“What are you looking so thoughtful about, Jack?” Hillary asked.

He was trying to put a name to that face, but he had not yet succeeded when the question brought him back to the present. “I was thinking about how wonderful you were last night,” he said. He meant it, too. It had been his first night in bed with a woman in more than twenty years, and the experience had more than lived up to his memories.

“You’re a sweet man in bed,” Hillary said, squeezing his hand.

“Thank you, my dear,” Fratelli said, and he forgot about the familiar face. “I’m going to do some shopping for a car this afternoon. May I borrow your good eye for beautiful things?”

“Of course you may,” she said.

28

Harry Moss’s ears were burning. He had just been rudely escorted out of the Breakers beach club because he was not a member, and it was embarrassing. After all, he was nicely dressed in a shirt he had actually bought in Palm Beach, white trousers, and what he felt was a very attractive porkpie hat in straw, with a colorful band. In short, he was sure he was indistinguishable from any other sixtyish gentleman at the Breakers.

Harry had organized his search for Johnny Fratelli around his newfound fantasies about where he would go and what he would buy if he had suddenly come into seven million dollars. He had driven past the Breakers many times and admired it from afar as an unattainable venue for any part of his own life, and the Breakers had just confirmed that judgment by suggesting that he vacate the premises. He climbed into his Toyota Camry and thought about what to do next.

Harry had already combed the men’s stores—Ralph Lauren, Maus & Hoffman, et cetera, plus the men’s departments of Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue, and without success. Perhaps this had been a waste of his time, since when he had seen Johnny Fratelli at the Burger King, the man had been wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts. And sandals, for Christ’s sake—sandals with socks!

Clearly, Harry had better taste than Fratelli, so perhaps the Breakers would be a bit of a stretch for an ex-con with seven million dollars and no sense of style. Where else might one look for such a person? What would he buy, besides clothes? He drove out Okefenokee Drive, where all the car dealerships were. What would a guy who had just been sprung after twenty-two years think was a top-notch ride? He turned into the Cadillac dealership and had a stroll around the place, fending off salespeople as he went. Nah. Cadillacs weren’t big enough anymore.

He tried the Mercedes dealership, with similar results. Then he had it: Rolls-Royce! A guy with seven million bucks stashed away could afford a Rolls! He continued out Okefenokee until he spotted the dealership. Here, he had no problem fending off salespeople because they either ignored him or looked right through him. His stroll was short, and he was soon back in his Toyota. As he waited at the exit for the traffic to subside enough to let him in, a black Lincoln Town Car turned into the dealership and drove past him, its windows black. Harry made his turn and headed back toward Delray Beach.

• • •

Fratelli and Hillary sat in air-conditioned comfort in the rear seat of a Breakers town car and watched the dealership hove into view. As they turned in, they narrowly missed a gray Toyota leaving the lot. The driver stopped outside the showroom and leaped out of the car to open Hillary’s door.

“We’ll be a few minutes,” Fratelli said to the man, and a salesman was there to open the door to the showroom for them.

“Yes, sir, ma’am, how may I help you?”

“A Bentley, perhaps,” Fratelli said.

“Normally, our sales are by order,” the man said, “but as it happens, we have two new Bentleys on the showroom floor.” He indicated two cars. “A Mulsanne, which is our larger model, and a Flying Spur, which, though still a large car, is more compact.”

Fratelli had been on the Internet reading, so he was quite familiar with both cars. He and Hillary sat, first in the Mulsanne, then in the Flying Spur, then they got out and walked around both cars, very slowly. The salesman waited at a discreet distance, alert to any sign of a question from either.

“Well, Hillary, what does your unerring eye tell you?” Fratelli asked.

“Ummm,” she said, looking critically at both cars. “I think that the white Mulsanne is gorgeous, but I’m not sure that white is the correct color for that car. It’s just a teeny bit much.” She turned her attention to the Flying Spur. “However, I love the soft green of the Flying Spur, and especially the saffron and green leather interior. The equipment list is extensive, too, and it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars cheaper. Really, why would one need more car than that?”

“I concur,” Fratelli said. “Will you excuse me while I have a chat with this fellow?” He turned to the salesman. “Why don’t you and I sit down for a moment?”

“I’ll rest in the Flying Spur,” Hillary said.

Fratelli had a last look at the car’s window sticker, then sat down at the salesman’s desk, picked up a notepad and a pen, and wrote down a number.

The salesman looked at it and frowned. “I really don’t think that’s possible, sir. I think . . .” He wrote down a larger number.

Fratelli made a point of gazing for a long time at the pad before writing down another number. “That’s my final offer,” he said. “Cash. Now.”

“No trade-in, sir?”

“No.”

“Just let me speak to my manager.” He got up and went into a glass-enclosed office, where he exchanged some words with the manager, then he returned. “I’m very sorry, Mr. . . .”

“Coulter.”

“Mr. Coulter, but my manager says it can’t be done.”

“Then I thank you for your time,” Fratelli said, rising and shaking the man’s hand. He went back to the car and helped Hillary out of it. “Shall we go, my dear?”

They left the showroom and walked toward the town car, where the driver waited, door open. Then there was a voice from behind them.

“Mr. Coulter?”

Fratelli turned to find the manager standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“I believe we may be able to do business,” the man said.

“You understand that my offer is to include all charges. No dealer prep, or anything of the sort. I don’t need a thousand-dollar car wash.”

“There is sales tax, of course,” the man said.

“Of course.” Fratelli walked back to the town car and gave the driver a fifty. “We won’t be needing you for the trip back,” he said.

• • •

An hour later, having initiated a wire transfer and signed a number of documents, and having been given a tour of the instrument panel by the salesman, Fratelli drove his new Flying Spur out of the dealership. “Shall we go for a spin?” he asked Hillary.

“Why not, darling,” she replied, sinking back into the soft leather upholstery.

• • •

Harry Moss had another idea. He found the offices of the Palm Beach Post and bought a small display ad.

29

Now Stone was faced with a problem: he had an itch to go to London for a few days, but on the other hand, he had a very similar itch to stay closer to Hank Cromwell.

He hadn’t prayed about it, but the phone rang and he got what he considered to be an answer.

“Good morning,” Hank said.

“It certainly is,” Stone replied.

“I haven’t seen your kitchen. Describe it to me, especially the appliances.”

“Okay, there’s an eight-burner Viking gas stove with two ovens and a grill, a French-door refrigerator of commercial size, large and small microwaves, a large wine cabinet, a pantry, an ice machine, and a dishwasher. There’s also a butler’s pantry with a scullery, another ice maker, another dishwasher, and storage for dishes and silverware, mostly used for dinner parties.”