"Take out the wallet very slow. If you jerk, I'll shoot you."

He did it, still with his eyes on the gun. He said, "I don't know what in hell you've got going on here, but it's not worth pulling the trigger."

"We'll see." I really know how to throw a scare into them.

I took the wallet and opened it. Nothing said MAFIA. Nothing said HIRED KILLER. What I saw was a California driver's license in the name of one James L. Grady, address c/o James L. Grady Confidential Investigations, Los Angeles, California. I blinked at it a few times and then I blinked at James L. Grady.

James L. said, "Will you stop pointing that goddamned gun at me now?"

I didn't stop pointing the gun at him. A pretty woman driving past in a white Mercedes gave us the finger. I said, "Who hired you?"

"Peter Alan Nelsen."

"Peter Alan Nelsen, the film director?"

James L. Grady gave me snide. "Yeah. He said he hired you to find his ex-wife, but he figured you were stiffing him and he wanted to find out. I picked you up in Chelam with the ex and the kid, and I've been following you around ever since."

"Ever since."

"Peter came in last night. He's staying over at the Ritz-Carlton. He wants to see you."

I stopped pointing the gun at him and he snatched back his wallet. A guy passing by in a red Nissan truck called me a shithead. So did James L. Grady.

Peter Alan Nelsen had the Presidential Suite on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton, overlooking Central Park. I followed Grady's Chevy to the curb, where we let a couple of guys who looked like they'd just mustered out of the French army have our cars, then we went inside.

James L. used a house phone and said, "This is Grady. I'm in the lobby with Cole."

He listened for a minute, then hung up and gestured with his chin. "Elevator's over there."

He stayed a half step in front as we crossed the lobby, looking very spiffy in his coat and tie, like a successful exercise-equipment importer or a high-end insurance executive. He didn't look like a guy who could follow me for a week without my noticing. If he did, I probably would've noticed him.

In the elevator, he leaned against one wall with his arms crossed and I leaned against another, and neither of us looked at the other. Invisible lines. The elevator was quiet and still and somehow made closer by the faraway hum of the electric motors. It was a long way up to the top floor. I said, "How come I didn't make you?"

He shrugged, still not looking at me. "I'm good at it. Also, I didn't have to maintain continual contact. Once I knew where you were staying and where the woman lived and worked, it was easy."

"You didn't have to worry about losing me because you could always pick me up again."

"Uh-huh."

I nodded. "I put the plane ticket and the Ho Jo on plastic. There were the phone calls charged to my office number in L.A."

"You weren't trying to hide. You didn't expect anyone to look."

I stared at him for about twelve floors. "Fed."

Grady smiled. "Secret Service. Fourteen years." He finally turned and looked at me. "I'm impressed you picked me up. I was back and I was loose. I don't get picked up even when I'm living in the other guy's shorts. You're good."

I spread my hands. Maybe Grady wasn't so bad after all.

We got off at the top floor and followed the noise to the Presidential Suite. Nick met us at the door and gave me the big smirk, then jerked his thumb through the door. "Inside, hotshot." The Nick-ster.

Inside, a quadraphonic stereo system was blasting out Fine Young Cannibals, and the air smelled like Jiffy Pop popcorn and cigarettes. Peter Alan Nelsen was talking to a couple of guys in baggy suits out by the terrace, and a guy with a loud green tie was speaking into a phone by the bar. One of the guys with Peter was wearing a paisley ascot and was smoking a purple cigarette. Dani and T.J. were slouching on the palatial furniture, and a thin woman going for the Tama Janowitz look sat next to T.J. with her hand on his thigh. Dani gave me a little wave. There were open bottles of Absolut vodka and Jack Daniel's bourbon on the bar, and Nestle's wrappers on the floor. Most of the Absolut was gone. It probably wasn't like this when the president was in residence. Grady frowned at the mess and gave disapproving. Nope, it wasn't like this with the president.

Peter saw us and turned away from the two guys by the terrace without excusing himself and said, "Well, it's about goddamned time. Dani, turn off that shit and get these Broadway fruits out of here." Broadway fruits. Always sensitive.

The guy with the ascot looked peeved. He said, "Peter, we have the backers in place. If you'll agree to direct the play, we can be on the boards by next fall."

Peter said, "Nick, give Dani a hand with the fruits."

Nick pulled the phone away from the guy at the bar, then pointed at the two guys by the terrace and showed them his famous thumb-jerked-at-the-door move. High verbal. The guy with the ascot said, "I'm sure we can reach some sort of agreement," but Peter wasn't listening; he was already over with me and Grady. Nick and Dani hustled the three Broadway people out. The Tama Janowitz went with them.

Peter said, "Jesus Christ, you were supposed to find my kid and let me know. Instead, I gotta hire somebody to find you. I thought we were pals." He looked hurt.

"There were things I wanted to find out and do before I called you in."

"Like what?"

"I can't tell you."

"Bullshit. I didn't hire you to do things. I hired you to find my kid. What're you trying to do, jack up the price?" Now he was giving me suspicious.

I said, "If you had waited, I would've called. Karen needs to prepare the boy, and there are things going on in her life that she needs to straighten out. That's what's been taking the time."

Peter grunted when I said it and looked interested, forgetting about the hurt and the pissed. "You talked to her about me?"

"Yeah."

"What'd she say? She excited?" He was leaning forward now, wanting to hear about himself.

"She's got a life here, Peter. She's scared that your coming in is going to change that. You need to be sensitive to that."

"Sure, sure. I'm sensitive. I'm caring." He made a little hand move to show me how sensitive and caring he was. "How about my kid? Is Toby okay?"

"Yes. He plays basketball. He seems happy."

"Good, good." Peter was moving around now, looking pleased with the way things were working out. Karen wouldn't be pleased, but there you go. "So maybe you weren't trying to fuck me over. You were trying to smooth things out and that takes time. I can understand that."

"Thanks."

He gave me beaming. He was wearing a blousy white tuxedo shirt, black jeans, and black leather jump boots. The boots hadn't been polished in about three hundred years. "I knew you were on my team. You're my kind of guy. We're two of a kind."

I spread my hands. Two of a kind.

James L. Grady cleared his throat. "You need me for anything else, Mr. Nelsen?"

Peter said, "You got the address on my kid?"

Grady took a small spiral notepad from his jacket, tore out a sheet, and handed it to him. "Yes, sir. Home and work addresses for the ex-wife."

Peter gave the slip of paper to Nick without looking at it. "Terrific, Grady. You're on the A list, just like Cole. A couple of A-team players." He made another little hand gesture to Nick. "Pay'm off, Nick-ster. Give'm something extra for the good work."

Grady said, "Just what we agreed to, Mr. Nelsen. I don't need extra."

"Whatever."

James L. started out with Nick, then turned back and looked at me. "Good work finding the woman, Cole. I'll see you around."