Find them.”

 
    New Jersey Turnpike
    â€œ P ULL OVER AT the next gas station,” Luke said.
    He had let Tamara take over the driving once they crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge and