Forty thousand feet above Frank and Charlie in the Walmart parking lot, Stone got the first clearance for his long descent into Key West. Half an hour later, he greased his landing into Key West International.

“Nicely done,” Pat said. She had been sitting in the rear of the airplane, working, for the last hour of their flight. “How do you like your new airplane?”

“It’s wonderful. Look at all the fuel we’ve got left!” He pointed at the gauges.

“And now you can fly the Atlantic from Newfoundland, nonstop.”

“And I will.” Stone taxied into Island City Air Services and went through his shut-down checklist. Half an hour later they pulled up at the Marquesa’s loading zone, and someone came for the luggage. Another twenty minutes, and they were sipping piña coladas on the front porch of their comfortable cottage. “I love general aviation,” Stone said.

“Me too, since it’s how I’m making my living,” Pat replied.

“You know that your old boyfriend—what’s his name?”

“You know his name.”

“Oh, yeah. He goes on trial next week.”

“I guess he does.”

“Has he been harassing you?”

“I get a call from him about once a week, demanding money.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“I did not.”

“So you’re finally done with him?”

“Completely.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.”

“Are you feeling like a New Yorker yet?”

“A little. I’ve been working so hard that I haven’t gotten around much—just to the grocery and back, mostly.”

“You need to hire more help.”

“I’ve got a new woman starting next week.”

“How many does that make?”

“Three, plus me, and we’re all pilots.”

“That would make a good ad.”

“We’ve already booked a page in Flying and AOPA Monthly.”

“I’ll look for it.”

Stone’s cell rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. Where are you?”

“Key West.”

“At the Marquesa?”

“Yep.”

“You bastard.”

“I invited you, but you were busy.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I like rubbing it in.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Dino hung up.

“That was Dino.”

“I figured,” she said. “How is he?”

“Busy.”

—

Gene Ryan tossed his bags onto the bed in his new place. He looked around: seedy, but adequate. He had abandoned the house; everything he now owned was in the car. The motorcycle had been at the bottom of the East River since the day of the shooting.

This was all Barrington’s fault, he remembered. He was unemployed and had run through most of the five grand he’d been given by Jerry Brubeck. He had a few grand more saved up, but he needed to get some cash flowing before he got around to killing Barrington. He would plan it well next time, take no chances, give him two in the head, the way he’d been taught. But right now, he needed to get laid.

He left the apartment and went in search of a good neighborhood bar.

Stone was lying by the pool on Saturday morning, sunning himself after a good breakfast, when his cell rang.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Stone, it’s Pepe Perado. How are you?”

“I’m very well, Pepe, and you?”

“Excited about coming back to New York. Are you in town?”

“No, I’m in Key West for the weekend. I’ll be back in New York Monday afternoon. When are you coming?”

“I’m arriving Monday at midday, and I need your advice: the Waldorf Towers are booked up next week. Can you recommend a good hotel convenient to the Upper East Side, where I’ll be apartment hunting?”

“Yes. Try the Lowell, on East Sixty-third Street, between Park and Madison. It’s small, elegant, and very comfortable. If they’re booked, try the Carlyle, on Madison at Seventy-sixth Street.”

“Got it. Can I buy you dinner Monday evening?”

“Of course. Come to my house for dinner, and I’ll book something, unless you have a favorite.”

“No, I’ll let you choose.”

“I’ll send my car for you at six-thirty. Let me know if you’re staying somewhere other than the Lowell.”

“Will do. See you Monday evening.” Pepe hung up.

So did Stone. “That was my newest client,” he said to Pat, who reposed next to him, her breasts bared. No one was complaining.

“What does he do?”

“He’s a brewer from San Antonio, and he’s expanding his business to New York. He recently bought a beverage distributor in Queens, and he’ll eventually open a brewery.”

“Do you have a lot of clients?”

“Woodman & Weld has hundreds. I have a few that I manage personally.”

“What are they?”

“Strategic Services, the Steele insurance group, the Arrington hotel group, and now Perado Brewing. I serve on the boards of the first three. Oh, and of course, there’s Pat Frank Aviation Services.”

“And you do all that by yourself?”

“No, I have a lot of support from Woodman & Weld. Joan and I do the rest.”

“I might steal Joan from you.”

“Good luck with that. You wouldn’t like what you’d have to pay her, and if you did lure her away, I’d have to shoot you.”

Pat laughed. “Okay, okay, but I’ve got a dozen and a half airplanes to run now, and I’m picking up new business by word of mouth. I’m going to need an office manager soon. I’ve been doing it myself.”

“I’ll ask Joan if she knows anybody. Does this person need aviation experience?”

“It couldn’t hurt, but not necessarily. It will be office work—bookkeeping, phones, mail, that sort of thing. I’ve already got one person doing flight planning, and soon I’ll need somebody else to help her.”

“Sounds like you’re going to need office space soon, too.”

“I’m going to try to keep it to the space I have downstairs in the house. Renting office space would be a huge step for me.”

“Have you got a new tenant for your newly vacated apartment upstairs?”

“Not yet. I’m going to have to put a realtor on that soon.”

“Or you could rent it to some of your staff and convert it to office space when you need to.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I don’t know, why didn’t you?”

—

Frank Riggs was at his desk when the receptionist buzzed. “A Mr. Charles Carney to see you.”

Frank sighed. “Okay, send him in.”

Charlie rapped on the open door, and Frank waved him to a seat. “What’s up, Charlie?”

Charlie eased into the chair, looking pleased with himself. “I got another job for us,” he said.

“Listen, Charlie, you should take some time off—lie in the sun, charter a boat, relax.”

“Why do that when I can be making more money?”

“Look, you’re sitting on a pile of cash now, don’t get greedy. If you start a crime wave in South Florida, your chances of getting caught will go way up. You’ve already got three law enforcement agencies trying to get at you as it is.”

“Three? Who?”