“He picked her up at one thirty-three,” she corrected him. “Kidnappers like us take people. Cabbies pick them up.”

The subtle and sometimes maddening intricacies of American language still challenged him. “But he does not lift her. He takes her to her destination.”

“To pick up can mean lifting a person, seducing a person, or giving them a ride in a vehicle.”

“Seducing.” He didn’t know the woman yet, but the idea of her giving herself to anyone did not sit well with him. “You are certain of this?”

“It’s my language, pal,” Rowan reminded him. “Drew’s faxing a bunch of police reports. You think she’s the one who’s been tipping off the feds?”

Her scent still lingered in his head and chest, a silent waterfall. “I know she is.”

Rowan’s tone changed. “Then you should take her as soon as possible.”

Chapter 2

Jonah Genaro rolled away from the thin, damp body of his mistress, left the bed they had shared for the last hour, and pulled on his trousers.

Lorraine propped her head on her arm and watched him take a clean, pressed black shirt from the supply he kept in the closet. “I thought you were going to stay awhile.”

“I have another appointment.” He picked up his wallet and watch from her vanity table. Twenty years ago he would have left a handful of bills behind, but today he preferred the convenience of a rechargeable credit card. “The next few weeks will be busy for me. I won’t have time to see you again until the end of November.”

“You can’t leave yet.” Lorraine climbed out of bed, wrapping herself in a yellow silk robe before she shook out her hair. She’d stopped bleaching six months ago, at Genaro’s request, and now had it dyed to match the dark roots as they grew out. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

Genaro knotted his tie. “I’ll call you next week and then we’ll talk.”

“This can’t wait that long.” She came around to stand in front of him, holding her hands together like a remorseful schoolgirl. “Jonah, I’ve been to see my doctor. He did some tests, and, well, we’re going to have a baby.”

Genaro’s hand went still for a second, and then slid the knot of his tie up under the edges of his collar. “You’re telling me that you’re pregnant?”

“I didn’t realize at first.” She released a pretty, helpless laugh. “I skip my periods all the time, and then I am on the pill, too, so it never occurred to me that I could be. I never miss them, but the doctor said sometimes in rare cases they don’t work.”

The schoolgirl quality of her confession didn’t diminish the relief Genaro felt. Lorraine had been enthusiastic, and even occasionally entertaining, but his desire for her had begun to fade. This extortion attempt would allow him to get rid of her without the usual tears, recriminations, and final lump-sum payoff. “I presume you don’t want to have an abortion.”

“I couldn’t do that, Jonah. I’m Catholic, remember?” She gave his arm a soft caress. “Besides, I love you. This is our baby.”

“If your pregnancy is genuine,” he told her as he removed her hand, “I’m not the father.”

“Of course you are.” The hopeful, beseeching quality of her expression faded into something harder. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”

As Genaro retrieved his jacket, he considered taking her to the lab to be tested. If she had become pregnant by another man, her fetus could still prove useful. But Lorraine had an active social life, and her father was a prominent Atlanta attorney who thought the sun rose and set on his only child. She would be missed.

“Well?” she demanded.

“My dear, you’ve miscalculated. Your baby—if one really exists—isn’t mine.” He adjusted his sleeves. “I’m sterile.”

“You’re—” She stopped and stared before she began to bluster. “What are you talking about? You never told me you couldn’t have kids.”

“You never asked.” Genaro walked over to her. “Our arrangement is over. You have until the end of the month to pack your things and move out.” As she opened her mouth, he shut her up by backhanding her. The blow proved hard enough to knock her to the ground, but not enough to inflict permanent damage. He bent over her, caught her chin, and made her look at him. “The next time you resort to blackmail, first do the appropriate research.”

He left Lorraine on the floor and walked out of the apartment.

Genaro directed his driver to take him downtown before he picked up the phone and called his chief of security. “Void the credit balance left on Miss Lamar’s account.”

“Yes, Mr. Genaro.” Delaporte, who had been with him for thirty years and had taken many such calls, didn’t ask why. “The overseas shipment arrived about ten minutes ago.”

A great deal of money had changed hands over this particular shipment: much more than Genaro had originally wanted to invest. But he had been unable to resist the rarity and high quality of the product. Even if he had to store it for some time, he suspected that in a year or two he’d be in a position to make an enormous profit.

“See that Dr. Kirchner attends to it,” Genaro said.

He arrived on time for his two-o’clock appointment, and spent the next several hours going over the specs for the new lab with the architect and the foreman before he left to attend a charity dinner to benefit a local foundation for the prevention of neural-tube defects.

“Jonah, we’re so happy you could make it.” The hostess, a forty-something, brassy-haired socialite whose younger, less fortunate brother had been born with spina bifida, took his hands in hers as she gave air kisses on each side of his face. “Where’s Lorraine?”

“She couldn’t make it.” He scanned the crowded tables. “It looks like an excellent turnout this year, Jackie.”

“We’re very pleased, although—as usual—we have a last-minute glitch. Bad weather grounded our guest speaker’s flight.” Jackie sidled closer. “Can I do a terrible, presumptuous thing and impose on you to fill in?”

As much as he begrudged the time he wasted engaging in the practices of a prosperous, influential businessman, there was no other way to maintain the respectable facade. He agreed with a smile, and thirty minutes later stood before the dinner guests and spoke about the tragedy of genetic defects and the cures made possible by biotech research.

“Earlier this year researchers in Texas published their discovery of a link between variants in three genes that regulate glucose metabolism in children born with spina bifida,” he told the guests. “Our geneticists are now working with that data in order to create a specific gene therapy that will correct these variants in utero. Once we have the cure, we can develop treatments for the other neural-tube defects, like anencephaly and encephalocele. No more children will have to spend their lives in wheelchairs. No more infants will be stillborn or doomed to die within a few hours after their birth. We will avert these tragedies long before they ever happen.”

As he continued, Jonah noted that Jackie had hung several tasteful pictures of bravely smiling, wheelchair-bound children on the walls surrounding the dinner tables. Not one showed an image of a newborn with a severe NTD.

When Genaro left the dinner and returned to GenHance, Delaporte met him in the lobby.

“Our man reported in this afternoon,” he said as he followed Jonah onto the elevator. When the doors closed, he reached up and switched off the small security camera in one corner. “He’s finally identified the woman who’s been tipping off the feds. This is everything we have on her.” He handed over an envelope. “She fits the profile.”

Genaro took out and skimmed the report. “So she does. Have Lawson meet me in the lab.”

A short time later Bradford Lawson stood for a moment under the UV unit before he placed his palm on the print scanner. As another public face of GenHance, he cultivated the image of geniality and prosperity, from the immaculate styling of his fair hair to the supple gleam of his hand-stitched leather shoes. Genaro didn’t care for the color or the trendy cut of Lawson’s cobalt blue suit, but the younger man carried it off as if he’d been born in a three-piece.

“Delaporte said we have an ID for the federal tipster who’s been catching the uncatchable,” Lawson said as he joined Genaro at the viewing panel. “Is this psychic informant anyone we know?”

“Not yet.” Genaro handed him the photos and the report. “Clear your schedule. I want her verified and brought in by the end of the week.”

“Yes, sir.” Lawson read the top page. “I’ve heard of Phoenix. Small company, but they have an excellent reputation.” He shook his head. “You’d think if she wanted to hide what she was, she would have done something else for a living.”

Genaro didn’t answer. He watched as two lab techs wheeled in a long, sheet-draped box on a gurney, followed by Elliot Kirchner, his chief geneticist. He switched on the intercom. “Dr. Kirchner, did you perform the initial micro-cellular tests?”

“As soon as it arrived.” Kirchner, a tall, cranelike man with iron gray hair, glanced at the viewer. “Life support has sustained cellular integrity so far, but there is only negligible brain activity.” He pulled the sheet away, revealing the body inside the glass coffin.

Genaro studied his investment. Bandages encased the head, but the rest of the specimen appeared to be in superb condition. “It looks better than it did in the photographs.”

“It’s close to physically perfect.” The geneticist took some readings from the preservation unit’s LED display. “BP and heart rate are strong. Once I’ve completed the physical and neurological exams, we can begin the preparation work.”

“Cut off the bandages,” Genaro said. “I want to see the head.”