Alvarez smiled. “Nothing like that. I am healthy and secure. But I do believe in looking ahead.” He spread his arms and shrugged. “One never knows what the future might bring. It is best to be prepared.”

“So if I’m stuck on that neighborhood, Jackie’s place is the only one available?”

“Good luck with that, Spenser. Jackie should have sold that building long ago, but he is far too stubborn.”

“Aren’t you the number-one fan of Street Business? Don’t you provide most of its support?”

Something dark clouded his face. Then it was gone.

“I am not a fan of Street Business. But I believe in supporting my family. That means I support Jackie. Funding Street Business is the manifestation of that support. But it is a financial black hole and an ill-conceived fantasy of a naive and foolish mind.”

“So you wouldn’t be saddened if it disappeared tomorrow?”

“I have done all I can to sustain Street Business. Jackie and my family know this. If it fails—when it fails—it will be through no fault of mine.”

“Well,” I said. “So much for my expansion plans. Thank you for your time, Juan.”

Alvarez stood and followed me to the door. “A pleasure to see you, Spenser. I am reminded that I have yet to invite you and Dr. Silverman to my home in Weston. I will arrange that soon.”

“I look forward to it,” I said.

The receptionist was at her desk when I left Juan’s office. She smiled. Perhaps I was getting to her.

“Leaving already?” she said. She looked disappointed.

“‘Promises to keep,’” I said. “‘And miles to go before I sleep.’”

SUSAN AND I RECEIVED AN engraved invitation from Juan Alvarez to join him at his farm in Weston for the Sunday before Christmas.

The invitation was on thick, expensive card stock with a gold border and decorated with tasteful Christmas accents of wreaths and gold horns. According to the invitation, Juan Alvarez requested the presence of our company at a Christmas celebration at the barn. Drinks at noon. Brunch at twelve-thirty. Tennis at one. To benefit the USTA and the USWTA. There was a reply card where we could designate the amount we might donate, in increments of $5,000 per seat. Juan had slashed a line through the numbers and handwritten across the top, “Susan and Spenser, hope you will join us as my guests.”

“Does that mean we get in free?” I said.

Susan had her head in my lap and was holding the invitation up to the light so we could both study it. “Each one of these must have cost twenty dollars,” she said. She wore charcoal slacks and a form-fitting pewter blouse. A pewter jacket was thrown over the back of one of my chairs. She was transitioning out of her Dr. Silverman mode, but slowly.

“Ah, the tennis matches. When’s the last time we enjoyed one of those?” I said.

“They’re actually very entertaining, from what I understand,” Susan said.

“Is there a part where they give away giant silver chalices to the winners?”

“Perhaps. I’ve never actually seen one in person, only on TV.”

“I don’t know about this,” I said. “Carmen’s brand of tennis scares me.”

She raised her head from my lap and with the agility of a yogi turned it to look up at me. “Still overcoming a traumatic childhood tennis experience?”

“You should see her on the court. She doesn’t fool around.”

Susan sat up and took a sip of her pinot grigio, which had gone untouched on the table beside her. “No luck finding out who is causing Jackie his problems?”

“So far we know it’s not the Catholic church. They gave up trying to buy the houses on that street months ago, after Alvarez turned them down on their last and best offer.”

“And you think Jackie really cares about Street Business?”

“I do. But he appears to be the only one.”

“Not Juan?”

I shook my head. “Juan funds it out of a sense of familial obligation, but he doesn’t like it. He’s certain Street Business will ultimately fail, and he told me at least it won’t be his fault.”

“That’s consistent with what Carmen has told you about Juan. He has to be the good guy. He doesn’t want to be viewed as responsible for anything bad. He’s certain it will fail, and he needs to not be responsible for its failure.”

“True. But I think Juan has enough problems of his own right now without worrying about his little brother’s social experiment. Despite that calm exterior, I think Juan is feeling the pressure and knows he could be seeing his empire start to crumble. My poking around isn’t helping put him in a holiday mood, either.”

“So why invite you to his home? ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?”

“If that were generally true in my business, I’d be invited to a lot more parties,” I said. “But it’s probably something like that. In any case, it’s an opportunity to see more and learn more. But that goes both ways.”

“What do you hope to learn?”

“I don’t know. But knowing more is better than not knowing more. I just have to keep poking around until I find out something useful. I just hope I’m smart enough to recognize a clue when I step on one.”

ON SUNDAY WE DROVE OUT to Weston. It was sunny, and the fresh snow gleamed across the meadows. I turned in at the Alvarez gates and continued on back to the barn, where there were already Porsche and Mercedes SUVs, a Bentley or two, and several Range Rovers. It was cold, 21 degrees, but the sun made it seem warmer.

Susan was dressed in black wool trousers and a cropped black leather jacket, and high-heeled black suede boots. I was wearing my gray wool slacks, a tweed jacket, and a dark gray turtleneck. Country Spenser.

We smiled at the other guests, and they smiled at us as we went into the barn.

A bar and tables and chairs were set up at either end. In the middle, wooden grandstands had been erected on either side of the tennis court. A string quartet dressed in Elizabethan attire was positioned in the front of the hayloft, playing Baroque music.

I nudged Susan and looked up. She followed my gaze, and we were silent.

“I don’t mean to sound elitist,” I said, “but wouldn’t a jug band be more appropriate?”

“Or Garth Brooks,” she said. “Maybe Juan doesn’t know that ‘country music’ doesn’t mean music from some other country.”

“Or some other century.”

She put her arm through mine, and we went toward the bar. To one side was the brunch table laden with large silver serving dishes and tureens waiting to be filled.