“I still like them.”

“They cut people in half, you know.”

“Only beautiful girls. And it doesn’t seem to hurt.”

“I wouldn’t want to see you proved wrong.”

“Where are you going with this,” Pearl asked with a sigh. Jody had apparently worn her down.

“We are going to stake out the Far Castle’s Garden.”

“I thought we were concentrating on D.O.A.”

“Maybe we are,” Quinn said. “My guess is he’s not one of the many people who think Bellazza isn’t in the garden, just because an imitation has already been found there.”

“Are we among the many, Quinn?”

“On one hand, yes.”

“But on the other?”

“Presto!”

78

The searcher came by night, as Quinn had suspected he would, and hours after the restaurant had closed.

Quinn was slouching low behind the steering wheel in the black Lincoln. He’d parked where he had a catty-corner view across the intersection and the Far Castle’s outdoor dining area. Beyond the stacked and locked tables and chairs loomed the shadowed topiary forms of the garden. Beginning several feet behind the flower beds was the larger garden, wilder and less arranged than the beds, with a variety of bushes and miniature trees. Adjacent to that, the entrance to the hedge maze loomed, a pathway to deeper darkness.

Quinn tensed his body. Had he heard a soft sound through the car’s lowered window?

An odd sound. Like a muted clunking followed by a soft scraping noise.

It took him only a moment to realize that what he’d heard came from the direction of the dark garden.

Quinn knew he might have imagined the sound. He sat still, staring into the garden.

A full minute passed. He didn’t hear the sound again, but he was sure he saw something move in the shadows.

Quinn and Pearl were in constant touch with their cell phones. A simple tap of Quinn’s fingertip made Pearl’s phone buzz softly and vibrate.

“We got something,” Quinn whispered, when he knew they were connected.

“I heard something, and there’s movement in the garden, kind of repetitive. Could be digging.”

“Or a couple making wild passionate love,” Pearl said.

“The British don’t do that.”

“Hah! Isn’t that what English gardens are for?”

“We should find out,” Quinn said. “Call for backup, but make sure they move silently and don’t close in yet.”

“You mean backup for the wild passionate love?”

“Pearl! Damn it!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll just twiddle and wait. Maybe the butler will happen by.”

Quinn waited exactly three minutes. He knew that by the time backup came on the scene, it might be too late. And careful as they were, they might spook whoever might be digging in the garden.

Quinn didn’t like this.

Too many mights.

He had the Lincoln’s interior lights set so they wouldn’t come on when he opened the doors. He slipped out of the vehicle into the night.

In the silence, he could hear the ticking of the engine cooling down, and mentally eliminated that as the source of the faint but undeniable noise he’d heard. As if the night weren’t warm enough, heat rolled out from beneath the car, along with the smell of high-octane gas and baked oil.

Staying low, he carefully moved away to approach the Far Castle.

When he got closer, he saw the movement in the garden again. What moonlight there was picked it up. He entered the garden as quietly as possible.

He quickly lost sight of where he thought he’d heard the sound. Crouching motionless, he stared into the darkness.

Again! The sound.

He saw nothing but moved toward it. Took a wrong turn in the maze and then silently retraced his steps.

And there was the sound again. Louder. Closer.

He was sure now of the source of the sound.

The noise he’d heard was what he’d first guessed, that of a shovel blade working the earth.

Now he knew what he was dealing with. He drew his old police special revolver from its holster. There was no safety on the gun, so he thumbed back the hammer.

The sound of someone digging—unmistakable now—became even louder, lending direction. With each chunk! of the shovel he could hear an exhalation of breath. With each cautious step he took, the picture gained definition.

He saw a bulky figure with a shovel, facing three-quarters away from him, standing in what looked like the middle of a bush and wielding a long-handled spade. He was wearing what appeared to be elbow-length brown leather gloves that flared out at the top as if to protect his forearms.

The digger paused and spoke: “Ouch! Damn it to hell!”

Winston Castle. Sounding not at all British.

Quinn kept his revolver pressed against the side of his thigh and stepped forward. “Hurt yourself?”

Castle made a sound that was almost a shriek. Staring at Quinn, he dropped his shovel and held his heart. “Ah, Quinn! I’m glad to see you, but you scared the bloody bejibbers out of me.”

He recovered quickly, did Castle.

He flashed his white smile. “This bush is a pyracantha, sometimes called a thornbush because it’s full of bloody thorns.” He leaned forward, graceful for such a paunchy man, and picked up the shovel handle, planted the spade’s scoop, and leaned on the wooden handle. “Not the best sort of spot to bury something,” he said.

“Oh? You’re burying someone?”

“Some thing, old chap. Some valuable papers in a waterproof pouch.” Castle shook his head and made a face, as if there were a nasty taste in his mouth. “One can’t trust the banks these days. Not anymore.” He cocked his head to the side, regarding Quinn. “Say, old chap, can I trust you?”

“Marginally.”

Quinn holstered his revolver.

He motioned with his head. “I see a hoe over there. I’ll help you dig. Between us, we can keep those thorns out of the way.”

“Why, that’s bloody sporting—”

“And we’re not burying anything,” Quinn said. “We’re digging up something.”

“Ah! You have me there.”

“Yes, I do.”

The wide, white, BBC smile. “You’re sure of that, old thing?”

“I am.”

“Well, you’re spot on. I assumed this would be the last place where anyone would choose to dig, where there are such wicked thorns. I think that’s especially true now, with the other bust already found and established as worthless.”

“So what are we digging up?” They both knew, but Quinn wanted to hear Castle say it.

“Hmmph. What I want has been long enough in the ground.”

Quinn waited.

“All right,” Castle said. “It’s Bellezza. The real one. Now we both know, and we can bend ourselves to the task at hand.”

“You underestimated me,” Quinn said, hacking away at the thick branches with the hoe. “You hired me in part so Q&A and the NYPD would scratch you off their suspect lists. You’re still on mine.”

“Suspect list? Good heavens, you can’t be serious! I never killed anyone. I absolutely couldn’t.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

But Quinn was sure Winton Castle wasn’t a psychosexual killer. Certainly not D.O.A.

He warned himself not to be so sure about Castle. It was impossible to fathom somebody with such a tenuous hold on reality. Hard to believe that over the centuries Michelangelo had instilled in Winston Castle a conscience.

“I’m interested only in recovering Bellezza for my family,” Castle said. “The rightful owners.”

“Keep digging,” Quinn said. “We can determine later who owns the bust. If it’s actually here, where you say it is.”

Winston Castle looked him square in the eye. “It isn’t something I’d lie about.”

Something else, maybe, Quinn thought.

79

It took another twenty minutes before Quinn’s hoe struck something solid. Castle, digging next to him, leaned forward eagerly and tapped whatever it was with the point of his shovel. There was a faint hollow sound.