Jim's throat was suddenly dry. "Wha-what are we talking about when we talk about 'remainder'?"

"We haven't worked out the value of the estate to the penny as yet," Mr. Boothby said, gazing at Jim over the top of his reading glasses, "but we estimate your share to be worth something in the neighborhood of eight million dollars."

Jim felt as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. Beside him he heard Carol give out a short, high-pitched cry, then clap a hand over her mouth. Bill was on his feet, slapping Jim on the shoulder.

"That's some neighborhood!" Bill cried.

The next few minutes were a blur of smiles and handshakes and congratulations. Jim wandered through them in a daze. He should have been jubilant, should have been dancing on the table, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed, cheated. Something was missing.

Eventually he and Carol were alone in the conference room with Joe Ketterle who was talking at breakneck speed.

"… so if you feel the need for any legal advice on how to manage your share of the estate, any advice at all, please don't hesitate to call me."

He pressed his card into Jim's hand. Jim suddenly realized why he had been receiving the red-carpet treatment: He was now a wealthy potential client.

"You're pretty familiar with the Hanley estate?" Jim said, staring down at the card.

"Very."

"Was there any mention at all in his papers about why he left so much of his estate to me?"

"No," Ketterle said with a shake of his head. "No reason given at all. You mean you don't know?"

Jim wanted out of here. He wanted a quiet place where he could huddle with Carol and the two of them could talk this whole thing out. Eight million dollars! Suddenly he was filthy rich and it scared the hell out of him. Life would never be the same and that was what was frightening him. He didn't want the money to change what he and Carol had together.

"Can I have a copy of the will?"

"Of course."

"Thanks. And the house—it's mine?"

"Yes." He handed Jim an envelope. "Here's a set of keys. We'll have to have you back here to sign some papers for legal transfer of ownership, of course, but—"

He took the envelope. "Great. We'll be in touch."

Jim pulled Carol out into the hall. He spotted Bill standing in the atrium by the elevators and was glad to see he hadn't left yet, but he cursed under his breath when he saw who was talking to him.

2

"Damn!"

Carol glanced at Jim. He seemed more tense now than he had before the reading of the will. She had expected him to return to his laconic, wisecracking self, but if anything, he had become grim.

Maybe he was in shock. God knew she was. Eight million dollars! It was an unimaginable sum. Her mind couldn't get a grip on it. What she did know for sure was that their lives were going to be changed by the inheritance. For the better, she prayed.

"What's wrong, Jim?"

He gestured ahead. "Look who's with Bill."

Carol recognized the tall, slovenly fellow with the long black hair and blotchy skin.

"Gerry Becker? What's he doing here?"

Before Jim could answer, Becker turned toward them and threw his arms wide.

"Jim Stevens! Heir to the Hanley fortune! Far out! Hold it right there!"

He raised the Nikon slung from his neck and flashed a photo of them as they approached. Carol had met Gerry Becker only twice before—both times at Monroe Express Christmas parties—and had disliked him immediately. He attached himself, talked into your face, backed you into a corner, and yakked on about himself—always about himself. People at the parties took turns scraping him off on each other. He was overweight but that didn't stop him from wearing fitted shirts. A roll of fat was squeezed above his three-inch-wide leather belt. Despite the fact that he was nudging thirty, he seemed to have bought the whole hippie look in a package—beard, long hair, fringed suede jacket, tie-dyed shirt, bell-bottoms, and an aversion to soap. All he needed was a couple of strands of love beads to complete the picture. Carol didn't mind the hippie look itself, so she could not put her finger on just why she disliked him, other than the fact that he epitomized what her mother used to call "skeevvy." She knew Jim liked him even less.

"Hi, Gerry," she said, trying to be polite.

Just then the elevator door opened next to Bill. Jim pulled her toward it and they crowded in behind him.

"Bye, Gerry," Jim said.

But they weren't quick enough. Becker darted between the doors before they slid closed.

"Hey, man. You weren't trying to duck an interview with me, were you, Stevens?"

"What are you doing here, Gerry?" '

"You kidding? Monroe's richest resident gets killed and one of my fellow journalists on the Express is named in the will—that's news, man!"

Up close, Carol could see large flakes of dandruff salted through Becker's oily hair. The skin along his hairline and his eyebrows was reddened, irritated, and flaky as well. She wondered when he had last brushed his teeth.

She slipped to the back of the elevator car.

"I was just talking to the good Father here," he said, nodding toward Bill, "telling him about my days at the Trib. He says his orphanage made out pretty well. How'd you do?"

Carol glanced at Bill, saw him smile and roll his eyes as if to say, Where'd you find this guy? She realized with a start that this was the first time he had looked directly at her since they had arrived. His gaze had been either avoiding her or sliding off her all morning.

"I did okay," Jim said in a guarded tone.

Becker pulled out a notepad. "Far out! How about some details?"

"Look, Gerry," Jim said. Carol could sense her husband's growing annoyance. "I don't want to discuss it now. In fact, this whole scene here is pretty intrusive."

Becker's face twisted into a grimace that managed at once to look nasty and offended.

"Oh, I get it, Stevens. Inherit a little money and first thing you do is turn your back on your friends?"

She felt Jim stiffen, so she laid a hand on his arm. As he hesitated, the elevator stopped at the ground floor and the doors opened. Stepping out into the lobby, Jim said,

"Not now, Gerry. Meet me tomorrow around noon at the Hanley mansion and I'll give you an exclusive."

"The Hanley mansion? That's cool. Why there?"

"I own it now."

Becker seemed too dazed to follow them as they fled the building.

"I think a celebration is in order," Carol said once they were outside and around a corner and were sure he wasn't going to catch up. The sun was low and Park Avenue was in deep, chilled shadows. She tugged Bill's sleeve. "And this time you're coming along. No excuses."

Bill seemed flustered. "I really can't. I should get back. And besides"—he opened his overcoat to expose his cassock— "you don't want a priest along to throw a wet blanket over wherever it is you plan to celebrate."

"Well, let's see," she said. "We're halfway between Xavier and Regis. Surely there's got to be a Jebbie at one of those two places who's your size and who'll lend you some civvies."

"Well, yeah. I know a guy at Xavier who's about my size, but—"

"Then it's settled." She looked at Jim. "Right?"

He smiled crookedly and pulled out the car keys. "Downtown it is. J. Carroll will take us."

"John Carroll?"

"No. J. Carroll. It's a car, not a Jesuit."

Bill's face took on a pained look. "It wouldn't happen to be a Nash, would it?"

"Of course."

"That's awful!" He grinned. "Okay. As long as you're sure I won't be in the way when you're accosted by other future Pulitzer prizewinning journalists like the last."

They all laughed as they headed for the garage, and for the first time, their newfound millions notwithstanding, Carol felt really good about the day.