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Tijuana, with the warning to be on the lookout for them.
    But we still have to cover the cathedral tonight on the one-in-a-million chance that Jimmy’s offer to surrender was on the level, Mort thought. Somehow neither possibility rang true to him—not Mexico, not the surrender. Would this Paige be smart enough to lie to her friend on the chance that the cops might come looking for her?
    The coffee and sandwiches they had ordered were just being delivered. Mort went over to get his ham on rye. Two of the women officers were talking together.
    He heard one of them, Lori Martini, say, “Still no sign of that missing kid. For sure some nut must have picked him up.”
    â€œWhat missing kid?” Levy asked.
    Soberly he listened to the details. It was the one kind of case no one in the department could work on without becoming emotionally involved. Mort had a seven-year-old son. He knew what must be going through that mother’s mind. And the father so sick he hadn’t even been told his son was missing. And all this at Christmastime. God, some people really get it in spades, he thought.
    â€œCall for you, Mort,” a voice shouted from across the room.
    Carrying the coffee and sandwich, Mort returned to his desk. “Who is it?” he asked as he took the receiver.
    â€œA woman. She didn’t give her name.”
    As Mort pressed the phone to his ear, he said, “Detective Levy.”
    He heard the sound of frightened breathing. And then a faint click as the line went dead.
    *   *   *
    WCBS reporter Alan Graham approached the squad car where he’d interviewed Catherine Dornan an hour earlier when he had done an update on the story.
    It was eight-thirty, and the intermittent gusts of snow had become a steady flow of large white flakes again.
    Through his earphone, Graham heard the anchorman give the latest information about the escaped prisoner. “The condition of Mario Bonardi, the injured prison guard, is still extremely critical. Mayor Giuliani and Police Commissioner Bratton have paid a second visit to the hospital where he is in intensive care after delicate surgery. According to the latest report, the police are following up on a tip that his assailant, alleged murderer Jimmy Siddons, may be meeting a girlfriend in California with the final destination, Mexico. The border patrol at Tijuana has been alerted.”
    One of the newsmen had been tipped off that Jimmy’s lawyer claimed Siddons was turning himself in after midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s. Alan Graham was glad that the decision had been made not to air that story. None of the police brass really believed it, and they didn’t want the worshipers distracted by the rumor.
    There were few pedestrians now on Fifth Avenue. It occurred to Graham that there was something almost obscene about the breaking stories they were covering this Christmas Eve: an escaped cop killer; a prison guard clinging to life; a seven-year-old missing boy, who was now the suspected victim of foul play.
    He tapped on the window of the squad car. Catherine glanced up, then opened it halfway. Looking at her, he wondered how long she would be able to maintain her remarkable composure. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to Officer Ortiz. Her son Michael was in the back with a handsome older woman whose arm was around him.
    Catherine answered his unasked question. “I’m still waiting,” she said quietly. “Officer Ortiz has been good enough to stay with me. I don’t know why, but I feel as though somehow I’ll find Brian right here.” She turned slightly. “Mom, this is Alan Graham from WCBS. He interviewed me right after I spoke with you.”
    Barbara Cavanaugh saw the compassion on the face of the young reporter. Knowing that if there were anything to tell, they would have heard it by now, she still could not stop herself from asking, “Any word?”
    â€œNo,