RICHARD FORTHRAST TOOK her a short distance up Airport Way to a neighborhood he called Georgetown. He swung around a corner and slowed down in midblock to draw her attention to a building that, he said, was the very one from which his niece and the subject named Peter Curtis had been abducted a little more than two weeks ago. Then he proceeded to a nearby drinking establishment, in front of which was parked a long row of Harley-Davidsons. The barmaid in chief, an intense woman with many tattoos, greeted him by name and asked him "Any news yet?" and then got a brooding look when he shook his head no. They occupied the last available booth. The waitress already knew Richard’s order but brought menus for Olivia and John. Olivia had been steeling herself for a bottle of watery yellow American beer but was surprised to find a dozen and a half beers, ales, and stouts of various descriptions, all available on draft. She requested a pint of bitter and a salad. John Forthrast ordered a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a hamburger. This triggered some kind of ancient sibling grievance between the two brothers. "You’re in a city where you could eat anything," Richard reminded him. "Would it kill you to—oh never mind." The latter clause with a glance toward Olivia and a reckoning that this wasn’t the time to revive what showed every sign of being a worn-out argument.