Melanie got up and searched through her suitcase, which sat open on a stand waiting to be unpacked. What did you wear to surveil a drug deal? She chose black pants and a black wrap shirt for their dark color. Fading into the underbrush would be key.

“Sweetheart, I’m serious,” Dan said. “You’re here for the legal end. We need you safe to draft charges and get the scumbags extradited after we arrest ’em. I’m not letting you walk into a hand-to-hand in a fucking rain forest late at night. I mean, these guys down here, they don’t fuck around. They got AK-47s and dogs, as a matter of routine.”

She knew that Dan was right. But the thought of sitting in the hotel with no control over what happened to Trevor Leonard was simply intolerable. Bernadette had told her no cops-and-robbers stuff. But Bernadette had also said not to let Trevor out of her sight, and Melanie had a selective memory.

“So I won’t get right in the middle of the surveillance,” she conceded. “But you’re not leaving me here.”

Somebody knocked loudly on the door. Melanie tied her shirt closed, then went to look through the peephole.

“It’s Bridget,” she reported over her shoulder in a low tone.

“Shit.”

“What should I tell her?” Melanie whispered.

“I don’t know, but don’t let her in.”

He was right. With the tangled sheets and Melanie’s clothes still strewn across the floor, sex was in the air. Bridget would figure it out instantly.

Bridget knocked again. Leaving the chain on, Melanie opened the door a crack.

“Hey, Bridget,” she said.

“Hey. I was about to give up. Were you in the shower?” Bridget asked.

“Yes, actually. I’m still getting dressed. What is it?”

“I just got an update from Ray-Ray, wanted to fill you in. They lost track of Trevor temporarily-”

“Oh, my God! You’re kidding me!”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Bridget, how could that happen?”

“It wasn’t their fault, really. They were told to hang back so they wouldn’t hink anybody up. They weren’t planning on the fact that this Pavel LNU character is a talented countersurveillance driver. But not to worry. Pavel’s vehicle was last observed bound for Brooklyn on the Williamsburg Bridge, so we’re sure they’re gonna get on the BQE and head to JFK. We got the airport swarming with guys. We’ll pick up the scent there, I’m positive.”

“I just got a voice mail from Trevor. I’m not sure when he left it, though. Could’ve been from earlier,” Melanie said.

“Really? What’s he say?”

“He gave me the time and location of a possible hand-to-hand later tonight.”

“Great. That’s excellent. So, worst-case scenario, we get him back in our sights then.”

“I’ll tell you all about it. Just let me finish getting dressed, and then I’ll meet you down at the bar. Because we have to get on top of this. I’m very upset that Trevor’s out of pocket. Very upset.”

“Yeah, I understand. Hey, you haven’t seen Dan, have you? I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his pager.”

“No, but if I see him, I’ll tell him to meet us there, too.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be down in two minutes,” Melanie said, and closed the door.

She turned back to Dan. “Did you hear that? Can you believe it? We have to do something!”

He walked over to her and looked down at her indulgently. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” she said, looking up at him with blazing eyes. “It’ll be okay if we make it okay.”

He stepped back. “You’re right. So let’s move. You call New York and have the lieutenant get us some reinforcements to cover the hand-to-hand tonight. I’ll take Bridget and go scout out the location. Now, this is just a suggestion, missy, so don’t get all bent out of shape that I’m telling you what to do. But it would make sense for you to stay put and coordinate things. At least for now.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I agree.”

“You do?”

They locked eyes. She couldn’t help thinking about what they’d been doing a few minutes earlier. She could tell he was thinking about the same thing.

“Yeah,” she said, with a smile and a toss of her head. “But don’t get used to it.”

PATRICIA MADE IT home through the falling snow just in time to receive Coco and Vuitton, who were being dropped off at six with the doorman by the dog groomer’s limo. Patricia was bringing both doggies to the benefit tomorrow, so they’d had shampoos, blow-dries, pedicures. And their new leashes were ready-matching his and hers from Gucci. Her doggies were just as well groomed as anybody’s, and they’d be even more so soon enough, because Patricia would be Mrs. Seward and that rich. At least she still held out hope, though she had to admit that things were not going according to plan.

The limo pulled up to the curb just as Patricia arrived, and the uniformed driver got out and demanded to see identification before turning the pooches over to her. Patricia appreciated the security. You couldn’t be too careful. Coco and Vuitton were such perfect miniature Yorkies, so very petite and delicate, who wouldn’t covet them? Satisfied, the driver released them to her care. Patricia scooped up her babies and kissed them passionately, which did little to relieve the anxiety rising in her throat.

It was not the benefit that worried her. All arrangements had been completed months earlier by a committee of mothers whose party-planning skills were beyond question. These women dominated every museum board in town, and for good reason. They had personal relationships with the best caterers, florists, auctioneers, bandleaders. The theme this year was Christmas in the Alps. Every facet of the evening had been meticulously crafted to fit, down to the authentic lederhosen on the gorgeous young waitstaff and truckloads of evergreen boughs lit with tiny electric candles that looked uncannily real.

The benefit would begin with a live auction held in Holbrooke’s auditorium, where everything from the trendiest ski togs to time-shares in Gstaad would go on the block, called by a prominent auctioneer from Sotheby’s. Then Patricia would get up and read the names of the donors in Miss Holbrooke’s Inner Circle, which was reserved for those who’d given in excess of two hundred fifty thousand dollars to the endowment campaign. Then the main event-and this one Patricia would’ve resisted if she hadn’t feared looking suspicious. Roger and Enid Van Allen would ascend to the stage at precisely seven-thirty, their bankers on standby. In a dramatic live-action PowerPoint presentation projected for the audience’s entertainment, they would transfer ten million dollars into Holbrooke’s account. Patricia would then unveil the architect’s drawing of the new Van Allen Upper School Building.

After the show was over, guests would be ferried by a squadron of horse-drawn carriages hired for the occasion to the grand ballroom of a nearby hotel for a banquet featuring beluga caviar, squab, rack of lamb, and raspberries sabayon paired with appropriate wines and champagnes, followed by dancing and the distribution of lavish Burberry gift bags containing goodies worth hundreds of dollars, provided free of charge by merchants looking to score points with the Holbrooke parent body.

Her own preparations for the big event would take Patricia most of tomorrow. A final fitting of the dress with her tailor scheduled for first thing, followed by facial, manicure, pedicure, retouching of highlights, blow-dry, and makeup at Elizabeth Arden. She should be finished by four. All the financial details had been attended to. The Van Allens’ bank had the requisite codes and account information, and Holbrooke’s bankers stood ready as well. Patricia was not at all concerned about the money’s getting wired in. No. That wasn’t the problem.