“Got anything yet, Sam?” Griggs asked.

Sam hit the return key and sat back. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “Hang on,” he said, “what’s this?”

The group walked around the computer and looked over the detective’s shoulder. The screen displayed a message:

ACCESS TO THIS FILE

DENIED. ENTRY REQUIRES APPROVAL

AT DIRECTOR LEVEL

UNDER PROTOCOL 1002.

“You ever seen anything like that before, Sam?”

“No, Chief, I haven’t.”

“What’s protocol ten-oh-two?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Sam said.

“Who the hell is this guy?” Griggs muttered.

“I’d really like to know that,” Stone replied.

The next morning, Stone called Dino. “How are you?”

“Not bad. Where the hell are you now?”

“In Palm Beach.”

“You rotten bastard.”

“Yeah, I sure am.”

“And if I know you, you’re getting paid for it.”

“Right again.”

“Why didn’t I go to law school?”

“Listen, I want to run something by you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I’m trying to identify a guy down here who isn’t who he says he is. You remember our friend Paul Manning that you arrested for me?”

“Sure, he’s dead.”

“Nope.” Stone took Dino through what he knew about Manning/ Bartlett thus far. “Then last night, I got his prints off a glass, and the local cop shop ran them for me.”

“And he turns out to be the Lindbergh baby?”

“Nope. At least, I don’t think so. But something weird happened: We’re logged onto the FBI print database, and when we transmit the print, we get a message saying access is denied without approval from the director level, and it mentions something called ‘protocol ten-oh-two.” What it sounds like to me is some sort of national security thing, like maybe he has a CIA connection.“

“Nah,” Dino said. “I’ll tell you what I think it is, and I’ll give you five-to-one odds I’m right. The guy is in the witness protection program.”

This stopped Stone in his tracks. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Manning’s background is not that of somebody the government would want to protect. In fact, he doesn’t even exist, in a legal sense.”

“Maybe he testified against somebody in a criminal trial somewhere.”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I would think that Manning would do everything he could to avoid putting himself in such a position. Also, Bob Berman checked out Bartlett, and he says the man’s identity is thin, that he has no financial background to speak of. Even his driver’s license is recent. That doesn’t sound like the kind of identity the Department of Justice would create for somebody in the program.”

“No, it doesn’t, but there’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“Let’s say that Manning or Bartlett or whoever whatever the fuck his name is, gets involved in some criminal deal, and he gets busted and rats out his partners in return for immunity and the program.”

“Possible, but it seems unlikely.”

“Go with me, here, Stone. Anyway, they put him in the program and he finds himself stuck in Peoria or someplace, running a Burger King, and he doesn’t like it. So he bails out of the program-happens all the time. Once the government gets these people in the program, the feds run their lives, and they’ve got fuck-all to say about it. Lots of them go overboard.”

“True enough.”

“So our guy is on the street, now. Maybe he sells the business and the house the government bought him, so he’s got a few bucks. He finds someplace he likes, in this case, Minneapolis, though God knows why anybody would want to be stuck there in the winter, but he can’t use his old name because whoever he ratted on still wants to cut his heart out and eat it for dinner. So he has to make up his own new identity, and he doesn’t do the greatest job in the world. After all, he’s not Justice; he can’t call up the State Department and tell them to issue him a new passport, so he does the best he can. He gets a local driver’s license, picks up a credit card and finds a business partner who’s real and who can deal with the banks.”

“Makes sense.”

“Then he meets the rich widow, and pretty soon he’s living in a much nicer house, and he doesn’t need the business anymore, or, for that matter, the wife, so he sells one and does away with the other, and he gets away with it. Now he’s rich, footloose and fancy fucking free, and he’s house-hunting in Palm Beach and shopping for a Bentley.”

“Okay, I buy it.”

“I don’t,” Dino said. “I don’t buy it for a minute.”

“What? Why not? You just convinced me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a pushover for a good story, Stone. You always were.”

“What are you talking about, Dino? Have I missed something?”

“You usually do, pal, and this time it’s this: If Bartlett is Manning, why would he hunt down his ex-well, his previous wife and start harassing her? He risks bringing himself to the attention of the local police, which he has already done, and exposing himself-in the fully clothed sense of the expression. Why would he want to do that?”

“Because he’s pissed off at her for running off with all the money he stole, and he’s crazy as a fruit bat, and he knows how to hold a grudge.”

Dino didn’t say anything.

“Well?”

“Okay, maybe you’re right. After all, you can’t depend on criminals to behave sensibly. I got another question, though.”

“Okay.”

“He doesn’t look enough like he used to look for anybody to ID him, even you. You didn’t get a picture of the guy, so Allison can’t identify him because she won’t be in the same room with him, and the FBI won’t tell you who his prints belong to. How are you going to know, once and for all, who he is?”

“I wish you hadn’t asked that question.”

“Because you don’t know the answer?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Dino sighed deeply. “It looks like I’m going to have to come down there and straighten this out for you.”

Stone had sort of been hoping he would; he missed Dino.

“You’ll have to bring Mary Ann.”

“Nah, she won’t come while the kid’s in school.”

“How is Ben?”

“Well, his grandfather hasn’t turned him into a made man yet.”

“And how is Eduardo?”

“As mean as ever. He never gets older, just meaner.”

“And Dolce?”

“I don’t know. Mary Ann won’t talk about her. I guess she’s still nuts. Eduardo’s got her locked up in farthest Brooklyn, and I don’t see her ever getting out.”

“When can you come?”

“Tomorrow, the next day, maybe. I can get the time off, I think. Can you find me a sack?”

“Sure, and a nice one, too.”

“I’ll call you with my flight number.”

“I’ll be there.”

“See you.”

“See you.”

The following morning it was, to Stone’s astonishment, raining, and raining hard. Juanito had put up clear curtains around the afterdeck, so Stone had breakfast alone there and checked with Joan for messages. He returned half a dozen calls, including one to Bill Eggers.

“I spoke to Thad yesterday,” Eggers said, “and he is one happy client. I hope you’re not thinking of coming back to New York before you clear up any remaining problems. If you do, I’ll have you hit over the head in the airport and put on the next airplane back to Palm Beach.”

“Oh, I’m sticking it out,” Stone said, “and it has turned interesting.”

“How so?”

Stone went through the whole story once again.

“You know,” Eggers said when Stone had finished, “being a partner in this firm is not nearly as interesting as what you do.”

“Probably not. By the way, I sat next to one of your clients at dinner last night-a Lila Baldwin.”

“Oh, God,” Eggers groaned. “Be careful around her. Once, during a discussion of estate tax avoidance, she grabbed my crotch.”