He went on to weave a tale about a grandmother who lived in a little cottage in New Mexico, surrounded by spoon rests, a kindly old woman whom he had just been visiting, to tell her that her grandson, whom she had raised in near poverty, had struck it rich through wise and honest investing, and was now going to see that she could command all the comforts of life. “Beginning,” he ended, “with this spoon rest.”

The woman, for once speechless, hugged him. He heard a familiar voice and looked over the woman’s shoulder as he hugged back. Meghan stood not far away, talking to her lover. He was a little afraid that she had heard his tall tale, recognized him, and was about to expose him as a fake, but apparently she had not seen him. She was too engrossed in a disagreement with her lover.

To his puzzlement, he heard her say, “You don’t need to wait, really. I don’t think anyone will bother me.”

The old dude, his back to Frederick, said something Frederick didn’t hear.

Meghan said, “If you insist. Let’s go out to the platform. The tram should be here any minute. Do you need cab fare back to your office?”

His answer was apparently a negative, because she didn’t give him any money.

Frederick then had to turn his attention back to the woman in his arms, who was suddenly self-conscious. He behaved as if he were, too.

“I’m-” she began, but he placed his fingers gently over her lips.

“No, don’t tell me. Not yet. And I won’t tell you my name, either. That would spoil everything special about this, don’t you think?”

And she nodded, although he could see she was a little unsure of exactly why it would.

“A complete stranger,” he sighed. “I promise you, I have never told a living soul what I’ve told you today, and why a complete stranger should free me of these painful memories, I can’t say, but-but thank you.”

For a brief moment, he thought he might have overplayed his hand, but she merely hugged him once more.

He freed himself by paying for the spoon rest, but took her hand as they walked to the platform. He saw that a few of her fellow hikers were watching them, but she fended off their stares with a look of triumph. Who could blame her?

The man with Meghan was looking the crowd over but didn’t seem to take more than casual notice of Frederick and the woman. Frederick waited until there were a number of people between him and Meghan before getting on. The man stayed on the platform as the doors closed, and the aerial tram began its ascent, a trip of more than two miles.

So, he thought, I have Meghan to myself after all. He smiled, watching the other men in the tram looking at her. Poor bastards. None of them stood a chance.

Following her now was going to be a damn piece of cake. Morgan would have fucked it up from start to finish, of course. Good thing he arranged to be the one who was here instead. All he had to do was send the hiker on her way with the other moonstruck idiots and Meghan-who was staring up at the top of the peak, as if she, too, couldn’t wait to get off this thing-was going to see what Agent Frederick Whitfield IV was willing to do to get a stuck-up bitch to answer some questions.

She turned then, and her eyes rested briefly on him and then on the view beyond before she again turned away.

“Do you know that woman?” the hiker asked.

He squeezed her hand. “What woman?”

“The one you were just staring at.”

He pulled the hand up, kissed it lightly on the knuckles. “Was I? I didn’t even see her.” He turned her then, away from the eyes of the other passengers, and stood behind her, so that the two of them were looking out the tram window-and away from any study Meghan might have decided to make of him. He bent his lips close to the hiker’s ear and said quietly, “I’ll tell you what was on my mind, since I don’t seem to be able to keep any secrets from you. I was just wondering if-well, if maybe you’d give me your phone number. I have some business with the owners of the ski resort up here, but maybe when you get back from the hike, and I get back from my meeting? I’d like for you to meet my grandmother.”

The woman turned her face up to him and smiled, his previous lapse of attention forgotten. “Sure,” she said, sounding a little out of breath.

“She’s able to tell fortunes, you know,” he said.

She wasn’t as impressed by this as he had hoped. “I’ll try not to offend her,” she said. “But I don’t believe in fate and fortune and all of that.”

“No? I thought maybe…”

She saw the direction of his glance. “The earrings? I just liked them. I’m not even a Gemini.” She began searching her daypack and pulled out a pen and a small journal. She tore a piece of paper from it before tucking the journal away.

He took a moment to admire the stunning view beyond the tram as it climbed over the Cibola National Forest. Maybe a night hike wouldn’t be so bad. Someday he’d have to try one.

She handed him her number. He smiled to see she hadn’t written her name down. He asked her to hold onto the bag with the spoon rest in it while he put the number away in his wallet.

When he took the bag back, she turned and tucked her hands beneath his jacket, resting her head on his shoulder and pressing her lips closer to his own.

His arms around her, he peered inside the bag, wondering how quickly he could ditch the spoon rest into a trash can.

“Grandmother is going to love this,” he said, and reading the look in the upturned face, bent to kiss her.

San Luis Rey, California

Tuesday, May 20, 3:33 P.M.

The old man liked clocks.

A few moments ago, on the half hour, a chorus of competing chimes sounded throughout the house. Over the last two hours, hearing them perform their various renditions every fifteen minutes, Alex had come to think of them as a genteel version of the horn that sounds for a rodeo bull rider-a signal that Shay Wilder had managed to hang on to life for another little patch of time. That Shay Wilder was dying, there could be no mistake.

Ciara Morton and Alex’s uncle, John O’Brien, sat outside, talking quietly on the back porch after strolling through the small orchard outside Wilder’s home. Early on, they had managed to get away from the bells and ticking and the thick haze of cigarette smoke.

Ciara had been hesitant to bring John along, until it became clear that Wilder wouldn’t bother opening his door to them if his old friend didn’t accompany them. She had tried to beg Wilder’s help after he had refused requests from both their lieutenant and Captain Nelson. Alex figured she was hoping to show them both up. She prepared to approach Wilder by doing some homework-learned all she could about him by asking around.

But Wilder still demurred. “I’m retired,” he told her. “I really have no desire to see what the latest sadistic son of a bitch has been up to, thanks all the same.”

She had persisted.

“Detective Morton, within days-if not hours-you’ll have the country’s top profilers working on these cases. Perhaps Sheriff Dwyer will make life difficult for the FBI for a brief period of time, but we both know that they’ll be involved soon.”

“Some think you’re better than anyone who’s working out of Quantico right now.”

He laughed, then broke into a fit of coughing. “There are even other retirees who are more talented.”

So she had played what she thought was her ace-she had told Wilder that she was partnered with his old friend’s nephew. Wilder laughed again and said he would do this as a favor to John O’Brien’s nephew only if Alex would bring his uncle along.

“Can you believe it?” Ciara had complained to Alex.

“You should have anticipated that when you mentioned John.”

“Shit. I give up. You’re the one with all the connections around here. Without nepotism, the old boy network, or a penis, I guess I’m out of the running-I sure as hell won’t get anywhere in this damned department.”