After days of searching, Robert concluded that, like Carolyn, Alan Schaber had disappeared into thin air, had transformed from solid into gas and simply vanished away. There was absolutely no trace of the man. There were no hospital or coroner records indicating he'd been admitted for care or to the morgue, or that any John Doe even remotely meeting his description had been hospitalized or died for months after his disappearance. There had been no legal proceedings against him anywhere in the United States; after his disappearance, he never renewed his license with the Department of Motor Vehicles; he was never registered to vote; he never married, never applied for a business license. He never applied to change his name legally; there was no record that he renounced his US citizenship, no record with the IRS that he was a national working abroad. He hadn't travelled on his passport and had never renewed it. His phone records stopped the day he left his wife. His credit cards were never used again and were eventually cancelled by the companies, their balances paid off by automatic payments from Alan and his wife's joint account.

Robert hadn't been able to find any next-of-kin other than Elizabeth Beaty. Alan had been an only child of only children who'd emigrated from Germany to New York State in the 1950s; he had only distant relatives still alive, and phone calls placed to second cousins in Ingolstadt and Potsdam had produced only bewilderment. No one seemed aware that Alan had even existed. Discreet inquiries Robert made of Stephen and Elizabeth yielded no names of close friends or business associates. Stephen claimed he'd never met anyone in Alan's circle. Elizabeth was blunt: Alan had been a bit of a recluse. Everyone they socialized with was someone she knew. "Without me," she'd told Robert over the phone, "he would have been completely alone. That man couldn't make a friend to save his life."

How and why Alan had disappeared so completely mystified Robert. The man was intelligent, undoubtedly—he'd worked as an engineer, designing dams and flood-control causeways. How he'd acquired the knowledge to erase all trace of his existence, however, was a mystery. He'd done a bang-up job if he had, in fact, planned and carried out his own disappearance. But why would he have worried about doing it at all? If Elizabeth was telling the truth and Alan had just wanted to leave her because he wanted to have children and she didn't, why cover his tracks so completely? Who was he worried would follow him? What was he worried might happen if he or she did? Did he leave at all? Was Alan, in fact, dead?

Robert hoped the forensic accountant could offer him some kind of lead and not just more of the same—more nothing.

It wasn't bad, Anna thought. Not far from work—she could walk instead of driving. There was a guest bedroom, in case Emma slept over. There were two bathrooms; the en suite could be private, the other kept clean for visitors. The views of the waterfront were spectacular, and the building seemed secure. The kitchen was quite nice—updated, great appliances (a gas stove, although gas made her nervous, and she still hated cooking). It could easily and inexpensively be furnished. (What had happened, she briefly wondered, to her love of antiques and fine things? Her flats in London and Paris were beautifully decorated; here in Port Charles she wanted nothing around her, no clutter, no luxuries, just the basics required for living, just clean lines, just empty space. It was as if here, since Robin's death, she had chosen to slough off the past, and everything she'd accumulated, like an old skin, had kept herself ready to flee, able to leave, no baggage, no regrets, no objects, no one and nothing to keep her in this place. And yet, she had stayed, disconnected, floating in empty space.)

The problem was the lease. Six months—could she commit to that? Something inside her revolted against the idea. The Metro Court suite had been month to month, its primary attraction. Knowing she could pick up and leave at any time had given Anna comfort. Now she wanted even more badly to be mobile. She wondered if her fear of commitment had something to do with her fear that Robert might soon go away again. If he did, would she follow in desperation? Or would she simply and finally decide to return on her own to London, to somewhere she didn't associate with him and with their life together?

"Six months?" she asked the superintendent. "Any chance of something shorter?"

The super just laughed. "Are you kidding? In this depressed housing market? Rentals are hot, hot, hot right now; no one can afford to buy. You're lucky they're not locking you in, forcing you to sign a year-lease. Prices right now are the highest they've ever been; I think the owner is betting they'll rise even more."

Anna frowned. A six-month lease at record prices. How desperately did she want a room of her own? At what price freedom and privacy?

She sighed. "I'll take it, I guess. You said immediate occupancy. Could I move in over the weekend? Or would that be too 'immediate'?"

The super smiled. "I'm sure that can be arranged. And I'm sure the owner will waive his usual requirement of three references." A pause. "Seeing as you're the police commissioner and all."

Anna met Robin for lunch at Kelly's after signing the papers. Emma was at kindergarten; they had an hour to themselves. Anna had taken a half day, exhausted from long and strange work hours spent in consultation with organized crime units in Montreal (no time difference) and Hong Kong (a thirteen-hour difference). The discussions had been informative; Anna had been alerted to a number of possible Montreal thugs who might be interested and involved in Duke's club. Flags had been placed on their passports by US customs. Hong Kong was trickier; the possibilities for involvement there seemed endless. Anna had asked about the family name Wu, wondering if a triad might be interested in Port Charles for reasons of revenge. She'd been informed the name was extremely common and couldn't possibly narrow anything for her. The PCPD would have to rely on their informants in the Asian quarter for news of suspicious arrivals. Anna felt another long-suppressed pang of loss, remembering Olin. Another person who had died, Anna thought, while she had been away.

"You look like hell, Mom," Robin told her. "Why do you look so tired?"

Anna smiled to reassure her daughter, but the effect was not exactly as intended: the bags under her eyes were merely accentuated, and her eyelids drooped. "Just long hours, darling. Work's a bit busy right now. Nothing to worry about."

"Long work hours and then Dad." Robin smiled and involuntarily shuddered. "You must be exhausted."

Anna laughed. "Actually I haven't seen your father outside of work for a couple of days. We've both been too busy. He's off trying to locate a missing person and I'm in conference calls with experts in Montreal during the day, experts in Hong Kong during the evening. I've had to brush up on my French; once the city police in Montreal learned I understand and speak it, conference calls immediately became bilingual, one officer speaking English, one French, another both, depending. It's really tiring working in two languages when you're unaccustomed to switching back and forth."

"And how's your Cantonese?"

"Non-existent, thank god. My head would explode if I had to speak three languages in rapid succession."

Robin grinned. She picked up her spoon, dipped it into her soup. "How are things going with Dad? You looked pretty close the other day in your office. Am I to assume things have progressed?"

Anna played with her salad. "Yes, they have."

Robin furrowed her brow. "Are you feeling okay about it? You seem a bit—I don't know—troubled."

Anna looked at her daughter, forced a smile. "I worry too much. I often did when I was with your father. I'm guilty of expecting the worst where he's concerned. We seem to be jinxed."

At that moment, the door to the cafe opened.

"Speak of the devil," Robin murmured. Robert saw them, walked over, dragging a chair. "How are my two favourite girls?" he asked, leaning over to kiss the top of Robin's head. He sat down, looked at Anna, gave a start.

"Yes, yes, Robert, I know, I look terrible," Anna sighed. "I haven't been getting much sleep."

Robert looked at her, leaned in toward her. "Not what I was thinking at all," he told her. "I'm simply constantly surprised at how beautiful you are." He moved in for a long kiss. Robin looked away, bowed her head, and ate her soup. When Robert moved back, Anna was smiling.

"I'm starved," Robert announced. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"That would be lovely," Anna answered. "And since you're here, I can kill two birds with one stone. I have a bit of good news you both should hear: I've leased an apartment. I can move in starting tomorrow."

Robin stared at her. "I didn't even know you were thinking about leaving the Metro Court. That's great news. I hope this means you're setting down more permanent roots here in Port Charles."

It may have been Anna's imagination, but Robert looked less pleased. Still, he joked, "Your mother moves fast once she makes up her mind. Making a decision, though, that can take her forever."

When lunch was over, Robin left to pick Emma up from school. Anna and Robert lingered behind.

"An apartment, eh?" Robert asked. "That seems a big step."

Anna leaned in towards him anxiously. "This is not meant to be our apartment, Robert. No pressure. Please, don't misunderstand me. I'm doing this for myself, not to force your hand. That being said, I think it'll be good for us, will give us more space. We won't have to spend all our time together in your small hotel room."

Robert looked at her askance. "You didn't even ask me to come along. You could at least have invited me to give my opinion on the location, the layout. I might have enjoyed helping you pick something out."

She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. Maybe you'll enjoy helping me move in just as much?"

Robert looked puzzled. "Pardon my confusion, but what exactly do you have to move? Are you planning on stealing the bedroom suite and sofa from the Metro Court?"

"Fair point," she conceded. "Actually, I need to buy a few things to make the place livable. I need to get all the basics: a sofa, a dining room table and chairs, a couple of beds . . ."

Robert stood. "I can help you with that. You still have a couple of hours off, right? We'll start with a bed, I think. We can test a few out, make sure the tension is right, check out the bounce. Everything else can follow. We may as well get our priorities straight."

He could tell it was a dog-shit town the moment he stepped off the plane.

"Comment s'est passé votre vol, Monsieur?" His assistant, who'd flown ahead to make the necessary preparations, looked at him anxiously.

"The flight was fine, Victor. It was probably the last fine thing I'll experience for the next few months. I certainly hope I'll be able to spend my weekends in the city and won't be trapped in this sleepy provincial crap hole. Are my accommodations ready?"

"Oui, Monsieur. Par ici, s'il vous plaît."

"For Christ's sake, Victor, speak English. Your parents were Anglos just like mine."

Victor's voice dropped in volume. He spoke conspiratorially. "I just thought we might be able to talk more freely if we spoke in French. You know, so no one else will understand."

He cut Victor a look of disgust. "We're in the United States of America; every second seventeen-year-old girl in this goddamn country is a Francophile dreaming of living in Paris and studying someday at the Sorbonne. As at home, watch your mouth in either language; don't assume anyone doesn't understand what you're saying. Or you just might give some apple-pie, girl-next-door the shock of her life."

Victor stooped to pick up the luggage.

"Now let's go see what the hell I've gotten us into here. Introduce me to this charming town. I'm especially interested in looking at my real estate investment. Any sign of our far-east partners yet?"

Victor shook his head. "They can't be far behind us, though, Monsieur—excuse me, I forgot: 'Boss.'"

Anna and Robert were on their way back to the station when she received a call. Customs had contacted the PCPD. They'd had a hit: one of the men flagged had just arrived in Port Charles via New York City.

"The game's afoot, Robert," Anna announced.

Moments later, Robert's cell phone rang. He answered, and after a moment, spoke. "I'm just on my way back to the office. I can bring up the file there and call you back." He looked at his watch. "Can we say in half an hour? At four o'clock?" Pause. "Great." He hung up.

"That was your forensic accountant," he explained. "Looks like our threads are finally weaving together. Once we get back to the station, we'll split up, deal with our respective issues, and meet up again tonight for dinner? I expect we'll have a lot of fascinating information to share."

Robert was on the phone with the accountant. He'd just pulled up the file and report she'd sent him. "Okay, Roxanne. I'm looking at it," he told her. "Walk me through and point out the highlights. Feel free to assume a high degree of numerical illiteracy. I won't be insulted."

"I always do," Roxanne replied, "and no offence is ever intended. I've written my report in fairly clear terms on pages one and two. Flip ahead to pages three and four. Here you'll find the more-or-less raw data from the account: the various paths the money took and I was able to trace. I'll be upfront with you—I followed it through a couple of twists and turns and then lost it completely."

"Thanks for the spoiler. Go ahead," Robert steadied himself. "I'll try to keep up."

"Okay," Roxanne began, "look at column one. Here you'll see the money removed from Elizabeth Beaty and Alan Schaber's joint account on 16 August 1998. The withdrawal is $50,000, a little less than half of the total amount. The money was wired from their bank in Port Charles to a bank in Belize. The destination account was opened by a Caribbean company that specializes in creating offshore accounts for North American clients. The name on the account is, I presume, a shell company: D and R Solutions. According to their business application, the company specializes in computer security and their clients are mainly Americans."

Robert studied the document. "I follow you so far. How long did the money sit in that account?"

"Not very long," Roxanne replied; "Look over the page; most of the money was withdrawn two days later; the account remained open with a balance of $500 until bank fees ate that up in 2003. Then the bank shut the account down."

"Where did the rest of the money go?"

"Over the page again. You'll see it went in three different directions. One third was wired to a bank in the Seychelles, one third to a bank in Cyprus, one third to a bank in Latvia."

Robert was afraid to ask. "And after that?"

Roxanne sighed. "The money was withdrawn from each account in sequence—on 20 August from the bank in the Seychelles, on 25 August from the bank in Cyprus, and 30 August from the bank in Latvia. And just to be clear: it wasn't wired but withdrawn as cash money. We have no way to trace it. The trail ends here, abruptly and decisively. That's your report, I'm afraid."

"Whose names were on the bank accounts? Who had authority to withdraw the balances?"

"All of the bank accounts were in the name of D and R Solutions. And the signing authority for the company was the same in each case: Jerry Hallam, supposedly an American national. Do you think Hallam could be Schaber?"

Robert pondered the question. "Could be. I'll need to check and see if a Mr. Hallam travelled from Port Charles or New York to anywhere near the Seychelles around the time of Schaber's disappearance. Curiouser and curiouser. Thanks, Roxanne. I'll let you know if I need your help in future."

"Good luck, Robert. I think you'll need it."

Meanwhile, Anna was staring at a series of photographs sent to her by the Montreal organized crime unit, the first a surprisingly flattering mug shot, the rest surveillance photos of a man named Gino Giordano. He was a handsome man in his 50s, neatly trimmed dark hair lightened with grey around the temples, dark eyes, broad shoulders, a slim waist, in every photograph dressed in suit and tie or sports jacket and slacks. He was obviously a man extremely careful of his appearance and able to afford expensive clothing. "He looks rather refined," she commented to Inspector Gauthier on the phone. Gauthier made an unidentifiable sound. She suspected it was of disgust.

"Commissioner," he replied, "pour être parfaitement honête, I'm glad Giordano's left Montreal. I'm glad he's out of our hair if only for a short time. But I'm sorry for you that he's chosen to leave our town for yours, because this man is refined only in looks."

"What kinds of crime is he suspected of?" Anna asked, worried. "What should I expect from him, Gauthier?"

Gauthier was momentarily silent. "Most mobsters adhere to some kind of code of conduct—I hesitate to call it a moral code. You understand me? Giordano doesn't adhere to anything. You'd think he'd at least always choose to act in ways that would benefit him personally. And most of the time, you'd be right; he does. But sometimes he derails, acts without any kind of logic or reason normal people might understand."

Anna swallowed. "An example? Inspector?"

Again, a pause. "When Giordano was younger, he developed an infatuation with a woman much older than he was. She was married to another mafioso, had three young children. I think she was in her forties, he was in his twenties. Anyway, we suspect he killed her husband. The man was found shot in the head, body thrown in the St. Lawrence River."

Anna replied, careful, "That seems like a conventionally motivated crime."

"It was," Gauthier agreed. "And when the woman —a woman, by the way, who had never shown the least bit of interest in him, had never given him the slightest encouragement—rejected him later and he killed her, you could chalk it up to simple anger."

"I can feel there's a 'mais' coming."

"But the next two crimes seem completely without motive. He killed (we're sure, though we didn't have enough evidence to go to trial) the woman's sister a year later. As far as we could determine, he'd never had any contact with this woman before, had no particular grievance against her. Not exactly a crime of passion. Then the husband's brother disappeared a year after the sister, was never found."

"Was that the end of it?"

"Well, the wife's youngest sister entered our equivalent of the Witness Protection Program. She's living somewhere in Western Canada now. If she were to return to Montreal and assume her old name, I'd expect her to be dead within a week, though she's innocent of any kind of crime against Giordano."

"And this is the man who just touched down in Port Charles?"

"Oui, Madame. We're happy to help you in any way we can, but he's your responsibility for the time being. The best I can do, really, is to wish you bonne chance."

Anna and Robert were back at his hotel room after sharing a late meal and the details of their respective investigations. Robert thought again how tired she looked when she emerged from the bathroom.

"God, that shower felt good," she groaned. She was wearing Robert's robe, five times too big, cinched tightly at her waist. She began towel drying her hair.

Robert was reclining on the bed. "Where's your phone, Luv?" he asked.

Anna gave him a funny look. "Why? Can't find yours? You need to make a call?" She walked over to her bag, rummaged around, drew it out, tossed it to him. "No long distance though, okay?"

Robert took the phone, looked at it, then put it in his bedside table.

"Robert, what are you doing? I need that . . ."

"Not tonight, you don't," he replied. "We can hear it if it rings. I just don't want you checking the damn thing obsessively. Let your hirelings earn their keep."

Anna made a face, turned away from the bed, lifted herself back and up beside him with characteristic grace. Then she dramatically flopped down full length onto the mattress and went still.

"Oh, you're so sexy when you're exhausted," Robert remarked. He leaned over her, eyes fixed on hers, expectant. They lay together for a moment, unmoving. She was the first to break a smile.

"It kills me to say this, Robert," Anna sighed, "but not tonight. I just don't have the energy."

Robert bent over and kissed her neck. "You know, I'm fine with doing the bulk of the heavy lifting. You can just sit back and think of England."

Anna laughed. "You know I'm incapable of that. Have some mercy, Robert. Don't even get me started."

He smiled. "Robert-the-Merciful. Has a nice ring. Okay. Eight hours respite. Do I have permission to wake you in the morning?"

Anna yawned. "That depends. If by granting said permission I'm giving you, Robert-the-Childish, the power to throw water in my face, shine a bright light in my eyes, or play loud music, then no, you do not have it."

"What if I promise to wake you in a more—pleasant manner?"

Anna was almost asleep. "So long as it's pleasant," she exhaled lightly, "you have my permission. Surprise me." And she was gone.