Staring straight ahead, he said, "Maybe we'll stay for a few days." Like he had a choice in the matter. "Only till we get the car fixed and the repairs paid for."

It was important to maintain the illusion of being able to accept or reject the terms placed before him.

"Absolutely," the cop agreed.

They beckoned the kids from the back of the car, Todd shushing each puzzled query. They grabbed suitcases from the trunk, Todd trying his best to block the worst dings and scuffs from view.

The cop opened his own trunk and carefully tucked the pitiful load inside it.

"I'm going to get right on the radio to Jim Zeebe and have him come out here and hook you up so you don't have to worry none about your car just sitting here."

The cop held open the passenger door with the legend, 'Babylon, Michigan Police Department,' in white against the black panel, and they all piled in, Joy and Little Todd in front, Todd with the girls chattering excitedly in back. A ride in a police car: the thrill of their young lives.

"Marty McConlon," said the uniformed driver.

"Huh?"

"My name."

The radio crackled ominously in the space between the cop and Joy. Todd noticed that Little Todd wasn't buckled in, but, due to the absence of the third belt, sitting on Joy's lap. He was surprised that a police officer would allow that.

The squad car did a sharp U-turn that made the kids squeal, then turned down an asphalt road off of the highway, a road that Todd hadn't noticed before. Darrow Road, the sign read. The hard lump in his stomach made itself known once again when he saw the rusted sign just on the side of this new road: Babylon, 5 miles.

Now why would a Babylon cop have flagged them down that far out of his jurisdiction?

Chapter Two.

Paul Highsmith tried to avoid gawking like a tourist as he stood in front of the four-story arched entrance to the Penobscot Building on Fort and Griswold in downtown Detroit. Its immense bronze, limestone, granite and glass face twinkled in the cloud-covered sunlight, its straight-edge styling an ode to Art Deco and the Roaring Twenties. Paul could smell the silty Detroit River blocks away. He'd had an office within walking distance for years and used to love making excuses to visit what had at one time been America's eighth tallest building-all forty-seven stories of it.

When someone bumped him and scurried past, Paul brushed his hand against his wallet, reassuring himself it was still there. Old habits. It broke his reverie and he pushed his way in.

Again, he had to downplay his appreciation for the familiar marble-lined corridors, the rich mahogany woodwork and soaring ceilings, all of which seemed to impress no one else in the workday crowd jostling him left and right in their race for the elevators.

It had only been eight months since his final commute to downtown Detroit's commercial district and barely two since the move to Babylon, but he already missed this. It felt good to be in a linen suit in a big city again. A city that was, hopefully, still big enough for him to go unobserved by former co-workers and associates.

No, he didn't miss everything back here, but certainly the architecture. The city flair.

The elevator took him to the thirty-sixth floor and the offices of Knoll Sullivan/Weldman Group LLP. Floor-to-ceiling glass, polished concrete floors, exposed brick walls and pounded copper and tin highlights. When he'd started coming here, everything had been rainforest hardwoods, plush Oriental carpets, rich Corinthian leather. But the finest comfort had given way to iron foundry edge at a point whose beginnings had escaped him. The battered red brick looked like it had been torn out of a road, only to be installed over the ivory grasscloth and smoothly plastered walls he'd known previously.

He didn't recognize the receptionist, though the smile and youthful appeal were familiar fixtures at such firms. It felt funny having to give up his name and tell this strange young woman that he had an appointment to see Freddie Brace.

"Thank you, Mr. Highsmith," she said. "I'll tell Mr. Brace you're here."

Mr. Brace? As their surrounding had grown more proletarian in appearance, it seemed that the culture had formalized.

He felt slightly distressed in the distressed leather chair he sank deeply into while waiting. People came and went, some vaguely familiar, but there was no sign of the one face he most needed-and dreaded-to see.

"Hey, old man," said Freddie, who came out to get him in only a few minutes. He sounded as heartily British as ever, that clipped, over-enunciated way of discarding his Alabama-by-way-of-Africa roots.

He wore summer-weight wool slacks and a pullover cotton shirt, both in a shade of black that complemented his cocoa skin tones. The tight, short-sleeved shirt actually made him look buff despite his narrow shoulders, a feat suit and tie had never accomplished. Maybe there was something to the new fashion, after all.

Paul walked down a meandering hallway and into an airy office where he was directed to a chair so deep he didn't know how he'd ever extract himself from it. Lights streamed in through windows high enough up the face of the building that the sun was only nine or ten miles away. No bother; it was tinted glass.

Freddie took a similarly overstuffed chair on the opposite side of a copper and glass coffee table that looked heavier than Paul's car.

"Nice suit," said the lawyer after they settled in. It was hard to say whether the line was ironic or not. With him, it could go either way.

After Paul declined the offer of coffee or tea or bottled water, Freddie took a longer look and said, "You look good."

Had it come to that? At just fifty-two, was he already to the point of being complimented for his apparent health and relatively slow rate of decay?

"You do, too," he told his lawyer.

That was followed by more small talk, questions about the welfare of Darby and Tuck, baby pictures peeled from his wallet and shown to the no-doubt disinterested bachelor. Comments about common acquaintances. None of it could distract Paul from his purpose for being here. Today, he was the client, not the Detroit office of Boston-based Anchor/Tatum Financial Services, the deep-pocketed firm to which he'd devoted his defunct career.

He'd had an office in a nearby building back in the day. Less than a year ago, actually, before the bottom dropped out of the market and fortunes and life savings got lost and reputations got ruined. Or at least severely scarred.

"So," said Freddie into a brief lull in their shared reminiscences, and Paul knew this was the moment he was supposed to grab. Freddie wouldn't go there until he did.

Paul shifted in his overly accommodating chair. He'd sunk so deeply into its inviting fabric that he felt wedged into comfort, not an altogether good feeling. After squirming briefly, he said, "So what have you found out, Freddie?"

Freddie nodded, as though the right question had been posed. "I've had conversations-informal, and off the record-with people at the SEC and in the attorney general's offices of two states."

God, could it get any more ominous than that last sentence?

"The good news," Freddie was saying, "is that it's not quite a Ponzi or Madoff situation."

Yes, it could get worse. Your lawyer could start throwing around two names that Paul, as a former investment broker, didn't like to hear even when being told that the comparison to his own situation was inapt. It was obvious that this small morsel of good news was only a prelude to the rest of the story. For instance, that phrase, not quite, would have to be dealt with.

He waited for it.

"The unfortunate thing," Freddie continued after a moment, "is that some of Veck's investment decisions were..." Here he hesitated, pawed through all of the possibilities before selecting the right word. "...aggressive, to say the least."

Paul nodded. "Of course they were aggressive, Freddie. How could our investors earn the kind of returns they were seeing for seven years if the fund was risk-averse?"

"Yes, those returns." Freddie leaned back and his hooded eyes slid over his office.

The latte-colored walls and bleached wood surfaces held framed photographs of Freddie Brace with women. At various times and places he posed with his mother, his sister and with a recent governor of the state. In others, he shared banquets, balls and fundraisers with attractive females in evening attire, some of whom he'd casually referred to, at one point or another, as girlfriends. However, those women were just as likely to refer to Freddie, in conversation, as friend or business associate.

His lawyer had never addressed his sexuality in Paul's company, and that was a blessing. Still, Paul had come to believe from early in their friendship that Freddie lived more or less happily in a closet he had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Fine with Paul. His thoughts were mainly, at this moment, on one Dominick Veck.

Seven years ago, Veck had seemed like a godsend from Manhattan. They'd been introduced by someone in the Pittsburgh office of Paul's firm who'd raved about the returns his clients were getting. Paul started small, just investing a small portion of the funds of his most aggressive clients, just to see what happened. He earned returns a percentage point or two higher than his other funds. Not high enough to make him suspicious, but Veck definitely earned more of his business.

As Veck outperformed the market, quarter after quarter, Paul's own reputation grew with the satisfaction level of his private, commercial and institutional clients. His success had not gone unnoticed. Three years ago, he'd been made managing partner of the Detroit office and had already, by that point, received a couple seven-figure bonuses and several more in the high six figures.

"It wasn't a...scheme?" Paul said forcefully, as though he could turn the question into a statement of fact.

"The problem," said Freddie, who hesitated before answering, "is that Veck's returns were always high-even when the market dipped. Forensic accountants can trace those early returns to his smart, though high-risk strategies. In other words, he really knew what he was doing-and the market helped. However, in the last year or so, the market went in one direction and he continued in the other."

Which was how Paul had pocketed a significant raise the previous December and an eight-hundred-thousand dollar year-end bonus even while the firm lost money for the first time in decades.

"Veck is talking," Freddie said. "He's telling investigators that he had to keep returns high. His reputation demanded it. He also had multiple mortgages and, naturally, a mistress that had to be kept as comfortable as his wife."

Freddie chuckled at that last comment, then retrieved the humor when he seemed to reflect on how close to Paul's situation he'd hit.

He cleared his throat and started again. "It was only in that last year that Veck started manufacturing returns. Sending out his own balance statements. Figuring that he'd make good when the markets ran bullish again. Only..."

Here, Freddie shrugged. The rest needn't be said. Paul knew as well as everyone what had happened to Wall Street when basic laws of mathematics had caught up with all of that balls-out borrowing and investing and lending. It didn't take more than an hour after Dominick Veck's name had come up in a defensive press release by his firm that an emergency meeting of the board at Knoll Sullivan/Weldman Group LLP had been called in Boston and Paul had been invited to appear.

"I didn't know anything about it, Freddie."

"Of course not, man. You just operated a feeder fund."

Paul winced. Feeder fund. A phrase that had become an indictment in and of itself. He was screwed.

"The political climate is such that I can't say the risk of prosecution is non-existent," said Freddie.

Paul had to read between the cautious legalese to hear what was really being said: You might go to jail, but the risk is minimal for now.

Meaning that it wasn't a problem that he hadn't brought a toothbrush to this meeting. About all the good news he'd get that day.

"There are, however," Freddie went on, "a couple areas of threat."

"Only a couple?" Paul said, trying for grim humor.

Freddie saw it and flashed an accommodating smile before continuing. "First, there are the investors who lost money. Hundreds have already grabbed attorneys."

"I didn't do anything wrong, Freddie."

The lawyer nodded in full agreement. Charles Manson's attorney had nodded the same way.

"Lawsuits of this nature tend to take a shotgun approach, Paul. Let's hit everyone and see who bleeds. So, in this case we're talking about Dominick Veck and his firm, Knoll Sullivan and you. Hell, they've probably managed to work your office landlord and your window washing service into the action, but, as I like to say, 'suing ain't getting.'"

"Meaning you don't think I'm vulnerable."

Here, Freddie momentarily slipped eye contact. When he returned it he said, "More like, I think all the lawsuits will get consolidated and they'll take one lump-sum settlement from you. You have liability insurance, don't you?"

"My company has-had-coverage on me. But now that I don't work there..."

Freddie studied his face for a long time. Or his eyes remained on Paul and his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Hard to say. Finally, he said, "Which gets us to our second area of concern. Your former employer."

While they'd thrown money at him and promoted him to the top during the good times, Anchor/Tatum had terminated him on the spot during that final board meeting, branding him as the sole culprit of unspecified crimes, instantly obliterating his reputation in the market.

"And now they want their money back," said Paul, thinking his thoughts out loud. "How much?"

Freddie waved a hand in his face. "I don't want you to get bogged down with that at this point, Paul. Their lawyers throw out figures and so do we."

"Meaning you want to settle?"

"It's all theoretical right now, man. Everything is part of the discussion. We'll know more-"

"How much?"

Freddie's gaze wavered. "The latest figure they've handed us is seven million."

Paul would have fallen out of his chair if he wasn't so tightly wedged into it. "Seven million dollars?" he asked stupidly. Not the right question, but he had so many it was hard to figure where to start.

Now Freddie was waving both hands. "That's why I didn't want to talk specifics," he said. "It's like suing McDonald's for a hundred mil for hot coffee. It's just a starting point."

"I don't have liability coverage," Paul said. "I'm still getting two girls through college and my wife-my ex-wife-won spousal support for the next eight years."

She hadn't won it, Paul corrected himself. He'd told his divorce lawyer to agree to it without a fight. Just like he'd volunteered to buy her the Grosse Pointe Woods condo that replaced the family home. He'd staved off guilt with checkbook.

"I know, I know," said Freddie. "That's why you have to leave it to the lawyers. You pay me to do the worrying so you won't have to. We, after all, have grounds for suing your former employer for liability coverage since you were obviously an employee when this happened. There's room for negotiation here."

Paul had been paying a lot of lawyers to assume a lot of worrying lately. Two years ago he'd started with the divorce lawyers and had found that Meredith was in no mood to settle peacefully. Soon after that came the corporate litigators fighting to make sure Paul's name wasn't spoken in the same sentence with such words or phrases as Madoff and feeder funds.

The jury was still out on that one-almost literally.

Even Freddie had been a legal victim of sorts. His close working and personal relationship with Paul had been the main reason Anchor/Tatum had voided their contract with his law firm. Paul didn't even want to think about how Freddie's partners must have reacted to that loss of business.

"Okay, okay." He held out his hands, palms out in surrender. "I'll let you take care of it. Just make sure you at least leave me enough to pay you."

"That's always in the forefront," Freddie said, tapping his temple and grinning.

Paul made himself share the laugh. Then, suddenly wanting out of the law office, out of the ornate building and the congested city just as quickly as possible, he said, "I'm glad that's taken care of for now, Freddie. It's a relief knowing you're working on this, and it's really the only reason I came here today. I mean, I had to close out a storage unit in town and run a few errands, but it was this face-to-face that really brought me here."

"Babylon," Freddie said. Part statement but a whole lot more question. "Where the hell and why the hell?"

Paul had gotten used to the question, and he'd managed to come up with a different answer for everyone. The truth was, it was far enough away that he couldn't hear the gossip, but close enough to his girls-if they ever showed any real interest in seeing him and the new family.

"It's not all that far from here," he said. "Maybe an hour south."

"So why have I never heard of it?"

Paul would have told him that the town was so far off the beaten path that it didn't get cell phone service. Would have explained that its obscurity, lost in the woods as it was, had been Babylon's main attraction at the time-although, after barely a couple months, some of the appeal had worn off. He was just starting to make some of those points when she walked in the door.

"Freddie, I'm returning the Huntington file. It's-"

She stopped when she caught sight of him. Tall and slender as ever in a pair of jeans and a black blazer-an outfit that went perfectly with the stone and concrete and copper and exposed brick.