A day later Hauck and Karen arranged to meet. They decided on the Arcadia Coffee House on a side street in town, not far away. Hauck was already at one of the tables when she arrived. Karen waved, then went to the counter and ordered herself a latte. She joined him by the window in the back.

“How’s the side?”

He lifted his arm. “No harm, no foul. You did a good job.”

She smiled at the compliment, but at the same time looked at him reprovingly. “You still should let someone take a look at it, Ty.”

“I got a few things back,” he said, changing the subject. He pushed across a copy of the list of Mustang World subscribers. Karen turned through a couple of pages and blew out her cheeks, daunted at the size.

“I was able to narrow it down. I think it’s a good bet to assume that Charles is out of the country. If he has funds kept in the Caribbean, at some point he’d have to access those banks. There’s sixty-five new names in Florida alone, another sixty-eight international. Thirty of them are in Canada, four in Europe, two in Asia, four in South America, so let’s forget them. Twenty-eight of them were in Mexico, the Caribbean, or Central America.”

Hauck had highlighted them with a yellow marker.

Karen cupped her hands around her coffee. “Okay.”

“I have a friend who’s a private investigator. I went to him for the information I showed you on Charles’s offshore company in Tortola. We eliminated four of the names right away. Spanish. Six others were commercial—auto dealerships, parts suppliers. I had him do a quick financial search on the rest.”

“So what did you find?”

“We scratched off six more because of issues like length of stay at their residence and stuff we could glean from credit cards. Five others listed themselves as married, so unless Charles has been really very busy in the past year, I think we’re safe to can them, too.”

Karen nodded and smiled.

“That leaves eleven.” He had highlighted them page by page. Robert Hopewell, who lived on Shady Lane, in the Bahamas. An F. March—in Costa Rica. Karen paused over him. She and Charles and Paula and Rick had once been there. A Dennis Camp, who lived in Caracas, Venezuela. A Steven Hanson, who was listed at a post-office box in St. Kitts. Alan O’Shea, from Honduras.

Five more.

“Any of these names seem familiar to you?” Hauck asked.

Karen went through the entire list and shook her head. “No.”

“A few have phone numbers listed as well. I can’t imagine that anyone trying to be invisible would do that. Most are just post-office boxes.”

“Assuming he’s even here?”

“Assuming he’s here.” Hauck nodded with a sigh. “The one advantage we have is that he doesn’t know there’s any reason for anyone to assume he’s alive.” He looked at her. “But I have a couple more irons in the fire, before you even think of having to make that call.”

“It’s not that.” Karen nodded, fretful, massaging her brow.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s something I have to show you, Ty.”

She reached inside her bag. “I found a couple of things last week, buried in Charlie’s desk drawer, when you asked me to go through stuff. I should have showed them to you then, but they were old and they scared me. I wasn’t sure what to do. They’re from before the bombing.”

“Let me see.”

Karen took them out of her purse. One was a small note card still in its tiny envelope, addressed to Charles. Hauck flipped it open. It was one of those cards that would accompany a floral delivery.

He looked back up at Karen. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Before he died”—Karen wet her lips—“left… we had another Westie. Sasha. She was run over by a car, right on our street. Right in front of our house. It was horrible. Charlie was the one who found her. A couple of weeks before the bombing…”

Hauck looked back at the note. They were threatening him.

“And this…” Karen pushed forward the other item. She rubbed her forehead, her eyes strained.

It was a holiday card. A picture of the family on it. A happier time. From the Friedmans. Charlie, in a blue fleece vest and knit shirt, his arm around Karen, in a windbreaker and jeans, sitting on a stockade fence in the country somewhere. She looked bright-eyed and proud. Pretty. Wishing you the season’s best for the coming year…

Hauck winced, as if a blunt force had punched him in the belly.

Samantha’s and Alex’s faces—they had both been cut out.

He looked up at her.

“Someone was threatening Charles, Ty. A year ago. Before he left. Charlie kept these things hidden away. I don’t know what he did, but I know it has to do with the people at Archer and all this money offshore.”

Someone was threatening him, Hauck thought, placing the cards on top of each other and handing them back to Karen.

“Then yesterday I got this.”

Karen reached into her bag and came out with something else, this time a large gray envelope. “In the mail.”

Her eyes were worried. Hauck thumbed the top open, slid out what was inside. It was a brochure. Tufts. Where Sam was heading in the fall, he remembered.

There was some writing on the front. The same forward-leaning script as on the floral note.

“They’re threatening my children, Ty. I can’t let that happen.”

He placed his palm over her hand. “No. We won’t.”