“What evidence is there besides the fact that Michael was in the area earlier in the week before the murder?”

We were attempting to pass through the charming town of Stockbridge, with its Norman Rockwell Main Street and SUV gridlock. The rain had let up, and I could make out blue sky off to the west. As we sat stalled in the cloud of carbon monoxide that provided a cheap high for the tourists in rocking chairs on the front porch of the Red Lion Inn, I said, “Michael was here just before the murder. He’s a wiseguy. The killing has the earmarks of a mob hit. This Montarsi mob guy seemed freaked that I was making the connection.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, what I’m saying here is, a man may have been involved in the murder of his own brother. I hate to think that.”

Timmy said, “It does sound pretty biblical for Berkshire County.”

“Not so Tanglewood-on-Parade, no.”

“But Shakespeare and Company is just up the road in Lenox. That’s a Berkshire institution, and there’s plenty of fratricide in Shakespeare. In Lear, Richard the Third, Macbeth. And of course Claudius and Hamlet the father.”

We edged forward another eight feet, and I said, “And Michael Corleone had Fredo shot.”

“That isn’t so Berkshires, except for the operatic score.”

“I’m beginning to think the Sturdivants might be even worse in their own way than the Corleones,” I said, as the car inched past the Red Lion and around the corner onto the road to Great Barrington. “Which would make sense. In my limited experience, real-life mob guys are much dumber and meaner than the Puzo-Coppola crowd, entertaining though they were. That’s why mobsters love the Godfather movies. The films make them look tragic instead of like the worthless narcissistic twits they really are.”

Timmy said, “What about Barry Fields’ family, the ones he was so worried would show up? He insists they’re not criminals, you said. Where do they fit in?”

“That I haven’t figured out. Or the place in all this of Bill Moore, the assassin, who is in Washington supposedly being helpful in his very odd way.”

“Or Bud Radziwill, the Kennedy cousin.”

“I need to talk to Bud again. He knows too much about Fields to be getting off the hook so easily. This guy needs to be pressed a little.”

“Pressed?”

“Persuaded.”

“How would you do that? I mean, in a way that isn’t hurtful.”

“His friend Barry is a mental wreck. When I saw him in jail, Fields looked like he could be crushed for life by Thorne Cornwallis’s idiocy. If Radziwill wants to help get Barry out of this, he has to tell me everything he knows. I’ll appeal to his conscience. He especially has to tell me all he knows about Bill Moore – whose pal Jean Watrous, I found out, worked in the counterterrorism division of the FBI. Was Moore assigned there too? And if so, what does that mean, if anything?”

We were cruising south now on Route 7, the sun breaking through the clouds over Monument Mountain, its piney crags looming ahead of us. Timmy said, “I thought Moore was going to talk to you himself when he gets back from Washington.”

“So he says.” My cell phone twittered. “This is Strachey.”

“I’ve got news about Mr. Maloney.” It was my Albany cop friend.

“Is he bad?”

“Very. Horace Maloney, known as Cheap, did eight years in Dannemora on attempted murder, plus lots of mean, petty stuff as a youngster. My information is, Cheap is currently a mob enforcer and probably whackman. Cheap is an hombre to steer clear of, Donald, if that’s your question.”

“This is helpful. Thanks, pal.”

“No trouble.”

Timmy looked over at me warily and said, “Was that about Cheap Maloney?”

“It was.”

“And is he a bad man?”

“You could say so.”

“Are we still going back to the motel?”

“Yes and no.”

Timmy said, “Let me think about that.”

“Timothy, you’re going to take your car and spend the night at home in Albany. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And I’m going to park my car with the New York tags registered in my name in front of our room. But I’m going to rent another car and spend the night in it at a spot in the motel parking lot with a good view of my car and the door to our room. I’ll be armed and I’ll be careful.”

“How will you stay awake? You’ll doze off.”

“Coffee. Excedrin. I’ll manage.”

“Fear should help.”

“That too.”

“Is this guy Cheap really dangerous?”

“I’m told he is, yes. I’m going to call Joe Toomey, the State Police dick, and fill him in. Cornwallis is stuck on the wrong track, but Toomey may have an open mind.”

“Yeah, and an arsenal bigger than yours.”

I said, “Timmy, in all the years we’ve been together, this is the first time you’ve seen fit to denigrate my arsenal. I’m hurt.”

“Better your feelings be hurt than your kneecaps, or your skull. Be careful, Don.”

“That’s my plan,” I said, and truly believed at the time that I knew how to be.

“Bud Radziwill has disappeared. I’m kind of worried about him. Has he been in touch with you at all?”

This was Ramona Furst, on my cell phone just as Timmy and I arrived back in our room at the Boxwood Motor Inn.

I said, “No, but I wanted to speak with Bud. What do you mean by disappeared?”

“Bud was at work at Barrington Video when a phone call came in from Barry at the House of Correction. Bud was agitated after the call and soon said he was going to have to leave. The manager was concerned and called me. He said Bud is always so steady and reliable, and he was afraid something was terribly wrong.”

“Bud didn’t say why he was leaving or where he was going?”

“No, and I’ve called his cell, and I even drove over to his apartment and knocked on the door. No answer – Josh must have left for work at Pearly Gates – and Bud’s car is gone. I thought you might know something, Donald. I have a call in to Barry at the jail, but he’s being interviewed by the jail shrink right now, and he can’t call me back for another half hour.”

“Why the interview? Are they worried about Barry’s mental state? I know I am.”

“The interview is routine evaluation and intake stuff. What do you mean, you’re worried about his mental state?”

I told Furst about my jailhouse visit with Fields and his altercation over the TV channel and his general air of pessimism and despondency.

“Jail does that to people,” Furst said. “You think they’ll never bounce back, but most of the time they do, pretty much. Though it’s true, after you’ve been through the deprivations and dehumanization of being locked up by the state in the company of sociopaths and other badly damaged people, you’re never quite the same again.”

I said, “I’ve seen a lot of people in jail, but Fields seems to me more wounded than most. We’ve got to get him out of there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I know you’re doing all you can, Ramona.”

“That I am. One of the things I’m doing is depending on you. So what’s your report, Donald?”

I described to Furst my lunch with David Murano and what I learned about Jim Sturdivant’s criminal family background. I told her about my meeting with Cornwallis, and his casually – or maliciously – referring me to goons around Pittsfield likely to know about any current criminal activities by a Sturdivant, either Jim or his brother. Then I told her about Johnny Montarsi, and my mentioning to him that Cheap Maloney was seen with Michael Sturdivant earlier in the week, and then Montarsi’s sudden sharp interest in who and where I was. I told Furst I had learned that Maloney was a man not to mess with, and I planned on approaching him gingerly.

“How about not approaching him at all?” Furst said. “Just turn your information over to Toomey and step aside. That’s the only way to deal with those types, Don, believe me.”