“I’ll bet it won’t be long before they start that,” Stone said. “That’ll make it easier to track fugitives.”

“And errant husbands,” Liz said. “I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Bartlett.”

“He said she died last year.”

“Might be interesting to check with the Minneapolis police department and find out if that’s true and, if so, how she died,” Liz said.

“You know something, Mrs. Harding,” Stone said. “You’d make a good cop.” He picked up the phone and called Dan Griggs.

“It’s Stone. Bartlett said his wife died last year. Can you check with the Minneapolis PD and see if there was foul play suspected?”

“Sure can do that,” Griggs said. “Bartlett’s driver’s license was issued after a driving test, not swapped for another state’s.”

“Now that’s really interesting,” Stone said. “How many middle-aged men take driving tests?”

“Only those who learned to drive late in life, and that’s not likely- and those who haven’t driven for a long time or who’ve been out of the country long enough for their licenses to expire.”

“And people who need new identities.”

“Right. Something else: I talked with the Hertz clerk at the airport, and she said Bartlett was picked up by somebody in a BMW. She could see the curb from her desk.”

“So he could still be in town.”

“Or on a road trip.”

“Yeah. Dan, could you check with an outfit called Golden Gate Publishing in San Francisco and find out if their employee Donald Garland matches Bartlett’s description?”

“Okay. They open in an hour out there. How’d you get onto this Garland?”

“You’d rather not know, but there’s an outside chance he could be Manning.”

“I’ll get somebody on it.”

“Thanks.” Stone hung up and gazed across Lake Worth.

“What?” Liz asked.

“Somebody picked up Bartlett at the airport. I wonder why.”

Callie was leafing through the hotel guest list.

“Callie? Where do the Wilkeses live?”

“On North County Road.”

“Let’s go see them.”

“Tell me about the Wilkeses,” Stone said. “What are their first names?” They were driving up North County Road. To their right, usually behind high hedges, were houses that fronted the beach.

“Frank and Margaret,” she said. “He founded a chain of fast-food restaurants in the midwest, and later, he bought some other companies. He’s very rich.” She pointed. “The house is the next one.”

Stone pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, which was tightly shut. A section of hedge prevented the house from being seen from the street.

“I think I’m uncomfortable just ringing the bell,” Callie said.

Stone handed her his cell phone. “Tell them we’re in the neighborhood, and we’re calling at the suggestion of Thad Shames.”

Callie made the call, chatted brightly with Mrs. Wilkes for a couple of minutes, then hung up. “Okay,” she said, “they’ll see us.”

Stone pulled up to the gates, reached out the window, rang the bell and the gates opened. The driveway was longer than Stone had expected, and they emerged in a cobblestoned circle with a fountain in its center. The house was an old one, in the Florida Spanish style, and appeared to have been carefully restored. Stone and Callie got out of the car and rang the front doorbell.

The door was answered by Margaret Wilkes, dressed for golf in a plaid skirt and polo shirt. “Callie, come in,” she said. “How nice to see you.”

“Mrs. Wilkes, this is Stone Barrington, a friend of Thad’s.”

“How do you do?” Stone said, and shook her extended hand.

“Please come back to the terrace,” she said. A houseman appeared from the rear of the house. “Bobby, please bring us a pitcher of lemonade.”

Frank Wilkes rose from a wicker sofa on the rear terrace to greet them, and introductions were made. The terrace overlooked a large pool and a garden, with the Atlantic beyond. Both the Wilkeses were charming and unpretentious.

After the lemonade had been served, Stone got to the point. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes…”

“Please, Frank and Margaret,” Wilkes said.

“Thank you. I’m here, on Thad Shames’s behalf, to inquire about a Mr. Paul Bartlett, of Minneapolis. You know him, I believe.”

“Yes, of course,” Wilkes replied. “For several years.”

“May I ask just how many years?”

“Well, let’s see: He had a design business in Minneapolis, and he and his partner made a presentation to us, oh, a little over two years ago. That’s when we first met. We hired them to redesign all our paper products- plates, sandwich cartons, the hats for the counter people, that sort of thing. Why do you want to know about Paul? Is he in some sort of difficulties?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just that he bears a resemblance to someone I used to know and that Thad is interested in. We only want to know that he’s who he says he is.”

“I see,” Wilkes said. Clearly, he did not. “Who did you think he might be?”

“Did you meet Mrs.Winston Harding at Thad Shames’s party?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Harding is a close friend of Thad’s. The man we’re interested in was someone she knew in the past, who dropped out of sight a few years ago. No one knows what happened to him, but there are indications that he might be in Palm Beach. Someone noticed that Mr. Bartlett resembled this man, whose name is Paul Manning.”

“Well, why don’t you ask Paul about this?”

“I did, last night, but he pretty much denied being Manning.”

“But you’re not convinced?”

“Thad has asked me to investigate the possibility that Bartlett and Manning are the same man.”

“Then why don’t you arrange for Paul and Mrs. Harding to meet? Surely that would answer the question.”

“I had hoped to do that, but Mrs. Harding doesn’t wish to see him. Also, Mr. Bartlett checked out of his hotel this morning.”

“That’s news to me,” Wilkes said.

“I just wondered if you had any knowledge of Bartlett’s background before you first met him.”

“I saw a resume at the time,” Wilkes said. “He had a broad background in advertising and graphics design, worked for several places in New York, as I recall.”

“Did you check with any of his former employers for a reference?”

“No. We would ordinarily do that with a prospective employee, but we dealt with Paul as an outside contractor, and frankly, we were more interested in the presentation he prepared for us than in what he had done in the past. We were very enthusiastic about the work, and that was all that mattered.”

“Do you know anyone who has known Paul Bartlett much longer than you have?”

Wilkes thought about that for a moment. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

“Did you know Mr. Bartlett’s wife?”

Margaret Wilkes spoke up. “Oh, yes. In fact, we introduced them. Such a shame about Frances.”

“I understand she’s deceased?”

“Yes, in an accident last year. Terrible thing.”

“How did it happen?”

“She and Paul were out driving on a Sunday afternoon, and they swerved to miss hitting a deer. Frances was thrown through the windshield and killed instantly.”

“Who was driving?”

“Paul was, but he was wearing a seat belt.”

“There was no passenger-side air bag,” Wilkes said, “and apparently the buckle on Frances’s seat belt failed or was defective. I urged Paul to sue the car company, but he didn’t have the heart. He just wanted to put it behind him. That’s why he sold his company.”

“Do you know if he made a lot of money on the sale?”

“I shouldn’t think so; they were a fairly new company. I think the people who bought them wanted the talent they employed and me for a client more than anything else. Of course, Paul would be quite well fixed, though.”

“How is that?” Stone asked.

“Well, Frances was very wealthy. She’d lost her husband a few months before she and Paul met, and he’d left a considerable fortune.”