2.

The Sherry-Netherland was diagonally across from the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Immediately across from it were the Grand Army Plaza and an entrance to Central Park. Despite the upscale address, so many people came and went, lounged and loitered in the area that it wasn't difficult for Buchanan and Holly to portray a convincing version of two tourists when they arrived an hour later. It was cool but pleasant for early November. They strolled around the block, admired buildings, checked out the entrance to the park, and effectively scouted the busy area.

'Somebody could be watching from neighboring buildings, of course,' Buchanan said as he took a photograph of a skyscraper, using Holly's camera. 'But it doesn't look like anybody in the crowd is doing that.'

They sat on a bench near the gold-gilded statue of William Tecumseh Sherman.

'What now?' Holly asked.

'Time for you to do some role-playing. But I'm afraid it's a tough one.'

'Oh?'

'You're going to have to impersonate a reporter.'

She jammed her elbow into his ribs.

'Hey, Jesus, watch it,' Buchanan said. 'That came close to where I was stabbed.'

'I might stab you myself if you keep acting that way.'

Buchanan laughed. 'You brought your reporter's ID, I hope.'

'Always. It's in my camera bag.'

'Well, I just became your assistant. Call me. who was that guy who tagged along with you in New Orleans?'

'Ted.'

'Right. Call me Ted. We're about to pay a professional visit to Mr Maltin. You'd better let your assistant carry the camera bag.'

'You know, you don't do that often enough.'

'Carry your bag?'

'No. A moment ago, you were smiling.'

They waited for the light, crossed at 59th Street, and headed north along crowded Fifth Avenue toward the canopied entrance to the Sherry-Netherland. Nodding to the uniformed doorman who was getting a taxi for a well-dressed, elderly woman, Buchanan pushed the revolving door and entered ahead of Holly to check out the lobby.

Gentle lights gave it a golden hue. Colorful flowers stood in a vase on a side table. Ahead, on the right, a short corridor led to elevators. On the left, across from the corridor, the reception counter was next to a newspaper-magazine shop. A uniformed clerk stood in the lobby, another behind the counter. A middle-aged, spectacled woman straightened things next to the cash register at the magazine shop.

No sign of a threat, Buchanan decided as he waited for Holly to come out of the revolving door and join him.

'Yes, sir?' The clerk in the lobby stepped forward.

Typically the clerk singled out the male of a couple. But because Buchanan was supposed to be Holly's assistant, he straightened the camera bag around his shoulder and turned to her, his eyebrows raised, waiting for her to answer.

Holly immediately assumed her role. 'I'm a reporter.' She held out her press ID.

The clerk glanced at the card, his inspection cursory, probably paying attention to the newspaper's name and little else, Buchanan hoped. Holly hadn't volunteered her own name, and with luck, the clerk wouldn't have noticed it on the card.

'I'm here to see Mr Maltin.' Holly put the press card away.

'Did you have an appointment?'

'No. But if he's free, I'd appreciate ten minutes of his time.'

'One moment.' The clerk walked over to the counter and picked up a phone, pressing numbers. 'Mr Maltin, there's a reporter from The Washington Post to see you. A lady with a photographer. Yes, sir, I'll tell them.' The clerk set down the phone. 'Mr Maltin doesn't wish to be disturbed.'

'But yesterday, he couldn't get enough of reporters.'

'All I know is he doesn't wish to be disturbed.'

'Please, call him back.'

'I'm afraid I-'

'Really, it's important. I have information about his missing wife.'

The clerk hesitated.

'He'll be very unhappy if he finds out you didn't give him the message.'

The clerk's gaze darkened. 'One moment.' He walked back to the desk, picked up the phone, pressed numbers, and this time spoke with his back turned so that Holly and Buchanan couldn't hear what he said. When the clerk pivoted in their direction and set down the phone, he looked irritated. 'Mr Maltin will see you. Come with me.'

They followed the clerk toward a row of elevators, and after they got in, the clerk stared straight ahead, pressing the button for the thirtieth floor. Sure, Buchanan thought. This way he guarantees that we get off where we're supposed to be going.

At the thirtieth floor, the clerk waited until Holly rang the bell for Frederick Maltin's apartment. Only when Maltin opened the door, glowered at Holly and Buchanan, and gestured grudgingly for them to enter, did the clerk step back into the elevator.

Buchanan and Holly walked past Maltin, who shut the apartment door impatiently and strode toward the middle of a spacious room.

Spacious was an understatement. The high, rectangular room was large enough to hold at least four standard rooms. The wall to the left and the long one directly ahead were a panorama of windows that began at thigh-level and went all the way to the ceiling, continuing around the room, giving a spectacular view of Fifth Avenue to the south and Central Park directly across. The furniture, tastefully arranged, was antique. Buchanan had the impression of polished wood and crystal, of expensive fabrics and Oriental rugs, of authentic-looking Cubist paintings. A gleaming grand piano stood in a corner, next to a display of what appeared to be museum-quality ceramics. It wasn't any wonder that Frederick Maltin had complained about the financial terms of his divorce from Maria Tomez. He was obviously used to luxury.

'I don't know what information you think you have about my ex-wife, but it isn't pertinent any longer because I just heard from her.'

Buchanan needed all his discipline not to start asking questions. The scenario made this Holly's show. She had to carry it.

She did. 'Then you must be relieved.'

'Of course. Very much.' Frederick Maltin was a man of medium height and weight, in his middle forties, with a moderate amount of hair with a moderate amount of gray in it. As for the rest of his characteristics, there was nothing medium or moderate about him. His dainty, thin-soled, polished, black shoes and meticulously pressed, blended-wool, double-breasted, blue suit were obviously foreign, custom-designed, and hand-sewn. His brilliant, white shirt and subtle, striped tie had contrasting textures of premium silk. It was impossible for Buchanan not to pay attention to Maltin's diamond cufflinks as the man made a show of impatience by checking the time on his diamond-studded Cartier watch. He had a sapphire ring on the small finger of his left hand. All told, it probably cost him twenty thousand dollars to get dressed in the morning.

'The hotel clerk said you needed ten minutes with me, but I can't spare even that much time,' Maltin continued. His voice was reedy, imperious.

'But surely you're eager to tell the press the good news,' Holly said. 'Yesterday, there was so much commotion about your insistence that something had happened to her. You'll want everyone to know it was a false alarm.'

'Well, yes,' Maltin said, 'of course. I hadn't. You're right. It's important for you and other reporters to inform her fans that she hasn't been harmed.'

Holly sounded puzzled. 'The way you say that. It's as if you haven't called the media yet.'