“No, you might not,” snapped Sanders. “The girl’s whereabouts is classified information. In case someone else tries to get custody of her.” Sanders leaned beside the door of the office, and Dubinsky wandered casually over to the space between the desk and the entrance to the filthy little kitchen behind. “It was a lovely story, Jimmy. I enjoyed every minute of it. Only it was a crock of shit from beginning to end. Unfortunately for you, the girl was not unconscious. Someone should have told you how much of that stuff you have to give a person her size to keep her under that long. She heard it all. And Gruber has confirmed her story. We’ve got you.”

Fielding slowly started to open the drawer of his desk, without looking to either side. His right hand moved gently into it. “Look out!” yelled Dubinsky, throwing himself at him, as Sanders ducked sideways and tried frantically to extract his gun from the tangle of his suit jacket.

“Gentlemen, please,” said Fielding. “I was only trying to get my gloves out of the drawer.” He held up a pair of gray leather gloves and slammed the drawer shut. He reached for his Irish tweed hat and his raincoat from the stand by the desk and smiled.

Dubinsky pulled at the handle. The drawer was locked. He gave it a ferocious yank and it sprang open. “Do you have a license for this?” he asked, picking the revolver up gingerly and checking to see if the safety was on. Fielding shrugged and moved toward the office door.

Marny slowly scanned the dimly lit, smoky restaurant from her position by the door. There he was, sitting with a man almost as casually elegant as himself. She tossed an incoherent mutter at the hostess and bore down on the table. “Hi, Grant,” she growled, as brightly as she could. “I thought I might run into you here.” She half-smiled with blank eyes at his companion. “That answering machine of yours gives me the twitches, and so I decided that I really needed a drink anyway. I wish you wouldn’t put such cute remarks on it. I can never think of anything to say back.”

Grant’s expression remained carefully neutral. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said, in a very unsurprised voice. “Have you met Geoff Porter? He was in the series with me.”

Marny’s head whipped around. “That must be why you look so familiar,” she said. Now warmth dripped from every syllable. “How are negotiations going with the U.S. networks and all that?” she asked cozily.

“Nothing much happening at the moment,” said Grant. Geoff raised an eyebrow in his direction and then lifted his glass to drain his drink.

“These things certainly do get stalemated,” he said agreeably. “But I had better get going. I fear I am already a little late for this evening’s jollification. Thanks for the drink. And the interesting discussion. Goodbye, uh, nice to meet you.”

“Sorry,” said Marny, as he picked his way between the tables, “I guess I chased him away.”

“Not really,” said Grant with a slight yawn. “I think he actually did have somewhere he had to get to. Some sort of reception or other that’s due to finish in about half an hour. But why did you come searching me out? I take it that’s what you were doing. After all, Giuseppe’s isn’t your usual stomping ground, is it?”

“Look, Grant, I have to have a talk to you. Is this place safe?”

“As safe as any, sweetheart. Talk away.” He looked both amused and faintly bored.

“Well—it’s just that ever since Jane died—I mean, I’m having a party on Friday night, like usual, you know. And there are going to be a lot of people there. I used to have two contacts, but one fizzled out on me, and lately I was relying on Jane. I mean, I only used her for emergencies and extra stuff like that before, because she was more expensive than this other guy. But he’s gone to Florida, and I mean, I don’t think he’ll be coming back. Look, Grant, those people are going to be expecting to buy from me, and my only two sources have dried up.” Her voice was low and nervous; she stabbed the air between them in her eagerness to be understood. “You have a source, don’t you? Do you think you could put me on to him? Your source wasn’t just Jane, was it? I never got the impression it was.” She glanced quickly around the room, stopping to look closely at the people at the tables closest to them. The sudden voice of the waitress in her ear sent her several inches into the air until she processed the familiar words. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll have a rum and Coke.”

“Well, it used to be,” said Grant. “Although I did get a line on her supplier. He’s a useful guy. I don’t know just where he fits in in the larger scheme of things, but he does do his own importing. I imagine there’s someone higher up bankrolling him, of course. One doesn’t like to ask about these things.” His voice drawled, unconcerned. “In fact, I was about to do a deal with Jane concerning a certain expansion of interests—increased marketing, you might say, tapping a demand that certainly is there. But that is something that you and I might consider at a later date, supposing we decided that we could work together in peace and harmony.”

“Jesus, Grant, if you could work with Jane, you could work with anybody. The two of you fought like drunken Finns.”

“No ethnic slurs, if you don’t mind. I’m an ethnic myself. And Jane and I had a certain common set of interests beside business that kept things going, you might say.” He smiled.

“Yeah. Bed. Anyway, can you give me the name of your contact?”

“No, ma’am. He wouldn’t like that very much. But I’ll give him your name and home telephone number. He’ll call you if he’s interested. If you don’t hear from him, there’s not much I can do.” Grant shrugged.

“Great.” Marny dropped a couple of bills down on the table between them and left, just as a rum and Coke was set down in front of her empty chair.

Eleanor sat in the spring twilight at her desk. She stared out the window of the elegantly redone red-brick Victorian house that was home to Webb and MacLeod, Real Estate, trying to avoid the clutter that had accumulated in the past few days. It had not been a terrific time to be non compos mentis, apparently. Several people, obviously desperate for housing, had been trying to get in touch with her over the weekend. She felt a pang or two—one of guilt and one of regret for probable commissions lost—and sorted out her messages. In the midst of this dreary contemplation of opportunities missed, her phone buzzed. At the same time, Frances, on her way out the door, stuck her head in the office and said, “Phone. It’s a man. A friend, I think.” Frances spent her days trying to marry off all the unattached agents in the firm.

“Hello. Eleanor Scott speaking,” she said cautiously, more afraid it might be one of those people she was supposed to have called back several days ago.

“Hello to you, too. Are you busy?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “If you’re not, I’m going up to see Amanda once more and then out to eat. Want to come?”

“Yes, I am,” she said firmly. “I have to make a living.” She paused a second. “On the other hand, I would like to see how she’s doing.” She crumbled completely. “Well, okay. I’ll meet you up there.” Her face brightened as she swept everything off her desk and slammed the drawer shut.

Amanda was sitting up in bed, much encumbered still with plaster, but looking very lively and tackling an enormous bunch of grapes with one hand. She waved the grapes at them in a gesture of welcome. “Hi. Mom has gone to take my father to the airport; he has to get back. But she’s staying until I’m out of here. So I’m all alone. Except for my friend out there. Do you know that he won’t let me eat anything except stuff my parents and Aunt Kate bring me? It’s awful.” She gestured at them to sit down. “And I suppose it’s all your fault, too,” she said, looking accusingly at Sanders. “Leslie brought me a box of chocolates, and I couldn’t have them.”