“Very good!”

“So what?” Holly said.

“Detectives loaned from other precincts will be sent home, and the investigation will become much less intense,” Stone explained. “And that takes some of the pressure off Trini, at least for the moment.”

“But why would the NYPD want to take pressure off a cop killer?” Holly asked.

“Not the NYPD,” Lance offered. “The FBI.”

“Excuse me,” Holly said, “but this is way too sophisticated for my simple mind.”

“You have an excellent mind, Holly,” Lance said, “but not as devious as that of the collective guile of the Bureau.”

“Holly,” Stone said, “Grant has just told us that Trini’s use to the Bureau is important for only another couple of days.”

“Bingo!” Lance said.

“So they want Trini on the street long enough to complete whatever the FBI wants him to?”

“Bingo again!” Lance said. “And would you like to know what Trini is doing for the Bureau?”

“Yes, please,” Holly replied.

“Now I must remind you that you two are, each in your way, arms of the Agency, and as such, you may not reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

Stone sighed.

“Specifically, you may not reveal it to Dino,” Lance said.

“Why not?” Holly asked.

Stone spoke up. “Because Dino is NYPD, and he would be outraged to learn that the Bureau is messing with the investigation into a cop killing for its own purposes, and he might intervene.”

“Exactly,” Lance said. “Are we all in the tent now?”

Stone and Holly nodded.

“Well,” Lance, said, looking around to make sure he was not being overheard in the crowded restaurant, “it seems that our Trini has somehow convinced the Bureau that there is a financial connection between his mob friends and a certain Middle Eastern terrorist fraternity, the name of which shall not escape my lips.”

Stone shook his head. “The Mafia financing a terrorist organization? Not possible.”

“Stone, you forget that the Mafia is a terrorist organization, in its small way, and that their sympathies become altered when there is money to be made.”

“No, Lance, the mob is-in its small way, as you put it-a bunch of patriotic guys who are very grateful for the opportunities the United States has given them to become rich-stealing, extorting, and killing.”

“You have a point, Stone. Perhaps it is the case that the mob has been let in on the little secret-given an opportunity to do something patriotic.”

“And what would that be?” Holly asked.

“The boys have a great many money-laundering connections that our Middle Eastern foes covet. Since the Treasury Department has cracked down on wire transfers to suspect locales, and since the National Security Agency has greatly increased their surveillance of Middle Eastern cell and satellite phones, not to mention penetration of their websites, it has become much more difficult for them to move money around the world. On the other hand, the increased scrutiny of terrorists has had the happy effect, for the mob, of diverting attention from their own financial transactions.”

“I suppose it makes a kind of weird sense,” Stone said.

“Not to me,” Holly replied.

“Look at it this way, Holly,” Lance said. “Would you be willing to put your pursuit of Trini Rodriguez on hold for a couple of days, if the payoff were to destroy a terrorist money-management cell and confiscate a lot of their available cash?”

Holly looked into her cappuccino. “If I had to, I suppose.”

“Voilà!” Lance exclaimed. “A patriot!”

“And what happens after this little operation is over?” Holly asked.

“Then,” Lance said, “I might be able to help you achieve your objective.”

“You swear?” Holly demanded.

“I swear to try,” Lance said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with that.”

“Oh, all right,” Holly said.

STONE LET THEM into the house and closed the door behind him. “Pack some things,” he said. “Casual-jeans, et cetera, something you can wear to a good restaurant, but still casual.”

“Where are we going?” Holly asked.

“Away for the weekend. Daisy will love it.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Holly said.

Daisy looked pleased, too, when she heard the news.

Stone had previously backed the car into the garage. Now he pressed the remote, and by the time the door had opened, he had started the car and had it in gear. He pulled across the sidewalk gingerly, then turned toward Third Avenue, driving as quickly as he could and frequently checking the rearview mirror. A touch of the remote closed the door behind him.

“Why are we leaving town?” Holly asked.

“One, it’s a weekend; New Yorkers leave town on weekends. Two, it’s good for Daisy. Three, I need some country air. And four, to keep you out of trouble for the next couple of days.”

“And why do you think I need to be kept out of trouble?”

“I know damned well that if we stay in the city this weekend, you’ll be looking for Trini. You won’t be able to help yourself.”

“I said I wouldn’t interfere for a couple of days. Why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?”

“For safety reasons,” Stone replied. “New Yorkers are very careful drivers.”

“Not from what I’ve seen. Who do you think might be following us?”

“Maybe the two men who were watching the house.”

“What?”

“There were two men in the block: one across the street, wearing a black leather jacket, and one a few buildings up, wearing blue coveralls, looking in a shop window.”

“What’s so odd about a man looking in a shop window?”

“It’s a knitting and sewing shop,” Stone explained.

“Maybe he knits?”

“Maybe he’s FBI, if we’re lucky. Maybe he’s a friend of Trini, if we’re not.”

“How would Trini know where to find us?”

“You do recall chasing him all over Little Italy?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that annoyed him. Maybe a friend of his got the license plate number of my car when you were camped outside La Boheme.”

“Oh.”

Stone turned left on Sixty-fifth Street and, eventually, crossed Central Park. Daisy looked longingly at the trees and grass.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Holly cooed. “We’re going to find you a place to play.” She looked at Stone. “We are, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “Lots of grass and trees.”

“How long a drive?”

“An hour and forty-five minutes, if we beat the worst of the traffic. If we don’t, who knows?” He tapped a number into the car phone.

“Mayflower Inn,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hi, this is Stone Barrington. May I have a table for two at eight?”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington. We’ll see you then.”

“We’re going to a country inn?” Holly asked.

“Only for dinner.” He left the park, turned right on Central Park West, then left onto Seventy-second Street.

“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” Holly asked.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like surprises?”

“I like them if they’re pleasant ones, and when they happen suddenly,” Holly said. “But not when I have to ponder them for an hour and forty-five minutes.”

“Daisy isn’t worried.”

“Yes, she is. She’s just being polite.”

“You be polite.”

“All right, I’ll shut up.” She laid her head against the headrest.

Stone switched on the radio and pushed a button, tuning it to 96.3 FM. Classical music filled the car. “Mozart,” he said.

“I know.”

He turned onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, then reached under the dash and fiddled with something. A loud beeping ensued, accompanied by flashing red lights. Then everything was quiet.

“What was that?”

“That was my super-duper radar detector and laser diffuser.”

She leaned over and looked at the speedometer as he changed lanes and accelerated. “I’d arrest you in Florida,” she said.

“I’ll get arrested in New York, if my detector doesn’t work. Would that make you happy?”