“I’m pulling the plug, Blondie. Bar’s closed.”

“I just want to fin-”

“C’mon upstairs. Tomorrow’s a long day and we got a lot to catch up on when we get back.” He had me by the elbow and was steering me through the library doors and across the Great Hall.

“You didn’t cut Jennifer off last night, did you?”

“She holds it a lot better than you do, kid. Stairs or elevator?”

I looked up at the three-tiered flight of stairs when we reached its bottom and the steps appeared to be rolling like an escalator. “The lift will do just fine, thank you.”

It lurched its way to our floor and Mike again reminded me to lower my voice as we passed the row of suites that led to ours. He turned the knob and opened the door and I followed him inside. He gave me the shirt he had worn earlier in the day and grabbed the robe that I had left on the end of my bed. “Go into the bathroom, brush your teeth, take a couple of aspirin, and get yourself ready to go to sleep.”

When I came out five minutes later, he handed me a slip of paper with my name on it that had been folded and pushed under the door of the suite while we were at dinner.

I opened the note, glanced at it, then looked up at Mike to see if I could tell from his expression whether or not he had read it. “Mr. Renaud phoned. Please call him at whatever hour you get in tonight.” Joan must have egged him on and explained my relationship with Mike.

“Want me to leave the room?”

I shook my head. “It’ll wait ‘til I get home.” I was crashing rapidly.

“Go on, Blondie. Get into bed.”

The housekeeper had turned down the blankets. I unwrapped the little chocolate mint on my pillow, put it in my mouth, and slid down between the covers. I reached up to turn out the light as Mike came over and kissed the crown of my head.

“You’re a lousy drunk, Coop. Harmless but lousy.”

I must have fallen asleep immediately because I didn’t remember anything else until the front desk rang for our eight o’clock wake-up call. I could hear a noise coming from the floor at the foot of Mike’s bed. I sat up and looked, but the only thing there was the pair of pants to his suit, wriggling and buzzing as if a giant bumblebee was trapped in its pocket and trying to escape. “Good morning. At the risk of being told it’s none of my business, may I ask you what you’ve got in your pants?”

“Whaddya mean?” He didn’t look much better than I felt as he rolled over to face me.

“Something’s jumping around in your trousers.” I pointed at the moving pile on the floor.

“That’s my Skypager,” he laughed. “I had it in my pocket last night. But it’s set on the vibrating mode so it wouldn’t beep in the middle of dinner and make any noise. That’s why it’s so frisky.”

Mike got out of bed, picked up the writhing pants, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the little machine. “It’s John Creavey’s number.” He called the desk and asked them to dial it for him.

A short conversation with the commander and then he turned back to me. “Mercer called Creavey ‘cause the Skypager doesn’t work this far away and the reception desk here wouldn’t put his call through during the night.

“John DuPre is on the run. Skipped town some time within the last twenty-four hours. Mercer seized some stuff from his office and they’ve got his house staked out, too. But the wife is hysterical. Claims she’s left there on her own with two kids and no idea where her husband is. Let’s get packing. Mercer’ll tell us the rest of the story when he picks us up at the airport.”

“Well, is the guy a neurologist or not?”

“Are you kidding? Mercer doesn’t even know his real name. He’s not John DuPre, he’s not a doctor, and it seems he never went to medical school. He’s a con artist and a scammer. And when they figure outwho he is, maybe we’ll figure out how to find him.”

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK WHEN THE announcement came that our flight was ready to depart after hours of delay caused by a mechanical problem. We were both bored and squirming as we were marched onto the plane with three hundred other disgruntled travelers and found our way to our seats two-thirds of the way to the back of the coach section. Our upgrade didn’t work on this side of the pond.

Once airborne, the trip was unremarkable. We ate and read and watched Mel Gibson shoot up half the population of Los Angeles in the fifth sequel to whatever action series was on the screen. I finally came to life about twenty minutes east of JFK as we descended to twelve thousand feet and I could point out to Chapman a crystal clear view of Martha’s Vineyard off the right wingtip of the plane. We were flying just to the south of the island and from the air the bareness of the trees in the early spring made it possible to pick out the distinct towns and bodies of water as well as some of the actual farms and houses that I knew so well.

Mike leaned across me and looked down through the window. “Can you see the Bite? I’m ready for a second portion of those incredible fried clams.”

I tried to point out where Menemsha was, orienting him by the large red-and-black roof of the Coast Guard building.

“Have you been back to your house since last-?”

I interrupted his question before he could complete it. “Not yet.”

“You know you’ve really gotta go-”

I didn’t want to snap at him again, and I knew I had been avoiding a difficult situation for too long, but I hadn’t been able to face a weekend alone in my lovely old farmhouse since I had returned there with Mike during the investigation of Isabella Lascar’s murder last fall. “The caretaker closed it up for me for the winter. It’ll just be easier to deal with the whole thing in a few weeks when it’s springtime. The inside is being painted now and I’ll wait ‘til Ann or Louise are going up to their places. I have been avoiding it but I’m about ready to go back.”

The flight attendant was directing us to fasten our seat belts for our initial approach to the airport. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as we circled out over the ocean and I tried to urge Mike to relax his grip on the arms of his seat before he broke them in half.

Mercer was standing on the ramp of the gateway as we deplaned through the front door. A sergeant from the Port Authority Police had taken him past security to meet us, and we were able to clear Customs and Immigration before the luggage even landed on the carousel.

We picked up our bags and went out to his car, which was parked directly in front of the terminal. The highway was jammed with the Saturday night bridge-and-tunnel crowd on their way into the city for dinner or theater or sports events. We crawled along with them, Mercer saving his stories until we could sit quietly at dinner and catch up on his news.

When we reached the Triboro Bridge, I used his car phone to call Giuliano at Primola. It was almost seven and I told him we could be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. “Got a corner table of Adolfo’s that you can give three of us?”

We ordered quickly so we could get down to business. For me, stracciatelli soup and a small bowl of pasta that could just slide down my throat with barely any effort on my part. Mike and Mercer both went for veal chops. Adolfo brought over the first round of drinks as Mercer started to talk.

“Here’s what we know so far. Our fugitive started life in a parish outside of New Orleans. Name was Jean DuPuy-Cajun, I guess. Graduated high school, then got a bachelor’s degree in pharmacology. That’s the closest his formal training ever came to medicine.

“But he’s been impersonating doctors for almost ten years. Somehow he found out about the real DuPre, who’s a bit of a hermit at this point. Ninety-four years old. Most folks just assume he’s dead.

“You know part of his scam. Writes to Tulane and claims his diploma was destroyed in a fire. Sends ‘em ten bucks for a new one along with his name and a post office box address. They’re happy to give one of their favorite sons whatever he asks for. Next, our impostor starts with that one priceless piece of paper-Xeroxed a few times-and some phony letterhead, which he uses to mail off to medical societies and journals. And before you can say Jefferson Davis, he’s got an entire portfolio establishing his credentials as Dr. John DuPre.”