Nervously, Jason pursed his lips. They had tied him to the Peale death!

When they left The Four Seasons, they shared a taxi to the garage on West Fifty-seventh Street where both had parked. After an effusive good-bye and Vera’s strident promise, “We’ll just keep looking. The perfect rug for me is out there somewhere,” Jason was at last on his way home to Alpine.

How indistinct was the picture the hidden camera had taken of him? he wondered as he drove in the steadily moving afternoon traffic up the Henry Hudson Parkway. Would someone look at it and find that it reminded him, or her, of Jason Arnott?

Should he cut and run? he asked himself as he crossed the George Washington Bridge and turned onto the Palisades Parkway. No one knew about the place in the Catskills. He owned it under an assumed name. Under other alternate identities, he had plenty of money in negotiable securities. He even had a fake passport. Maybe he should leave the country immediately.

On the other hand, if the picture was as indistinguishable as Judith Shelby found it, even if some people saw a resemblance to him, they would find it patently absurd to tie him to a theft.

By the time Jason exited onto the road into Alpine, he had made up his mind. With the exception of this photograph, he was almost sure he had left no tracks, no fingerprints. He had been extremely careful, and his caution had paid off. He simply couldn’t give up his wonderful lifestyle just because of what might happen. He had never been a fearful man. If he had been, he certainly wouldn’t have lived this life for so many years.

No, he would not panic. He would just sit tight. But no more jobs for a long time, he promised himself. He didn’t need the money, and this was a warning.

He got home at quarter of four and went through the mail. One envelope caught his eye and he slit it open, pulled out the contents-a single sheet of paper-studied it, and burst out laughing.

Surely no one would link him to that vaguely comical figure with the stocking mask pushed up and the grainy caricature of a profile literally inches away from the copy of the Rodin figurine.

“Vive le junk,” Jason exclaimed. He settled in the den for a nap. Vera’s constant stream of talk had exhausted him. When he awoke, it was just time for the six o’clock news. He reached for the remote control and turned on the set.

The lead story was that Jimmy Weeks’ codefendant, Barney Haskell, was rumored to be cutting a deal with the attorney general.

Nothing like the deal I could cut, Jason thought. It was a comforting reminder. But of course it would never happen.

Robin turned off the science program just as the doorbell rang. She was delighted to hear Geoff Dorso’s voice in the foyer and came running out to greet him. She could see that both his face and her mother’s were serious. Maybe they had a fight, she thought, and want to make up.

Throughout the meal, Robin noticed that her mother was unusually quiet, while Geoff was funny, telling stories about his sisters.

Geoff is so nice, Robin thought. He reminded her of Jimmy Stewart in that movie she watched with her mother every Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Life. He had the same sort of shy, warm smile and hesitant voice, and the kind of hair that looked as though it wouldn’t ever really stay in place.

But Robin noticed that her mother seemed to be only half listening to Geoff’s stories. It was obvious something was up between them and that they needed to talk-without her in the room. So she decided to make the big sacrifice and work on her science project upstairs in her room.

After she had helped clear the table, she announced her plans and caught the look of relief in her mother’s eyes. She does want to talk to Geoff alone, Robin thought happily. Maybe this is a good sign.

Geoff listened at the bottom of the stairs. When he heard the click of Robin’s bedroom door closing, he went back into the kitchen. “Let’s see the picture.”

Kerry reached into her pocket, drew it out and handed it to him.

Geoff studied it carefully. “It looks to me as though Robin had it straight when she told what had happened,” he said. “That car must have been parked directly across the street. Someone caught her coming head-on from the house.”

“Then she was right about the car racing toward her,” Kerry said.

“Suppose it hadn’t swerved into a U-turn? But Geoff, why?”

“I don’t know, Kerry. But I do know that this has to be treated seriously. What are you thinking of doing about it?”

“Showing this to Frank Green in the morning. Getting a check to see if any sex offenders have moved into the area. Driving Robin to school on my way to work. Not letting her walk home with the other kids but having the sitter pick her up. Notifying the school so that they’re aware that someone may be after her.”

“What about telling Robin?”

“I’m not sure. Not yet anyhow.”

“Did you let Bob Kinellen know yet?”

“Good Lord, it never occurred to me. Of course Bob has to know about this.”

“I’d want to know if it were my child,” Geoff agreed. “Look, why don’t you give him a call and let me pour us another coffee.”

Bob was not at home. Alice was coldly civil to Kerry. “He’s still at the office,” she said. “He practically lives there these days. Is there a message I can give him?”

Only that his oldest child is in danger, Kerry thought, and she doesn’t have the advantage of a live-in couple to be there to protect her when her mother is working. “I’ll call Bob at the office. Good-bye, Alice.”

Bob Kinellen picked up the phone on the first ring. He paled as he listened to Kerry’s recounting of what had happened to Robin. He had no doubt who had taken the picture. It had Jimmy Weeks’ signature all over it. That was the way he worked. Start a war of nerves, then step it up. Next week there would be another picture, taken from long range. Never a threat. No notes. Just a picture. A get-the-message-or-else situation.

It wasn’t an effort for Kinellen to sound concerned and to agree with Kerry that it would be better if Robin were driven to and from school for a while.

When he hung up, he slammed his fist on the desk. Jimmy was spinning out of control. They both knew that it was all over if Haskell completed his deal with the U.S. attorney.

Weeks figured that Kerry would probably call me about the picture, Bob thought. It’s his way of telling me to warn her away from the Reardon case. And it’s his way of telling me I’d better find a way to get him off on this tax evasion charge or else. But what Weeks doesn’t know, he told himself, is that Kerry doesn’t get scared off. In fact, if she perceived that picture as a warning to her, it would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

But Kerry doesn’t understand that when Jimmy Weeks turns on someone, it’s all over for that person, he thought.

Bob’s mind jumped back to the day nearly eleven years ago when Kerry, three months pregnant, had looked at him with eyes that were both astonished and furious. “You’re quitting the prosecutor’s office to go with that law firm? Are you crazy? All their clients have one foot in jail. And the other foot should be there,” she’d said.

They had had a heated argument that ended with Kerry’s contemptuous warning, “Just remember this, Bob. There’s an old saying: Lie down with dogs and you’ll get up with fleas.”