“Looks like buckshot,” he said. “You’re going to need a painter.”

“Guess so,” Stone said. “You going to call this in?”

“Yeah, but it won’t help much. I’ll put a squad car out front for the night, though, so you can get some sleep.” He produced a cell phone and barked some orders.

When they returned to the study, Hank had not moved from the sofa. “What was that noise?” she asked.

“A shotgun,” Dino replied. “There was an attempt on Stone’s life. The front door took the damage.”

“Won’t a shotgun shoot through a door?”

“Not a heavy-gauge steel door,” Stone said, picking up his cognac and joining her on the sofa.

“Why do you have a heavy-gauge steel front door, instead of an oak one, like everybody else?” Hank asked.

“Oh, a thick oak door would have probably withstood the blast,” he said, “but it would have needed replacing. The steel door will just need a little filler and paint.”

“Suppose someone had fired through a window?”

“The windows are armored glass,” Stone replied. “I once had a guest important to the government for some days, and they replaced the door and all the windows, as a security precaution.”

“So your house is an impregnable fortress?”

“It probably wouldn’t stand up to a rocket-propelled grenade,” he said, “but those are in short supply in New York City.”

“You live in a different world from mine,” Hank said.

“Not really, mine just has harder surfaces.”

“How did you come to own this house?”

“Back when I was still a serving police detective, with Dino as a partner, my great-aunt—my maternal grandmother’s sister—died and left it to me. She and her husband had built it during the 1920s. I renovated it over a period of a year and a half, doing all the work myself that didn’t require a plumber’s or an electrician’s license. My father was a cabinet and furniture maker—an artist, really. He made all the shelves, all the doors, and much of the furniture, like the dining table and chairs. I refinished those, updated the kitchen and the electrical supply, air-conditioned it and, voilà, a home.”

“And a free one.”

“Hardly. It took all the money I had and all I could borrow, and thousands of hours of labor, most of it mine. I had to use my old law degree to pay the money back.”

“Was your mother Matilda Stone?”

“Yes.”

“I recognized these pictures,” Hank said, indicating the ones on the wall of the study. “I saw them in an exhibition of American painting at the Met some years ago.”

“I loaned them.”

“How many of her works do you have?”

“She left me four. Over the years I’ve managed to acquire another dozen.”

“I’d love to see them all.”

“They’re scattered around the house,” Stone said, “most of them in my bedroom.”

Dino laughed. “Here we go,” he said.

Everybody laughed.

“It’s late,” Hank said, “and I have work due in the morning. Another time?”

“Another time,” Stone said.

“We’ll send her home in my car,” Dino said.

19

John Fratelli sat in a deck chair on a terrace of the Breakers, the monumental, turn-of-the-twentieth-century hotel built by Henry Flagler, the partner of John D. Rockefeller in Standard Oil.

Fratelli was an honored guest in a small suite overlooking the Atlantic, and he had spent his time in Palm Beach well. He had obtained a birth certificate by visiting a Palm Beach cemetery and checking the birth and death dates. His name was now John Latimer Coulter. He had Googled the name and found nothing, so he had applied for and received a Florida driver’s license in that name and, through a visa expediter, a United States passport, both with the address of One South County Road, the address of the Breakers. He was also considering buying the suite that he occupied. It would put a dent in his capital, but he thought it a good investment.

An elderly man sat down next to him and snagged a passing waiter. “A piña colada,” he said, then he turned to Fratelli. “Can I buy you a drink, my friend?”

“Thank you, I’ll have the same.”

The waiter trotted off to the bar, and the elderly gentleman extended a hand. “I am Winston Carnagy,” he said.

“Like Andrew?”

“With an ‘a’ instead of an ‘e’ and a ‘y’ instead of an ‘ie.’ No relation.”

“I’m Jack Coulter.”

“What brings you to Palm Beach, Jack?”

“What brings anybody to Palm Beach?” Fratelli asked with a shrug.

The man laughed heartily. “You’re quite right. Where are you from?”

“I was actually born in Palm Beach,” Fratelli said, “but for many years my home was in upstate New York. I’m considering buying an apartment here in the hotel.”

“I have already done so,” Carnagy replied. “It’s a wise move, if you can afford it.”

“You live here during the season?”

“The year ’round,” Carnagy replied. “I’m a retired investment banker, but I still trade a little to keep myself entertained.”

The two chatted for a while, then repaired to the outdoor restaurant for lunch, where Carnagy’s wife joined them. Tall and elegant, perfectly coiffed and dressed in fashionable beachwear, Elizabeth Carnagy enchanted Fratelli. She revealed that they had two daughters and three grandchildren and pointed them out on the beach below. It occurred to Fratelli that these were the first civilians he had met since leaving Sing Sing.

Soon, Fratelli began to feel that the Carnagys were old friends. Elizabeth finished her salad and went to join her daughters and grandchildren on the beach.

“What business are you in?” Winston Carnagy asked.

“I’m a retired entrepreneur,” Fratelli replied. “Tell me, Winston, have you any experience of offshore banking?” Fratelli, having always had an imitative ear, had already begun to adopt Carnagy’s manner of speech and some of his accent.

Carnagy looked around furtively, as if there might be an Internal Revenue agent behind a potted palm. “I do,” he said. “Are you contemplating such an arrangement?”

“I am, but I know nothing about it.”

“Have you greenback dollar bills to lodge somewhere?”

“Possibly.”

“Here’s how you do it,” Carnagy said. “You look in the yellow pages under ‘aviation’ and charter a light airplane—a small twin-engine job will do—to fly you to Nassau, where you check into a previously booked hotel. The following morning, without checking out of your hotel, you do the same at the Nassau airport, and you fly to Georgetown in the Cayman Islands—just the other side of Cuba. Once there, ask the immigration official you deal with not to stamp your passport. Have your pilot wait, and take a taxi into Georgetown.” He produced a business card and wrote something on the back. “Go to this bank and ask for this gentleman, who is the officer in charge of foreign accounts. Open an account with him and deposit your cash.”

“As easy as that?”

“Quite. You needn’t give him your name, as the account will be identified only by a number, which you must memorize. You may check your statement on the bank’s Internet website, using a password of your own invention. Also, they will furnish you with a debit card that may be used anywhere in the world to charge anything, or to obtain cash from any ATM.”

“That sounds very handy,” Fratelli said. “Does the IRS have any sort of access to the bank’s records?”

“No, but don’t count on that continuing. However, since your only connection with the bank is a number, and since they do not have your name and address, you needn’t worry about that. You can also ring them up at will and order a cashier’s check FedExed to you, should you wish to make a large purchase, like a car or even an apartment in this hotel.”

“Winston, you are a mine of information,” Fratelli said.

“And should you wish to make investments, I can recommend a local stockbroker.”