The homicide detective handed the night-vision goggles back to an assistant and stood there rubbing his chin.

"I'm sure he wasn't wearing them when I saw him upstairs on the security monitor," Arlene said.

"Yeah," said the male cop. "We've looked at the tape." He looked at Officer O'Toole. "It's part of the Dunkirk arsenal inventory. They just raided a place out by SUNY where Kibunte had a hundred other weapons stored. The Bloods were dipping into them in this war they're having with the white-supremacist assholes. If we hadn't been tipped about this warehouse before the Bloods got there in force, Buffalo would have looked like Beirut on a bad day."

O'Toole nodded, obviously ill at ease speaking in front of Arlene.

"Are you ready to go down to the station with us, Mrs. Demarco?" said the male cop.

Arlene bit her lip. "Am I under arrest?"

The male cop chuckled. "For stopping a piece of shit like this Cutter after he killed at least three people this afternoon? I'll be surprised if the mayor doesn't give you a medal—" He stopped when O'Toole caught his eye. "No, Mrs. Demarco," he said formally, "you're not under arrest at this time. There'll be an investigation, of course; and you'll have to answer a lot of questions tonight and make yourself available to the investigating officers in the coming days, but I'd bet you'd be home by" — he looked at his watch—"oh, eleven at the latest."

"Good," said Arlene. "I want to watch the local news. Maybe they'll explain what happened here."

The Dane held the Beretta steady, its muzzle zeroed on Kurtz's chest and never wavering for an instant. Sophia sucked at her thumbnail and seemed to pout. "Joe," she said, "do you have any idea where you are right now?"

Kurtz looked around him. "It looks like the last scene of fucking Hamlet," he said.

The Dane's mouth twitched ever so slightly in what might have been a smile.

Sophia dropped her hand from her mouth. "Don't tell me that you've seen Hamlet, Joe."

"I see all of Mel Gibson's movies," said Kurtz.

Sophia sighed. "Where you are, Joe, is about half a minute away from being dead."

Kurtz had no comment on that.

"And there's no reason that this had to be the way things went," she continued. "Why didn't you just let me keep fucking you and leave the rest of this mess alone?"

Kurtz considered not commenting on that either, but finally he said, "Your dad hired me. I had a job to do."

Sophia glanced at her father's corpse and shook her head again. "Some job. Some outcome." She looked at the Dane. "Well, Nils, as I told you on our way to the airport, I hoped it wouldn't come to this—but it has."

Kurtz moved his gaze to the Dane. The man had never relaxed his attention—or the Beretta's aim—for a microsecond. "Nils?" said Kurtz.

"It amuses her to call me that," said the Dane.

"She must be paying you a lot," Kurtz said.

The Dane nodded almost imperceptibly.

Kurtz looked back at Sophia. "One question before the party ends," he said. "Did you hire the homicide cop—Hathaway—to kill me?"

"Sure," Sophia said. She reached into her handbag. Kurtz expected her to pull out a pistol and his stomach tensed, but she raised only a small cassette tape. "Hathaway even brought me the tape of you calling the gun salesperson… what was his name? Doc. Hathaway thought I might use it to blackmail you or get your parole revoked, but we decided that a more permanent solution would be better."

"Makes sense," said Kurtz.

"I'm getting bored, Joe," Sophia said. "Your conversation was never very interesting, and today it's deadly dull. Also, we have to call the police and report this terrible attack by the late Mr. Kurtz at least before rigor mortis sets in. May I have the Beretta, Nils? I want to take care of this detail myself."

Kurtz continued sitting the way he had been, but he was very observant. If there was to be a moment in which he could act, it would come here.

There was no such moment. The Dane was the consummate professional, the muzzle of the Beretta never wavering even as the Dane moved sideways and moved the pistol to where Sophia could grasp it with both hands. When she had it, still aimed at Kurtz's chest, her finger on the trigger, the Dane took a step back out of the lamplight and out of any line of fire.

"Any last words, Joe?" said Sophia.

Joe thought for a second. "You weren't all that great in the sack, baby. I've had sexier encounters with a Hustler magazine and some hand lotion."

The sound of the unsilenced pistol was very loud. Two shots.

Sophia smirked. Then she dropped the Beretta and fell forward onto her father's body on the floor.

The Dane pocketed the.22-caliber Beretta Model 21 Bobcat and stepped forward to retrieve the 9mm Beretta from Sophia's limp hand. Kurtz allowed himself to breathe again when the Dane slipped the larger Beretta into his pocket as well. Kurtz stood up.

The Dane lifted the valise of cash from its place by Don Farino's wheelchair and then picked up the small audiocassette from Sophia's empty chair. "These are both yours, I believe," said the Dane.

"Are they?" Kurtz asked.

The Dane dropped the cassette into the valise and handed the valise to Kurtz. "Yes. I am a hired assassin, not a thief."

Kurtz took the bag and the two men walked out of the drawing room, Kurtz pausing at the door a second to look back at the five bodies on the floor.

"The last scene of Hamlet," said the Dane. "I rather liked that."

The two talked shop as they walked out of the quiet mansion and down the driveway to Kurtz's car.

"You like Berettas?" asked Kurtz.

"They have never disappointed me," said the Dane.

Kurtz nodded. Probably the silliest and most sentimental thing he'd ever done had involved his old Beretta many years earlier.

They had passed the bodies of two guards in the foyer and another—dressed in black tactical gear—was lying outside near the drive.

"Extra work for you?" asked Kurtz.

"I thought it wiser on my way in to see to any possible problems that might hinder our way out," said the Dane. They passed a bush from which two dark legs and a polished pair of loafers protruded.

"Three," Kurtz said.

"Seven counting the night maid and the butler."

"Paid for by someone?"

The Dane shook his head. "I count it as part of overhead. Although the Gonzaga contribution could be prorated toward them."

"I'm glad the Gonzagas came through," said Kurtz.

"I am sure you are." They came to the gate. It had been left open. The Dane put his hand in his topcoat pocket, and Kurtz tensed.

The Dane removed his gloved hand and shook his head. "You have nothing to worry about from me, Mr. Kurtz. Our arrangement was explicit. Despite rumors to the contrary, one million dollars is quite generous, even in this profession. And even this profession has its code of ethics."

"You know the money came from Little Skag," said Kurtz.

"Of course I do. It makes no difference. You were the one who contacted me on the telephone. The contract is between us."

Kurtz looked around. "I was a little worried that one of the Farinos might have outbid me."

The Dane shook his head again. "They were notoriously cheap." He lifted his face to the evening air. It was quite dark now and raining very softly. "I know what you're thinking, Mr. Kurtz," said the Dane. "I've seen his face. You haven't. This face is no more mine than Nils is my name."

"Actually," said Kurtz, hefting the valise higher, "I was thinking about this money and what I was going to do with it."

The Dane smiled very slightly. "Fifty thousand dollars. Was it worth all of your aggravation, Mr. Kurtz?"