“Yeah, Sol, that sounds great.”

“In that case, I’m going to bed,” he sighed. He said good night with a wink, and I was left with Ellie, staring up at my old place above the garage, realizing that for a few amazing moments, nobody was chasing me.

Ellie stood there, staring at me. There was an ocean breeze warming us through the swaying palms. For a second I drew her close and cupped her face in my hands. I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated what she’d done, but no words came out.

I bent and gave her another kiss. Her mouth was warm and moist, and this time there was nothing hesitant about it. When I was out of breath I pulled away. I let my hand linger on her breast. “So, Agent Shurtleff, what happens now?”

“Now,” Ellie said, “maybe we go upstairs, go over a few details about the case.”

“I thought that was wrong,” I said, taking her gently by the hand. I drew her close, felt her heart beating, felt her tight little body fit into mine.

“Way wrong,” Ellie said, looking up at me, “but who’s counting now?”

THERE WAS NO holding back this time. It was a struggle just to drag ourselves up the stairs. Our mouths were locked and we were pawing at each other’s clothing the second we stumbled through the door.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” I said, and grinned, undoing the buttons on Ellie’s jacket.

“I don’t know…” she said. She wiggled out of her blouse. She had a wonderful body. I had seen it the day I caught her kayaking. This time I wanted all of it. I pulled her close to me.

“I want you to know,” she said, pulling at my belt, then tunneling her hand down my jeans. I was as hard as granite. “You’re still going to jail. No matter how good this is.”

“That’s not much incentive,” I said. My hands traveled down her spine and into her skirt. I eased the zipper down and helped her slink out of the skirt, until it fell to the floor.

“Try me,” Ellie said.

I picked her up in my arms and laid her softly on the bed. I kicked off my pants. She arched her back, slithered gracefully out of her panties, and smiled.

I held myself over her, our eyes locked. Every muscle in my body, every cell, was exploding with desire for this incredible girl. Her skin was smooth and soft; mine was sweaty and on fire. She was taut, cut; small, tight muscles in her arms and thighs rocked against me with willowy restraint. She arched her spine.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Ellie said.

I eased inside her. Ellie let out a whimper, a beautiful sound, and held on tight to my arms. She was so small and light, I could almost lift her. We rocked like the steady rhythm of the surf outside. I couldn’t help thinking, This is what it’s about, you lucky SOB. It’s about this wonderful gal who risked everything for you, who looked inside and saw what no one else was willing to see.

Now what are you going to do about it? How are you going to hold on to Ellie Shurtleff?

THE WINDOW WAS OPEN, the moon was bright, and a breeze coming off the ocean was softly brushing us like a fan. We curled up against the pillows, too exhausted to move.

Not just from each other, from the three times Ellie and I had made love, but from the stress of all that had happened. And now, being there with Ellie. For a moment, feeling a million miles away from the case, I leaned my head against her shoulder.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked, Ellie balled up in my arms.

“You do what Sol said,” she answered. “You get yourself a great lawyer. You stay out of trouble for a change. Tend to your case. With what they have on you, Ned, with a clean record, you’re looking at maybe a year – eighteen months, max.”

“You’ll wait for me, Ellie?” I tickled her, teasing her with pillow talk.

She shrugged. “Unless another case turns up and I meet someone else. This kind of thing, you just never know.”

We laughed, and I drew her in to me. But I guess it was dawning on me that I was thinking about something else. I was going to jail. And Stratton had manipulated everything. Perfectly.

“Answer me something – you trust the Palm Beach cops to see this through? Lawson? What about your own outfit, Ellie? Moretti?”

“There may be someone I can trust,” she said. “A Palm Beach detective. I don’t think he’s under Lawson’s thumb. Or Stratton’s.”

“I still have a chip to play,” I said. She looked at me, eyes wide. “My father…”

“Your father? You didn’t give him up to the police?”

I shook my head. “Nope. You?”

Ellie stared blankly. She didn’t answer, but I could see in her still face that she hadn’t.

She stared into my eyes. “I’m thinking we’re missing something. What Liz said in the car. Only one painting was stolen. And, ‘You’re the art expert. Why do you think he calls himself Gachet?’”

“What is it about this Gachet? What’s so special?”

“It was one of the last paintings van Gogh ever did. In June 1890, only a month before he killed himself. Gachet was a doctor who used to stop in on him, in Auvers. You saw the picture. He’s sitting at a table, in his cap, head resting in his hand. The focus of the painting in those sad, blue eyes…”

“I remember,” I said. “Dave left me a picture of the painting.”

“His eyes are so remote and haunting,” Ellie went on. “Full of pain and recognition. The painter’s eyes. It’s always been assumed it foretold van Gogh’s suicide. It was bought at auction by the Japanese in 1990. Over eighty million. It was the highest price ever paid for a work of art at the time.”

“I still don’t get it. Stratton didn’t have any van Goghs.”

“No,” Ellie said, “he didn’t.” Then I saw this ray of awareness. “Unless…”

“Unless what, Ellie?” I sat up and faced her.

She chewed on her lip. “Only one painting was stolen.”

“You gonna let me in on what you’re thinking, Ellie?”

Ellie smiled at me. “He hasn’t won yet, Ned. Not entirely. He still doesn’t have his painting.” She threw the sheets off her. Her eyes brightened into a smile. “Like Sollie said, Ned. We have work to do.”

TWO DAYS LATER I got permission to fly to Boston. But not for the reason I had hoped. Dave’s body had finally been released by the police. We were burying him, at our local church, St. Ann ’s, in Brockton.

A federal marshal had to accompany me on the trip. A young guy just out of training named Hector Rodriguez. The funeral was out of state, therefore, out of my bail agreement. And I was a flight risk, of course. I already had. Hector was stapled to my side the whole way up.

We buried Dave in the plot next to my brother, John Michael. Everyone was huddled there, cheeks streaming with tears. I held my mom by the arm. It’s what they say about the Irish, right? We know how to bury people. We know how to hold up. We got used to losing people early in the Bush.

The priest asked if anyone had any last words. To my surprise, my father stepped forward. He asked for a moment alone.

He stepped up to the polished cherry casket and placed his hand on the lid. He muttered something softly. What could he be saying? I never wanted this to happen to you, son? Ned shouldn’t have gotten you involved?

I glanced at Father Donlan. He nodded. I stepped down to the gravesite and stood next to Frank. The rain started to pick up. A cold breeze blew in my face. We stood there for a moment. Frank ran his hand along the casket, never even glancing at me. He took a deep swallow.

“They needed a go-between, Ned,” my father said, and gritted his teeth. “They needed someone to organize a crew, to do the heist.”

I turned to him, but he kept staring straight ahead. “Who, Pop?”