Escott held his gun steady. "Following Miss Weaver, are you? Working for Cousin Agnes?"

Riordan didn't blink, just kept grinning. "Now is that civilized, asking a man questions he can't answer while tryin' to blind him? Not to mention threatenin' him with no less than two deadly weapons. I ask you now, is it?" When he got no reply, he looked my way, squinting against the light in his eyes. "So you're the mystery fellow who's been keepin' this lad out of the red. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same." He put a hand out.

I took my cue from Escott and kept him covered.

Miss Weaver came cautiously forward. "Is that true? Agnes hired that man to follow me?"

"Circumstances favor it," said Escott. He looked tense and—rare for him—unsure of himself.

Riordan raised his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Miss. We appear to be at a partin' of the ways, so if you don't mind I'll be takin' me leave."

"Jack…"

I'd seen this coming, even if I wasn't clear on the why behind Escort's caution. Gun holstered, I stepped forward to grab Riordan and pin his arms, but he bolted an instant ahead of me. He dragged a garbage can down to block my path, but I had enough speed when I jumped it to land square on his back and tackle him. That should have finished him, but he twisted like a snake, hammering short, powerful blows under my ribs with one hand, while his other covered my face, pushing me away, his fingers curled for eye-gouging.

Before that happened I vanished.

I'm good at it. It drains me, but damnation, it's the second best thing about my change from living to undead. The first best has to do with my girlfriend, but I'll talk about that some other time.

My abrupt absence didn't faze Riordan; he scrambled up and sprinted, but by then I'd re-formed in front of him and landed a solid fist to his gut that almost stopped him cold. Struggling for air, he staggered and stubbornly kept going, but I swung him face-first against a brick wall and hauled his arms back just short of dislocation. I was fresh for more fight. Vanishing heals me: no bruises in my middle. Even my headache was gone.

Escott caught up, our client in his wake.

"What do we do with him?" I asked. Let him go and he'd phone Cousin Agnes.

"I suggest a refreshing nap."

Escott held the light; I turned Riordan around and made myself calm. I couldn't let myself get emotional. It adds an extra pressure to things that can permanently damage a mind.

Riordan was gasping, his face red under the sweat, but his brown eyes were alert and suspicious, his forearms raised to ward off a physical attack. I fixed my gaze hard on him and told him to listen to me, just as I'd done with Miss Weaver.

Only nothing happened.

The noose went tight around my head from the effort, but Riordan stayed conscious. His breath told me he was sober, leaving one alternative.

"Charles… he's crazy."

Riordan grinned. "We Irish… are a mad race… or so I'm told," he puffed out. "What concern… is it t'you?"

Escott snorted. "I'm not surprised. He still wants a nap."

"No problem," I said, and popped Riordan one the old-fashioned way. His eyes rolled up, and he slithered down the bricks as his legs gave out.

Miss Weaver gaped. "My God, did you kill him?"

"Not yet." I hauled him up over one shoulder like a sack of grain. He was heavy, all of it muscle. "Let's find his car."

Escott knew the vehicle—a battered black Ford—got the keys from Riordan's pocket, and opened the trunk. It was full of junk, but there was just room enough to stuff him in.

"He'll suffocate in this heat," she said.

She had a point. I found a tire iron in the junk and used the prying end to punch half a dozen air holes into the trunk lid before slamming it shut. They looked like bullet holes but larger.

"He can get help in the morning if he yells loud enough," I said, trying for a reassuring smile. The businesses along this street behind the restaurant were closed. There was little chance of a stray pedestrian passing by, especially with a storm looming.

"Who is he?" Miss Weaver asked, voicing my own question.

"No one important," Escott said. He took the tire iron from me, dropping it and the car keys on the front seat of the Ford. "He fancies himself to be a private investigator, but his methods are sloppy and his personal ethics questionable. If you offered him a dollar more than your cousin's payment, he would cheerfully switch sides until such time as he could solicit her for a counteroffer."

I'd talk to Escott later about Riordan. The way he grabbed the crowbar while glaring at the car trunk told me that it was just as well there was a locked steel barrier between them.

Escott drove us to Bawks House; Miss Weaver-Mabel now, she insisted—sat next to him. I had the backseat to myself, slumping low in case she noticed I wasn't reflecting in the rearview mirror.

She fussed with her hat, trying to secure it better. She was cheerful, almost relaxed, and made a point of turning around to beam at me now and then as we talked. Escott had instructed her to trust us. With her, trust must also include liking a person. She acted as though we were all old friends. I'd have been uncomfortable, but she'd forget it in a few weeks.

We had the windows down on his Nash; the hot air blowing in was viscous as tar. Through breaks in the buildings we saw restless clouds thickening, making plans. Lightning defined their shifting forms for an instant, thunder grumbled, and they went dark until the next flash. We headed north, right into it.

Escott gently plied questions under the guise of conversation.

Since discovering the fake gem, Mabel had been careful not to give anything away to her cousin, otherwise the real diamond would evaporate to a safer hiding place. For the present, it was still in the house, cached in a shoe in her cousin's bedroom closet.

"How did you find that out?" he asked.

"Agnes is always eavesdropping on the extensions, but until now I had no reason to do the same to her. She thinks I'm too goody-goody. Well, I started listening, too, and got an earful on everything."

"You must have had opportunity to switch pendants prior to this."

"No, I have not. One or the other of them is always home, they keep their bedroom door locked, and I don't have a key. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more time, but only this morning did I learn about the collector coming tonight. Agnes's husband found him. Agnes married him just a few months ago. He saw the big house, met our sick grandmother, and assumed he'd be coming into big money soon enough. Agnes didn't set him straight. She and Clive were made for each other: both sly, greedy Philistines."

Escott came subtly alert. "Is he English? That's not a common first name in America."

"Clive Latshaw's no more English than I'm Greta Garbo. He puts on a good show, though. He'll high-hat anyone if he thinks he can get away with it. He even charmed Grandma, but not enough so she'd change her will."

"Who is this private collector?"

"I didn't get a name, but they're meeting at Bawks House at ten. We'll be able to sneak in with no trouble. Agnes and Clive are always in the parlor with the radio on. She won't go up for the Eye unless she sees the money."

"This is very uncertain, if they should catch us—"

"Then I came home early from dinner, and you're my invited guests. If we're caught, I'll be embarrassed, but I'm getting my property back. If it was me facing just Agnes I'd be fine, but Clive would step in, and he can be mean. I can't fight them both."

"Your gentleman friend did not put himself forward as a protector?"

"Bartie's a good egg but no Jack Dempsey. Clive won't try anything with you there, but if we're careful, we can be in and out, and they'll never know a thing. I just wish I could see Agnes's face when she tries to palm off a piece of glass as a diamond."