Stone read the description; the thing would count currency and separate it into piles. “Order one,” he said, handing the catalog back to her.

She left the room. Five minutes later she was back. “They don’t have it in stock,” she said. “I called the manufacturer, but they closed for business at five o’clock, which was three minutes ago. I got a recording.”

“Call them tomorrow morning.”

“Today’s Friday, and Monday is a national holiday.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said. “What am I going to do with it?”

Joan stared at the two bags. “We could put it in the wine cellar,” she said. “It has a lock.”

“I don’t know where the key is, I never lock it.”

“Well, I guess you could just leave it there on the sofa. Nobody knows it’s here but Mike Freeman. I guess it’s as safe a place as any, except a vault, and we don’t have one of those, and it won’t fit in any of our safes.”

“Would you sleep in here, with your .45?”

“No, I would not.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to sleep in here.”

“Do you and Hank have a date tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d bet against your sleeping down here. I’m off. You and your five million have a nice weekend.” She left.

Stone continued to stare at the bags for a while, then he went upstairs.

49

Harry Moss sat on his usual stool at his usual sports bar and had his usual Cutty Sark and water. He was trying to watch a golf tournament on TV, but his vision kept blurring.

When it got a little quieter in the bar, Jerry, the bartender, drifted over. “Hey, Harry,” he said. “Some guy was in here asking questions about you a few days ago.”

Moss sat up straight. “Was it a black guy?”

“Yeah, he felt like a cop of one kind or another.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, cops all have something about them that I don’t like.”

“I was a cop,” Moss said.

“You were a fed—they have a different thing.”

“What do feds have?”

“Pressed suits, white shirts, boring ties, clean shaves.”

“Like me.”

“Yeah, like you, except I’ve never seen you in a suit.”

“And this guy wasn’t federal, you think?”

“Nah, city cop, state cop, probably.”

“What did he ask you about?”

“He mentioned knowing you, and then he just poked around a little: you know, how’s Harry doing? What’s he up to? Where’s he hang? Like that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Practically nothing.”

“Come on, Jerry, what’d you tell him?”

“Nothing, really. He seemed to know a lot already. What’s it about, do you think? You schtupping somebody’s wife?”

“I wish,” Moss said. His cell phone went off, and he dug it out of his pocket. “Harry Moss.”

“No kidding, the Harry Moss?”

The guy had a New York accent. “I’m the only one I know. Who’s this?”

“The Harry Moss who puts strange ads in the Palm Beach paper?”

“You saw that, did you? You calling from Palm Beach?”

“I’m calling from Vegas. Even way out here we get the Palm Beach papers.”

“You got some information for me?”

“What’s it worth to you?”

“Depends on what you’re selling.”

“How about this: I know somebody who was sitting out on the beach at Delray a few years back, late at night, and these two people came along, and they were having an argument of some sort.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Patience, Harry, I’m getting there.”

“All right, go on. What were they arguing about?”

“Seems the woman was real upset with her husband about his gambling habit. Seems the guy was a degenerate gambler. You know anybody like that?”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m getting there, Harry. Then this woman did something that really surprised the witness.”

“What?”

“She reached into her handbag, pulled out a gun, and shot her husband in the head.”

Moss didn’t know what to say.

“You’re going all silent on me, Harry.”

“This was not the subject of my ad. How’d you know I placed the ad, anyway?”

“In a minute, Harry. Next, the woman took a handkerchief out of her husband’s pocket, wiped the gun down, put his fingerprints on it, and dropped it next to his body. Then she walked away very quietly and returned to the building where she and her husband lived.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you ought to have the true facts. There are other people who might like to have the facts, too.”

“So what? She’s dead. Nobody can touch her now.”

“Maybe not, but they could touch you. I hear the husband has relatives who thought they might have some of his estate coming.”

“Good luck to them with that.”

“But, Harry, if the police knew what really happened, there’d be an investigation. And if they talked to the witness and found that the woman murdered her husband, then, under Florida law, she couldn’t have legally inherited her husband’s money or property, since she caused her husband’s death. And—think about this, Harry—you wouldn’t have been able to inherit from her. Everything would go to his relatives.”

“What do you want?”

“That’s a pretty nice apartment you inherited, isn’t it, Harry? Worth what? A couple of million? More when the real estate market recovers.”

“You want my apartment?”

“No, Harry, but remember, it’s the husband’s apartment, and his relatives would sure be interested, I’ll bet.”

“Why would you do something like that?”

“Why would you run an ad in the Palm Beach paper?”

“You’re Fratelli, aren’t you?”

“Is that what you think, Harry? Tell me, are you sitting in the sports bar, having a Cutty Sark and water? That’s where you could be found any evening, isn’t it? Or in your apartment later, fast asleep. And the service elevator isn’t manned at night, is it? And all those elderly retirees are asleep, just like you.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You bet your sweet ass. I’m in a position to shut your life down, Harry. This time next year, you wouldn’t be sitting in the sports bar drinking scotch, you’d be sitting on a curb somewhere, drinking muscatel from a bottle.”

“Listen to me, Fratelli.”

“You listen to me, Harry. First of all, that name never passes your lips again, for any reason, you got me?”

“All right.”

“And another thing—even if you sell the apartment and get your money out of it, I can always find you, and believe me, I could snap your neck like a twig. You getting the message?”

Moss was sweating now. “I understand.”

“From now on, then, it’s live and let live?”

“Live and let live,” Moss said, mopping his face. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Thank you, Harry. Never disturb me again. You won’t like the consequences.”

The man hung up. Moss went to his recent calls and found it. Private number.

“Jerry,” he said, “give me another Cutty Sark and water.”

“Sure thing, Harry. You feeling okay? You’re looking kind of pale.”

“Just give me the drink,” Moss said.

50

Stone’s bell rang a couple of minutes after seven, as he was walking down the stairs. He turned off the alarm and opened the front door.

“Hi,” Hank said. “I’m thirsty. Can a girl get a drink here?”

“Very possibly,” Stone replied. “Come right in.” He closed the door behind her and set the alarm again.

“You always do that?” she asked.

“Just a habit,” he said. “Only one button to push, ARM.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she said.

“You read that somewhere.” He led her into the study. “What would you like?”

“A very dry vodka martini, please.”

He shoveled some ice into a glass and filled it with water, and while it chilled, speared a couple of anchovy-stuffed olives with a long toothpick. He emptied the ice and water from the glass, dropped the olives into it, and poured the martini from a premixed bottle in the freezer. He handed it to her, then he filled an old-fashioned glass with ice, filled it again with Knob Creek, and raised his glass. “To the resumption of your normal existence,” he said.