He saw his reflection in the plate glass, ghostly and faint over the eastern skyline. His face was ravaged and drawn, his eyes haunted, his shoulders slumped. He looked ninety rather than sixty.

Whoever had taken his baby would pay, but a dark fear tore at his mind. What if they were never found?

He wouldn’t think such gloomy thoughts. Of course she’d be found. Of course she’d be fine. She was London Danvers, for Christ’s sake. That part bothered him as much as the loss-that someone would dare defy him, someone who knew how to wound him until he was bled dry.

He reached for his wife’s pack of Virginia Slims and lit up, hoping that sucking in smoke and inhaling nicotine would help. It didn’t.

Turning back to the suite, he saw the faces of his family, tired and drawn, with dark circles and eyes dark with fear. Everyone was accounted for except London. And Zach.

A loud knock jarred through Witt’s head. “Police, Danvers! What the hell’s going on?”

Jason opened the door and admitted Jack Logan, who only a few hours before had been downstairs at the party. Jack, an honest cop before he’d met Witt, was now firmly trapped in Witt’s gold-lined pockets. Four officers were with Detective Sergeant Logan.

“We got a call that London was kidnapped,” Jack said, eyeing the group, taking a mental tally and coming up not one, but two Danverses short.

“Looks that way.” He stubbed out the damned cigarette in a cut-glass tray, then showed the police London’s room.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” Logan muttered under his breath. The room was photographed, dusted, and gone over with the proverbial fine-tooth comb; then Logan returned to Witt’s suite, where he, along with another officer, Sergeant Trent, began his interrogations.

Questions were fired at each of the family members, sometimes together, sometimes individually. Logan trusted no one.