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Becker held up a finger. “Hold on a minute or two.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Putting the address back into the reverse database. Give it a bit.”

  Folding her arms and trying not to tap her foot, Miranda’s mind went back to the skip-tracing exercises they used to do as IITs. She’d been looking for Mackenzie back then, too.

  “Got it,” Becker said. “Two other people live at that address.”

  “His parents?”

  “Yep. His father is Dr. James Bryon Eaton. He’s a podiatrist at Boston Medical Center. The mother is Dr. Angela Eaton. She teaches Biology at MIT.”

  “Wow,” Wesson murmured.

  All of a sudden, they had everything they needed. “So it’s a whole family of brainiacs. We need to get over there now.”

  Parker raised a brow. “Is there a phone number?”

  “Office phone for the father. Wait. Here’s a cell number.”

  Miranda shook her head. “I don’t want to call them, Parker.” Who knew what might happen if they tipped them off.

  Catching her meaning, Parker nodded. “Very well.”

  She turned to her team. “Send all the info to our phones, Becker. Then get your coats and meet us in the lobby in ten.”

  Wesson gave her a salute she must have picked up from Holloway. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As the five of them bundled into the Lexus, and they headed off into the night, Miranda’s anxiety was joined by excitement.

  Could it really be true? Could they find Mackenzie and this Ambrose kid in just a few minutes?

  Parker took Boylston to Tremont to I-90, and they cruised through the semi-heavy traffic. Miranda gazed up at old mid-century buildings that reminded her of structures in Chicago, and felt the hard knot of worry that had been in her stomach since that morning relax into joy.

  She was going to see her daughter. She was going to find her.

  Of course, she’d want to ream her out for what she’d done, what she’d put them all through. She had her cell phone in her pocket, ready to give it back to her and trade it for that prepaid. But Miranda couldn’t embarrass her in front of the boy. From everything they’d learned about Ambrose Eaton, he was a pretty good kid. The kind of young man she wanted Mackenzie to hook up with.

  She was sure Colby and Oliver would feel the same.

  A seemingly endless tunnel brought them to another stretch of city buildings on either side of the highway, some old, others new, more under construction. A cloverleaf took them to a neighborhood road with the flatter buildings housing corner shops, pharmacies, and apartments.

  Just when Miranda thought she couldn’t wait another second, Parker turned a corner where an Episcopal church stood, and they were suddenly in a cluster of quaint clapboard homes that lined the nicely kept street.

  Good neighborhood, she thought, growing even more hopeful.

  A few of the houses had garages, but mostly cars were parked along both sides of the street. Yards were narrow strips. Not even what you would call postage stamp size. But the homes seemed spacious enough. Most of them had two stories with attic annexes.

  Parker pulled up to the curb beside a rust-colored Victorian with white gingerbread trim on a corner. On all the floors, lights were on. The place looked warm and cozy.

  A chain link fence bordered the skimpy yard. A gate led to a front door under a metal awning.

  Miranda eyed the annex windows under its peaked roof. Was Mackenzie up there with Ambrose?

  “How do you want to play this?” Parker asked softly.

  Good question. The last thing she wanted was to spook her daughter. The girl had been so upset the last time she’d seen her.

  “You and I should go in first.” She turned to the team huddled in the back. “It will be too intimidating if all five up us show up on the doorstep.”

  Wesson nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Steele. Just call if you need us.”

  “Mr. Parker?” Becker said rubbing his arms. “Can you leave the heat on?”

  It was still pretty much winter up here.

  “Certainly,” Parker said with a kind smile.

  He and Miranda got out of the car and stepped over the short sidewalk to the gate. It opened with a creak and they made their way to the front stoop. As they stood under the awning, Parker touched her arm.

  “We should be casual at first,” he said.

  “Agreed. Why don’t you break the ice.” Miranda was afraid of what she might say to Ambrose’s father.

  “Very well. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Taking a deep breath, she pressed the bell.

  From inside, the 1812 Overture rang out. She gazed at Parker and saw a brow rise.

  After another moment she heard footsteps. A porch light came on, and at last the inside door opened with the creaking sound of an old house.

  A tall man with thick gray hair stood before them behind the glass of the storm door. He was dressed in a white shirt under a pale blue double-breasted cable cardigan and dark corduroy slacks. He looked like a Brooks Brothers model for the “at-home” look.

  He frowned at them anxiously. “Can I help you?”

  Parker donned his easy smile. “We’re sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but we’re looking for a Dr. James Eaton.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Dr. James Byron Eaton?”

  “Correct. What seems to be the problem?” His voice was deep, the Bostonian accent definitely upper crust.

  “My name is Wade Parker. I’m a private investigator from Atlanta, Georgia. This is my partner, Miranda Steele.”

  The man eyed them with suspicion. “Private investigators? From Atlanta?”

  Nonchalantly Parker took out a card and held it up to the storm door, which the man had opened only a crack.

  Dr. Eaton read it quickly. “I don’t understand. If this is about a patient of mine, you’ll have to go through the hospital.”

  “It’s not about a patient, Dr. Eaton,” Miranda said. “It’s about your son.”

  He glared at her. “My son?”

  “You do have a son named Ambrose, don’t you?”

  “Why, yes.” He seemed stunned that she knew that.

  She met his astonished gaze. “We’ve become aware of some suspicious activity he’s been involved in online recently.”

  “What?”

  “May we come in?” Parker asked.

  The man hesitated.

  Couldn’t he see their breath in the air as they spoke? It was too cold to stand out here for a lengthy chat.

  But he held up a forefinger.

  “One moment.” He took out his phone and looked something up on it. Probably the Parker Agency website. He studied the screen for a long moment. Finally, he was satisfied. “You seem to be legitimate. Very well. Come in.”

  The door swung open and they stepped inside to a narrow entryway with chestnut-colored hardwood floors and a staircase leading to the second floor. Was Ambrose up there in his room with Mackenzie?

  The hardwood floors expanded as Dr. Eaton led them through an archway and into an old-fashioned style living room with a bay window.

  In addition to the floors, a dark polished oak trimmed the walls, and the room was filled with matching furnishings, included a charming whatnot case in the corner full of knick knacks. Upholstered in a monochrome pattern, the sofa and chairs were done in a formal style with gracefully carved framing and tapered legs. Red velvet curtains hung from tall windows. Needlepoint cushions and old-fashioned lamps provided the accents. The room had a historical air.

  Dr. Eaton gestured to the sofa. “Please have a seat.”

  Miranda sat at the end of the sofa and unbuttoned her coat while Parker settled in next to her.

  “Now what’s this about my son?” their host said, taking the armchair a few feet away.

  Miranda studied the man’s hair. The pale silver waves were thick and neatly styled, but the way they fell an
d the shape of the doctor’s head reminded her of Ambrose in his pictures. “Dr. Eaton, are you aware that your son has been corresponding with a girl in Atlanta for several months now?”

  Best not to tell him it was her daughter.

  He blinked, obviously shocked by the question. “No, I am not aware of that.”

  “Your son plays chess. Correct?”

  Dr. Eaton shifted in his cozy armchair. “Yes. He plays rather well. He won a tournament this past November.”

  “So we understand.”

  The doctor turned to Parker. “And how is this relevant?”

  “Apparently Ambrose met this girl through an online chess club,” Parker said without missing a beat. “He tutored her and they struck up a friendship.”

  “That sounds rather innocent.”

  Miranda drew in a breath. “Except he invited her to visit him in Boston and sent her a plane ticket. She left home without telling her parents and arrived here this morning. We believe she’s with your son.”

  The doctor made a coughing sound. “That’s impossible. We hardly allow Ambrose to date. He wouldn’t do such a thing without permission.”

  That’s what the boy wanted him to think, she bet. “Were you at home this afternoon, Dr. Eaton?” Miranda asked.

  Frowning, Eaton shook his head. “My wife and I had brunch at a restaurant and then went to the art museum. We often try to spend a few hours together on Sundays, since we have such hectic schedules during the week.”

  “Is your wife home now?”

  “No, she’s at a science faculty meeting. She teaches at MIT. I supposed you already know that.”

  “We do,” Parker nodded.

  Miranda leaned toward the doctor. “The girl’s plane landed at one-sixteen this afternoon. Plenty of time for your son to go to the airport and get her while you and your wife were out.”

  His head flew back as if she had slapped his face. “This is absurd.”

  Miranda pulled Mackenzie’s phone out of her pocket. “Here’s something just as absurd.” She scrolled to the text messages, got up, and handed the phone to the doctor. “These are the conversations Ambrose has been having with the girl.”

  His face riddled with shock, the doctor read a few of the texts, scrolled a bit, then handed the phone back to Miranda.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Dr. Eaton rose stiffly and stomped through the archway to the bottom of the stairs. “Ambrose,” he called in a demanding voice. “Come down here.”

  After a moment a youthful response echoed through the old halls. “I’m in the middle of a tricky move, Dad.”

  “I said, come down here. Now.”

  A door opened and footsteps thumped across the landing, then halfway down the stairs. The boy with the wavy brown hair appeared on the staircase. “What is it, Dad?”

  Dr. Eaton waved an arm toward his guests. “I have two detectives from Atlanta in our living room asking about you.”

  The kid wrinkled his face. “Huh?”

  “Come and meet them.”

  After a hesitating pause, the young man thumped down the rest of the stairs and plodded into the room.

  He stood staring at her and Parker with big brown eyes.

  Miranda studied the boy, resisting the urge to take him by the throat and scream, “Where’s my daughter? What have you done with her?”

  He looked nerdier than his picture. His neck was skinnier, his expression not so cocky. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of a pair of faded straight jeans and his oversized gray sweatshirt gave him a frumpy look. It had a dark red MIT logo on the front. His mother’s school, though he’d probably be matriculating there soon.

  The brown waves of hair were the same as in the pictures, though.

  Dr. Eaton shook a hand at them again. “This is Detectives Wade Parker and Miranda Steele, Ambrose. They’re from Atlanta Georgia.”

  “Uh, that’s cool.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat young man,” Parker said in a soothing tone.

  The boy settled into the armchair his father had vacated. Dr. Eaton remained where he was standing.

  Smiling, Parker leaned back on the sofa. “We were just informing your father about the online conversation you’ve been having with a girl in Atlanta.”

  “What?”

  So he was going to play dumb.

  “There’s no use denying it, Ambrose,” Miranda told him. “We have her phone with us. We just showed your father your conversations.”

  The boy looked at her as if her skin had turned green. Then he looked at Parker the same way. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s all right, son. I don’t think you’ll be in too much trouble. Every young man does something reckless at your age.” Parker was playing good PI to her bad one.

  The boy’s mouth opened, but he didn’t have an answer to that.

  Miranda forced herself to soften her tone. “Where is she, Ambrose?” It was really all she wanted to know.

  The boy squirmed in his chair. “I don’t know any girl from Atlanta.”

  “Yes, you do. We’re onto you. Might as well admit it.”

  Now he stared at her with such a look of fear, she suddenly felt sorry for him. Again she took out Mackenzie’s phone. She scrolled to the texts and stuck the screen under the kid’s nose.

  “See? You taught her some chess moves.” She scrolled some more. “You talked about Algebra and her organization, TAV. You invited her to Boston. And yesterday, you said you’d send her a plane ticket.”

  Ambrose’s brown eyes were round as flying saucers. He was speechless.

  Miranda scrolled back. “Here you told her to buy a prepaid phone. Here you told her to use it and leave her own phone under her bed. She did that. We found it there this morning. That’s why we have it. You did that so she wouldn’t be traced. So you wouldn’t get into trouble, right?”

  She felt like she was questioning a criminal in an interrogation room.

  Slowly the boy began to shake his head. “No. I didn’t do any of that. I wouldn’t.”

  Miranda gritted her teeth. Why was he being so stubborn? “Okay. How about this?” She brought up the message Holloway had found. “You posted it on social media earlier today.”

  Once more he stared at the screen, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

  “Let me see that,” Dr. Eaton snatched the phone from his son’s hand and read it aloud. “‘Hot chick coming to see me? I’m jazzed?’ That doesn’t sound like Ambrose.”

  “I didn’t write it, Dad. I didn’t do any of those things. I don’t know any Mackenzie from Atlanta.”

  He sounded so convincing.

  Miranda’s stomach twisted inside her. No. He was lying. He had to be. “She’s in your room, isn’t she?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, she stomped across the hardwood floor and up the stairs, heading in the direction she’d heard the kid’s voice come from a moment ago.

  He’d left the door open, so it was easy to spot.

  Stepping into the room, quickly she scanned it.

  An unmade bed with its pillows askew and a chocolate brown-and-red checkered comforter piled on the sheets. Socks scattered on the floor near a hamper. A bag of chips open on the desk. A world map mural on the wall. Chess posters everywhere. Near the window stood an acrylic chess table with giant rooks for the legs. A chess game was in progress on it. Another game waited on a nearby laptop screen.

  Against another wall stood a shelf stuffed with books. Soccer equipment had been stashed in the corner.

  The place smelled a little like a locker room.

  Miranda marched across the room to a door. Opening it, she found a bathroom that was only a bit neater. “Mackenzie? Are you in there?”

  She stepped inside, opened the linen closet. There was no one in there. She went to the tub and pulled back the curtain. Nothing there but a wet washrag near the drain.

  She spun around and stepped back into the bedroom. Closet
. In the corner. She hurried to it and yanked it open.

  “Mackenzie. Are you hiding in there?”

  But there was nothing inside but boy’s clothes and games and storage boxes.

  Ambrose was almost in tears now. “I don’t know anybody named Mackenzie, Dad. I swear it. And that post about the hot chick? I just remembered. My account was hijacked about a month ago.”

  “Did you report it?” Parker asked.

  “No. I just let it go. I’m not really a chess master yet, anyway. And I already have a girlfriend, sort of. She’s in the chess club at school.”

  Miranda turned and stared at the boy.

  He was telling the truth. Mackenzie wasn’t here.

  The walls of the room began to recede. The floor seemed to melt away. The air became so thick she could barely breathe. Suddenly she felt very far away.

  “It appears we’ve misconstrued the facts,” she heard Parker say to Dr. Eaton. “I apologize for the distress we’ve caused. Thank you both for your time.”

  She felt his hand on her elbow. As if in another body, she watched herself walk down the stairs and out the door.

  The cold air hitting her face did nothing to revive her.

  Suddenly she was sitting in the car and Parker was driving away.

  “What happened?” Wesson asked from the back seat.

  As if her head were underwater, Miranda heard Parker answer. “It was a dead end.”

  She watched the houses flash by, then the buildings along the highway, the other cars making their way through the night to some unknown destination. Her eyes began to burn with tears.

  Her baby. Where was her baby?

  By the time they reached the hotel again, there was only one phrase registering in Miranda’s mind.

  The Man in Boston.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mackenzie sat at the sleek table in the penthouse, picking at the skirt steak and fries which her host had had delivered for dinner a little while ago.

  Gazing out at the city lights and the buildings bathed in darkness, she sighed. She’d longed to see this city with Ambrose. But that hadn’t happened.

  “Are you bored?” said the man, opening a bottle of wine for himself.

  Mackenzie turned her head and looked at Ambrose’s father, who sat across from her in a white, high back dining chair that matched the one she was in. “I’m just wondering where Ambrose is. It’s getting awfully late.”