"I dunno," Kelp said. "I figure, we take one off the street."

Both Stan and Dortmunder shook their heads at that. "No," Stan said, while Dortmunder said, "Not a good idea."

Kelp nodded at them both. "Why not?"

With a graceful gesture to Dortmunder, Stan said, "You go first."

"Okay. We don't know," Dortmunder told Kelp, "is it empty, this truck. You can't go around back, figure out the locks, open it up, see is it empty, takes too much time, people looking at you. So whadaya do, just jump in and drive it outa there? Then we get where we're going, it's full of lawn furniture."

"That's another reason," Stan allowed. "My own reason," he said, "is that this is a truck we can't buy, because we can't afford it, but it's a truck we don't want the cops looking for, because first thing you know they'll find it, and I don't wanna be driving in it when that happens, so I got a suggestion."

"Tell it to us," Tiny said.

"I will." Stan spread his hands. "My automotive contact," he said, "where I will bring this BMW, and let's hope it's a little too old to have Global Positioning System, is Maximilian of Maximilian's Used Cars out in Queens."

Kelp said, "I know you've had a satisfactory relationship with him for some time."

"I have," Stan agreed. "So here's my suggestion. I drive out to see Max, I offer him a swap. We'll give him the BMW, straight up, flat out, and he gives me a truck clean enough we could drive it to the St. Patrick's Day parade. But what this means, first I go out to Max, we discuss, we agree, then I come back, you guys work your magic on the garage door, I take the BMW to Max, pick up the truck, bring it back."

Kelp said, "John and I had this idea, one of us—"

"One of us," Dortmunder said.

"— was gonna be on top of the truck to get at the alarm out there. But what you're saying, we don't get the truck until after we get at the alarm."

"That's right," Stan said.

Tiny said, "I like Stan's idea. It introduces a note of caution into the thing, and it's a good use of resources, the BMW for the truck."

"Elegance," Stan suggested.

"Like that," Tiny said. "Only the problem is, this means we're not doing this tonight."

"Well, I don't think we're ever doing it tonight," Stan said. "We don't wanna have to light up that penthouse all night, run that elevator up and down all night, when people got nothing else to see and hear."

Dortmunder said, "So how do you see the timing?"

"Tomorrow," Stan told him, "I go see Max, make sure we can get a deal. If we can get a deal, I bring back the truck, then late tomorrow night, because this first part we really gotta do at night, when there's less likely to be pedestrians all over the place, we do the alarm—"

"So we can do it with the truck," Kelp said.

"Yes, we can," Stan agreed. "We go in, and I take out the BMW and stash it down out of sight at my place in Canarsie, and then the next day—"

"Already we're at Thursday here," Tiny pointed out.

"Rome wasn't built in a day, Tiny," Stan told him.

"It was robbed in a day," Tiny said, "but I see the problem here, so okay. We're at Thursday."

"I take the BMW to Max, I make my way back, I meet you at the place, we go in, spend the day moving goods, then wait for night, drive away from there, turn it all over to Arnie."

Dortmunder said, "I think I see two more things we need."

Tiny lowered a brow at him. "Delay-type things?"

"I don't think so," Dortmunder said, "But one of them is, we need a long-term stash for that truck afterward. Arnie can't take delivery on everything the minute we show up."

"A garage, you mean," Stan suggested. "Another garage."

"Someplace we can keep the truck," Dortmunder said. "I don't know where, we have to think about that. And I think the other thing we need is Arnie."

Nobody liked that idea. Kelp said, "John? Now you wanna hang out with Arnie?"

"No, I don't," Dortmunder said. "But from what he says, this penthouse is full of valuable whatnots, a lot more than we can put in one truck down one elevator in one day. So if he comes along, he can point, and we take what he wants, and it's more profit for everybody."

"He won't do it," Tiny said. "Fences do not set foot on properties where the burglary is going on. It's like a rule they got."

"That's true," Kelp said. "I've known other fences, and it's always the same. We go, they stay home, wait for our call."

"Well," Dortmunder said, "I think it would be better if we brought Arnie with us, so if it's okay with you guys, I'll at least propose it to him."

"I've met Arnie," Stan said, and drank more than his usual amount of beer.

Kelp said, "Stan, the funny thing is, I think maybe the Club Med intervention did work after all. When John and I met him, he was less obnoxious than of old. I don't mean you want him for a roommate, but there was less of an urge to maneuver him toward an open window."

Tiny said, "Dortmunder, if you want to lay this on the guy, and he wants to go along with it, fine by me, I can see where it would help. But I still don't think he'll do it."

"I can only ask," Dortmunder said.

Tiny looked around the gay-nineties room and lifted his glass of vodka and red wine. "Next year," he said, "in the O.J."

THE GUMSHOEING THAT was a part of Alan's role as Preston's — flunky? majordomo? somewhere between the two — was conducted mainly on the net. His iBook was set up in a corner of his room where window glare would not be a problem on the screen, and there, each week, once Preston had settled on this week's — predator? prey? somewhere between the two — Alan would Google them and otherwise root around in their lives for their marital histories and financial circumstances and whatever other factoid Preston might enjoy knowing or making use of. Evidences of emotional or mental unbalance were always welcome.

This backgrounding never took more than an hour or two, usually on Sunday morning, and then there was nothing left for Alan to do the rest of the week but amuse Preston whenever the man wasn't off amusing himself. Alan found his employer detestable, but quite liked him for that. Preston was so smug, so sure of himself, that it would never occur to him that anyone, and certainly not some mere hireling, could twit him.

Preston, for Alan, was like some great, overstuffed piñata that could be bashed to one's heart's content, because the piñata would never even notice. Alan had been private secretary to much worse egotists over the years — though none, admittedly, quite so snide — and so he found this vacation with Preston a true vacation. Hardly any duties at all, except the once-a-week hawkshawing around the World Wide Web, and that was always simple and sort of fun. Except this week.

Wednesday, and he still hadn't found a trace of Pamela Broussard anywhere in the ether. How could she not exist, when she so palpably did exist?

After breakfast Wednesday morning, Alan settled himself yet again at the iBook, but this time he decided to go about the question a different way. The one undeniable fact he knew about Ms. Broussard was that her bill here was being paid by I.T.L. Holdings, a subsidiary of Roper-Hasty Detergent. What if he were to tackle the problem the other way around — study Roper-Hasty to see if he could find any link from the company to our Pam?

So that was where he spent nearly two hours Wednesday morning, oblivious of the outside sun and sail and balmy breezes, trolling the Net instead, rowboating down the organizational charts of Roper-Hasty Detergent.

It wasn't until the third time he came across one particular name that it finally rang a faint, distant bell. A warning bell?