“No. But I never studied the photos of those beyond number six.”

“You’re one hundred percent sure it was your sister’s face in that painting?”

“Are you kidding? It’s my face, Baxter. My body, naked to the world.”

“Okay… I believe you.”

“Have you ever heard of these paintings?”

“No. I’ll talk to our fine arts people in D.C. as soon as we get off. And we’ll start taking this Christopher Wingate’s life apart. When will you be in New York?”

“Nineteen hours. Around five p.m. New York time.”

“Try to get some sleep on the plane. I’m going to book you a flight here from JFK. American Airlines. It’ll be an e-ticket, just show your license or passport. I’ll drive up to Washington and meet you at the Hoover Building. I have to be up there tomorrow anyway, and that’s more convenient for you than Quantico. In fact, I’ll have an agent pick you up at Reagan Airport. Do you have any problem with that?”

“Yes. I think they should have left it Washington National.”

“Ms. Glass, are you all right?”

“I’m great.”

“You sound upset.”

“Nothing pharmacological therapy won’t cure. Mixed with a little of Scotland’s finest.” A hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “I need to take the edge off. It’s been a tough day.”

“I understand. But leave a little edge in place, okay? I need you sharp and thinking.”

“It’s nice to be needed.” I terminate the connection and replace the Airfone in the armrest.

You didn’t need me thirteen months ago, I say silently. But that was then. Now things have changed. Now they’ll want me around until they get a handle on the significance of the paintings. Then they’ll cut me off again. Exclusion is the worst fate for a journalist, and a living hell for a victim’s family. Better not to think about that right now. Better to sleep. I’ve practically lived in the air for twenty years, and sleeping on planes was effortless until Jane disappeared. Now it takes a little help from my friends.