"He finished the second book just before they left on the sailing trip.

He had done increasingly well over the years, but three books ago he had a big bestseller, and that got him the new contract."

"Pretty rich writer, huh? And I was worried about Allison financing her defense."

"He's a big spender, at least since he signed that contract. He bought the place up in Greenwich; I called a friend of mine who's in real estate in that area, and she remembered the house. Big place--six or seven bedrooms; pool, tennis court, stables, greenhouses; on about eight acres; that's a lot of real estate in Greenwich. He paid two million eight for it, and she says it's probably worth three and a half, four million now. Then he ordered this yacht; I gather you've already seen that."

"Yeah; you find out anything about his debts?" "He's got a two-million-dollar mortgage on the house--that's about the max you could get at that level--and he owes a million two on the boat. There's some smaller stuff, but not that small; he's got sixty grand in credit card debt and a line of credit secured by the equity in the house--three hundred thousand--and half that is used up."

"Anything about insurance?"

"His credit report shows that Chubb ran a check on him a while back, and that sounds like he's buying insurance."

"I know he had insurance; I just don't know how much."

"I reckon he has a net worth of around five, six million, if you include what's still to pay on the book contract. He's sometimes late on bill payments, but nothing serious, never more than thirty days."

"In short, he lives like a prince, but he's not all that rich."

"That pretty much sums it up." "Any criminal record?" "None."

"Ex-wives?"

"One. He was divorced about a month before he married Allison."

"Alimony?"

"I haven't had time to dig out the court records, but the divorce happened before he hit it big, so it's probably not too bad. They were only married a year, and it was a Florida divorce, so there's no community property

"What else?"

"Out of college he worked for newspapers, starting in small towns, then working his way up. His last job was on the Miami Herald, before he quit to write full time."

The sound of notebook pages being turned came down the line. "Graduated from Cornell with a degree in journalism; high school in Olean, New York; born and raised there. He was pretty much the all-American boy.

Too young for Vietnam, so he was never in the service; won a couple of awards at the Herald; that's about it for now. I gotta run, Stone; it's last call for boarding."

"Get going, then; call me from Las Palmas when you've had a chance to pick up some more." He hung up the phone.

"You getting anywhere?" Thomas asked. "Sorry if I was eavesdropping."

"No problem. No, I'm not getting anywhere. That was just some background stuff on Paul Manning; nothing of any real help."

"Chester called a while ago; he's making special runs starting this afternoon--lots of requests for seats on that little plane of his."

"Sounds as though the press is heeding our call." "Sounds like it."

"You know, Thomas, I think we might need a little security down at the marina when these people start arriving. I wouldn't like to let them too near Allison's yacht; she's going to need some privacy."

"Uh-huh," Thomas replied. "I've got two brothers on the police; they could help out and round up enough guys to stake it out around the clock, I imagine. How many you want?"

"Say two at a time, around the clock?"

"Shouldn't be a problem."

"How many brothers and sisters have you got, Thomas?"

"Six brothers and four sisters, and a whole bunch of nieces and nephews; I lose count. In those days there was less opportunity in St.

Marks; it was before tourism took hold down here. Two more of my brothers left, then came back; the two on the police stayed and did all right. They're both sergeants."

"What did the sisters do?"

"They got married and had babies. Everybody's prosperous, for St.

Marks."

"And you most of all, huh?"

Thomas grinned. "You could say that." The fax machine rang, and he turned to receive whatever was coming. "Hang on, this is more likely for you than for me." The machine spat out a single sheet; Thomas glanced at it and landed it to Stone.

It was typed sloppily on his own letterhead. "Dear Stone," she said, "I wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be here when you get back. Vance has to go back to L.A." and we're not nearly finished with the piece, so I'm going with him. I've no idea how long I'll be out there, but it's going to be at least a couple of weeks. I'll call you when you're back in New York. Best, Arrington."

Best. Not love, best. He didn't like the sound of that in the least, and he was suddenly very glad he'd fucked Allison Manning. He would do it again, every chance he had, for as long as he could.

He tore up the fax, threw it into the wastebasket behind the bar, and trudged up the stairs to start working again on Allison's case.

CHAPTER.

Stone worked on his notes for the trial and tried to come up with new ideas for Allison's testimony, but he was depressed, and depression always made him sleepy. Soon he was stretched out on the bed and dead to the world.

Thomas was shaking him. "Stone, wake up." "Huh?" He was groggy, and he felt hung over.

"You got two press people downstairs: one from 60 Minutes and one from The New Yorker."

"Jesus, we landed the big ones first, huh?"

"Looks like it."

"I'd better splash some water on my face; tell them

I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay."

Stone shook himself awake, washed his face and toweled it briskly to bring back some color, then went downstairs. Two men came toward him, a tall, slim,

tanned one in Bermuda shorts and a short, stocky, pasty man in a khaki bush jacket.

"I'm Jim Forrester from The New Yorker," the tall one said, shaking hands.

"I'm Jake Burrows, I'm a producer on 60 Minutes," the bush jacket said, "and I was here first. I want to talk to you before he does." He nodded at his competitor.