“That’s odd, he never mentioned it.” Melania cocked her head again, either by habit or affectation, and Mary wondered what she really knew. It was doubtful that Giovanni would have told his trophy about Amadeo’s death, especially if he was involved, and there was nothing in Melania’s manner that suggested she was uneasy. If anything, she seemed interested, if only politely. “You say your client committed suicide?”

“Yes. He and Giovanni were very good friends, and ended up in an internment camp together in Montana. During the war.” That would be World War II.

“I so didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

“Yes, positive.” Mary reached in her purse, carefully avoided the Saracone legal bills, and pulled out a scanned copy of the photos she’d found at the camp. She had made three copies of the photos and left them at work, hiding the original in the coffee room; this time she was taking no chances. She showed the paper to Melania, both photos on the same page. “Isn’t that Giovanni, in the hat?”

“Whoa!” Melania’s liquid-lined eyes flared. “God, he looks hot! He must have been twenty or so!”

Read it and weep. “Yes, he was younger then. The short man with him is my client, Amadeo Brandolini. Giovanni never mentioned him? They were good friends.”

“No, not at all.” Melania handed the picture to Mary, who tucked it back in her purse. “How did your client commit suicide?”

“He hung himself.”

“Eeew.” Melania wrinkled her nose like a varsity cheerleader, and Mary stopped missing her determination. If the bad guys were going to kill her, they would have already. They had probably assumed that she’d told people she was coming here, thus making the classic bad-guy mistake of overestimating her.

“Melania, I know it’s late, but do you think it would be possible for me to meet your husband?”

“No, sorry, but you can’t. He’s really ill.”

Mary wondered if she were telling the truth, but she seemed to be, and the nurse had said the same thing. “I’m sorry. What is he ill with?”

“He has cancer, pancreatic cancer.”

“How terrible,” Mary said, with an inward moan. She thought reflexively of her mother. “Can I come back another time? Tomorrow, maybe? I promise I’ll be brief, and I -”

“To be honest with you, he’s terminal. I’m not sure how much longer he has left.” Melania blinked away tears that barely challenged waterproof mascara. “The doctor can’t say, so we take it day to day.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mary said, with regret, not grief. She had come so far, from the National Archives to Montana and back, tracing Saracone to this very house. If he was alive, it wasn’t too late. “So there’s no way, just for a minute, I could see him?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Melania swallowed in premature grief, but Mary wasn’t buying it for a minute. Anytime a sophomore marries a rich eighty-year-old, she’s not only prepared for the death part, she’s counting on it. Melania added, “I only let you in because Keisha said you were so nice. It’s really only family at the house at this point.”

“Family, of course. Do you have children?” Mary switched tacks for the moment, taking discovery.

“Giovanni does, from his previous marriage. A son, Justin. He should be here any minute.” Melania checked her watch, a gold Rolex. “He must be running late, with this weather.”

Mary could meet him if she stalled. “Oh yeah, I think I met Justin once. In town.”

“You might have. He did graduate from law school, but he doesn’t practice anymore.”

Melania smiled with new interest. “Where did you meet him?”

“If memory serves, it was at a bar function of some kind,” Mary answered vaguely. “So many lawyers quit practice, nowadays. I think of quitting all the time. Why did he quit?”

“Justin didn’t really quit, he works for the business.”

“What business?”

“Giovanni’s. You know, his investments.”

How had Saracone made all this dough? “What type of investments?”

Melania’s smile faded. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just making conversation, to distract you from your grief. Is it working?”

“No.” Melania laughed, and Mary leaned over.

“Look, I know this sounds weird and awful, but can I please see Giovanni? I swear, I’ll stay three minutes and that’s it. I could show him the photo of -”

“No, of course not.” Melania recoiled. “My husband is on his deathbed.”

“Is he awake now? Did he get my message about Amadeo?”

“Yes, Keisha told him.”

“You’re sure?”

Melania bristled. “I was there. What’s wrong with you? Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that it matters so much, to my client’s estate. My client had a special affinity for your husband. What did he say when Keisha told him?”

“Now stop right there.” Melania’s fair skin flared in anger. “That’s none of your business!”

“I know it seems rude, but it is my business.” Mary struggled for an explanation. “It would mean so much to my boss if I could tell him what your husband said. Could you just let me know, girl to girl, so I don’t get fired? I need this job.” It was Keisha’s line, but it had hit home with Mary, and it seemed to hit home with Melania, too.

“All he said was, ‘Amadeo.’ Okay?”

Amadeo. “He didn’t say anything else?”

“No. He put his head back on the pillow and fell asleep.”

“You sure he didn’t say anything else? Something that didn’t mean anything to you could mean a lot to my boss.”

“No, nothing else. He’s been saying things all the time, things that make no sense, because of the morphine and the other drugs.”

“Things that make no sense? What do you mean? What things?”

“The man is dying! The man is dying, and he knows it. Have some decency, why don’t you!” Melania stood up suddenly and brushed her wool slacks down over her taut thighs. “I tried to be nice, but I’m over this. I’m going upstairs, and you’re leaving. Right now. I’ll walk you to the door.”

Mary couldn’t walk out, could she? She’d come so far and if she waited another day, Saracone could be dead. She rose to go, hoisting her purse to her shoulder. She couldn’t just give up and go home, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“You have some nerve, you know that?” Melania was saying, over her shoulder, but Mary was thinking.

Should I take a chance? No. Yes. No. “Sorry,” Mary said. She followed Melania to the front door, but her determination returned in the nick of time. As Melania opened the door, Mary spun about-face and bolted for the carpeted stairwell that led upstairs. She didn’t stop to question or wonder or even double-check.

She just ran.

“What! No! Hey! Don’t you dare!” Melania shouted from the door, but for once Mary didn’t apologize.

Go! She darted up the stairs as fast as she could. She could get there. She could see Saracone. She wasn’t too late, not if he was alive. She reached the landing at the top with Melania on her heels. Where was Saracone’s bedroom?

“Stop!” Melania shouted. “No!”

Mary looked wildly right and left, panting hard. Two rooms were at either end of the long carpeted hall. Which was Saracone’s? An open door, with lamplight behind it! Left! Go! She bolted for the lighted bedroom just ahead of Melania, fueled by thoughts of Amadeo, the hanging tree, and the noose, which trumped a StairMaster any day.

“No! Chico, help! Chico, hurry!” Melania screamed, the sound reverberating in Mary’s ears.

Go, go, go! Mary tore down the hallway. There! She could barely stop in time as she reached the bedroom door and grabbed the doorknob. She scooted inside the bedroom, slammed the door closed behind her with a bang, and twisted a brass thumbscrew above the doorknob to lock herself inside. Thank you, God!

Almost instantly, Melania started pounding on the other side of the bedroom door, which shook with the force of each blow. “Get out of there! Chico! CHICO!”