The chameleon waited until the door to the tunnel was closed, then proceeded toward a window, and watched the plane pull away from the boarding platform. But he still wasn't satisfied. Experience had taught him that he had to wait until the plane left the ground.

Five minutes later, the chameleon had to give Trump credit. As advertised, the shuttle left on time. Turning, he walked toward a counter near the passenger door. On a board behind the counter, he noted the plane's destination.

'Excuse me,' he asked the attendant. 'What time will that flight arrive?' Hearing the answer, he smiled. Thank you.'

He had only one more thing to do. At a bank of phones, he used a credit card to contact a long-distance number. 'Peter, it's Robert.'

Both names were fake, on the slim chance that this phone would be monitored or that someone on a neighboring phone would overhear. Never take chances.

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but our friend had trouble making connections. I know how much you want to meet her. She's on a Trump shuttle to Washington National Airport. She'll arrive at seven-oh-seven. Can you…? That's what I thought. Peter, you're a pal. I know she'll be glad to see you.'

His work done, the chameleon hung up the phone. Clutching his briefcase, he retraced his steps through the concourse. But on second thought, his work was not yet done. Not at all. It never ended. Never.

Not that he objected. His duty was too important. It occupied… indeed it possessed… his mind and his soul.

First, as soon as he returned to Manhattan, he would quickly arrange to have a tap put on the woman's phone. That hadn't seemed necessary until today, until her visit to the apartment on East Eighty-Second Street made it obvious that the woman continued to be obsessed with the death of her friend. If her phone had been tapped earlier, yesterday while she'd been at the morgue, for example, the chameleon might have learned that she'd made arrangements to fly to Washington, and his task of following her would have been less complicated. That oversight in his surveillance of her would now be corrected. Her trip to Washington might have nothing to do with the death of the man called Joseph Martin, but the chameleon couldn't depend on 'might have'. He needed to know everything that she knew.

Next, he would check with the members of his team to learn if they'd been successful in tracking down the man who'd tried to intercept the pictures that the woman had left to be developed at the photo shop near her apartment building. The chameleon had been one of three people who'd entered the store while the man was arguing with the clerk. As a consequence, the chameleon had gotten a good look at the man when he stormed from the shop, enough to give a thorough description to the members of his team. In particular, what had interested the chameleon – intensely so – were the man's gray eyes.

Finally, while the chameleon waited for his contacts in Washington to warn him when the woman would be returning to Manhattan, he would occupy his time by following someone else. The detective, Lieutenant Craig, was showing unusual interest in this matter. After all, the investigation now should belong to Homicide, not Missing Persons. Perhaps the lieutenant's real interest was in the woman. The chameleon didn't know. Yet. But he would know. Soon. Everything about the detective. Because anyone as persistent as Lieutenant Craig had become might learn things that were very, very useful.

On the Trump Shuttle 727 to Washington, Tess did her best to ignore the drone of the engines and concentrate on her priorities. She always felt discomfort after take-offs and now rubbed her forehead while she opened and closed her mouth, trying to relieve the aching pressure in her sinuses and behind her ears. Nonetheless the photographs in her purse insisted. She wanted to seem casual, however. Not attract attention. Be cool. She was still disturbed that someone had tried to steal the pictures. Only after glancing at the passenger next to her did she decide to open her purse. The passenger was reading USA Today, the front-page sidebar of which said that a third of all species of North American fish were in danger of extermination. The next paragraph indicated that for every tree that was planted, four others were killed by acid rain, dried streams, or commercial development.

Angered by the article, her frustration intensifying, she opened her purse, removed the package of photographs, and studied them. The closeups of the titles on Joseph's bookcase immediately attracted her attention.

With equal immediacy, she noticed that the seatbelt sign was off and stood to walk up the aisle toward a row of phones mounted on the bulkhead at the front of the cabin. Using her credit card, she put a call through to New York and her favorite book store, the Strand, on lower Broadway.

'Lester? How's it going? Me? How'd you guess? Is my voice that distinctive? Well, yeah, a little fuzzy. I'm on a plane to Washington. No, just family business. Listen, can you do me a favor? I assume my credit's still good. It better be good. I drop a fortune in your store every month. So pay attention, okay? I've got a list. Are you ready?'

'Always, sweetheart. Anytime you want to…'

'Lester, will you give me a break?'

'Just trying to be friendly, my dear. Let's hear the titles.'

'The Consolation of Philosophy, The Collected Dialogues of Plato, The Millennium, Eleanor of Aquitane, The Art of Courtly Love, something in Spanish called The Circle of the Neck of the Dove.'

'Never heard of that one, dear.'

'Well, I've got plenty more.' Tess recited them.

'No authors, sweetheart?'

'From what I'm looking at, I can barely read the titles, let alone…'

'You sound in stress.'

'Stress? You don't know the half of it. Just get me those books as soon as possible.'

'Got it, sweetheart. I'll check our stacks. As you're well aware, we've got just about everything.'

'Send them to…' Tess almost said her loft in SoHo, but all at once, suspicious, remembering the incident at the photo shop, she told him the address for Earth Mother Magazine up from the Strand 's location on Broadway.

Stomach cramping, she replaced the phone and returned to her seat, ignoring the curious glance of the passenger who set down his USA Today.

Tess closed her eyes -

–  in truth, squeezed them tightly, painfully shut when she anticipated -

–  dreaded -

–  her arrival at Washington National Airport and her eventual meeting with her mother.

Not just her mother. Her dead father's nemesis. That son of a bitch. That murderous bastard. That fucking Brian Hamilton.