After his meeting with Velko, Hauck went to the office of Media Publishing, located on the thirtieth floor of a tall glass building at Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue.

The publishers of Mustang World.

It took Hauck’s flashing his badge first to the receptionist and then to a couple of junior marketing people to finally get him to the right person. He had no authority here. The last thing he wanted was to have to call in yet another old friend from the NYPD. Fortunately, the marketing guy he finally got him in front of seemed eager to help and didn’t ask him to come back with a warrant.

“We’ve got two hundred and thirty-two thousand subscribers,” the manager said, as if overwhelmed. “Any chance you can narrow it down?”

“I only need a list of those who’ve come aboard within the past year,” Hauck told him.

He gave the guy a card. The manager promised he’d get to it as soon as he could and e-mail the results to Hauck’s departmental address.

On the ride back home, Hauck mapped out what he would do. Hopefully, this Mustang search would yield something. If not, he still had the leads he’d taken from Dietz’s office.

The Major Deegan Expressway was slow, and Hauck caught some tie-up near Yankee Stadium.

On a hunch he fumbled in his pocket for the number of the Caribbean bank he’d found at Dietz’s. On St. Kitts. As he punched in the overseas number on his cell, he wasn’t sure just how smart this was. The guy could be on Dietz’s payroll for all he knew. But as long as he was playing long shots…

After a delay a sharp ring came on. “First Caribbean,” answered a woman with a heavy island accent.

“Thomas Smith?” Hauck requested.

“Please hold da line.”

After a short pause, a man’s voice answered, “This is Thomas Smith.”

“My name is Hauck,” Hauck said. “I’m a police detective with the Greenwich police force, in Greenwich, Connecticut. In the States.”

“I know Greenwich,” the man responded brightly. “I went to college nearby at the University of Bridgeport. How can I help you, Detective?”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Hauck explained. “He’s a U.S. citizen. The only name I have for him is Charles Friedman. He may have an account on record there.”

“I’m not familiar with anyone by the name of Charles Friedman having an account here,” the bank manager replied.

“Look, I know this is a bit unorthodox. He’s about five-ten. Brown hair. Medium stature. Wears glasses. It’s possible he’s transferred money into your bank from a corresponding bank in Tortola. It’s possible that Friedman is not even the name he’s currently using now.”

“As I said, sir, there is no account holder on record here by that name. And I haven’t seen anybody who might fit that description. Nevis is a small island. And you can understand why I would be reluctant to give you that information even if I did.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Smith. But it is a police matter. If you would maybe ask around and check…”

“I don’t need to check,” the manager answered. “I have already.” What he told Hauck made him flinch. “You are the second person from the States who’s been looking for this man in the past week.”