"I realize Douglas hadn't seen or spoken to his niece since she was a child, which is why she'd have no idea she stands to inherit. But she is his only living relative." Maybe, he amended to himself. "So I was wondering if you'd object if I spoke to her."

Silence. "That depends," Horace replied cautiously. "On what you plan to say."

"Nothing about the terms of the will. Nothing about Douglas or Adrienne. I only want to ask her questions that pertain to my client." Or his twin brother. "It's possible she was in touch with Jonathan over the years. If she can shed any light on his character, his relationships within the family, it might help. I'm reaching. But reaching is all I've got right now to prove my case."

"If that's what you're contacting her about, you don't need my permission. There's no overlap. Your questions are relevant only to Jonathan Mallory's defense, not the Berkley estates."

"I agree. I wasn't calling for permission--although I did intend to give you the courtesy of a heads-up.

I was calling to ask you for her name and address. Her telephone number, too, if you have it."

"Why not just ask Jonathan?"

"Because he's in pretty bad shape. I don't want to give him false hope. But if you don't feel comfortable sharing the information with me, I will go to him."

"Not necessary. I don't see a conflict here. The will's a matter of public record." Horace shuffled through some files and plucked the one he was looking for. "Here it is." He flipped through the will. "Douglas's sister's married name was Roberta Elmond. Her daughter's name is Alison. There's no record of her having married, so I a.s.sume she goes by the name of Alison Elmond. She lives on West Houston Street in Greenwich Village. I don't have her telephone number handy."

"I'll get it," Reed quickly replied. "Thanks, Horace. I owe you one."

A pause. "You really think Jonathan's innocent, don't you?"

"Yeah. I do."

"If you're right, and you can prove it, that little firm of yours is going to burst at the seams in a month. You won't even need our referrals."

Reed didn't respond. Sure, the comment rankled him. But it didn't come as any great surprise. Horace would never understand that freeing an innocent man was his goal, not making a splashy name for himself and, as a result, attracting more high-profile clients. Then again, that emphasis on billable hours above all else was why Reed had wanted out of Harter, Randolph & Collins to begin with.

"I'll keep you posted," he a.s.sured his former boss.

Disconnecting the call, he punched in 411 for information.

Two minutes later, he had Alison Elmond's phone number and had placed the call.

The line rang. Voice mail picked up, generically stating, "You have reached 212-555-8664. Please leave a message after the beep."

He kept it terse, hoping that, by doing so, he'd elicit enough anxiety to prompt an immediate return call. "Ms. Elmond, this is Reed Weston. I'm a defense attorney. I have a few questions to ask you with regard to the Berkley homicides. I'd appreciate your calling me back ASAP. I won't take up much of your time. Thank you." He provided his cell number and hung up.

Time to wait--again.

4:35 P.M.

WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET.

Jonathan jumped out of the cab and rushed toward the apartment building. He couldn't imagine what Reed and Taylor had found. But he prayed it would be the key to his freedom.

He'd barely reached the first outside step when a stocky guy grabbed him from behind and dragged him away.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Jonathan demanded.

"Stopping you." The guy shoved him against the side of the building, clutching his shirt in two ironclad fists. "Who're you going to visit, Mr. Mallory?"

"That's none of your d.a.m.ned business. And how do you know who I am?"

"I've been on the lookout for you. What a coincidence that you showed up."

"What are you talking about? I was asked to come. And, I repeat, who are you?"

"I think you know. But, fine, I'll confirm. My name's Mitch Garvey. I'm a private investigator, hired to protect Ms. Halstead."

Jonathan shook his head in baffled confusion. "Then why are you grabbing me? You know I'm not her stalker."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. She must have told you she's helping me."

Mitch arched a brow. "Is she?"

"Yes." Jonathan started to struggle again. "I've got to get upstairs."

"And why is that?"

"Because I need to see her. Because ..." Jonathan tried to shove Mitch away. "I don't have to explain myself to you!"

"Excuse me." Ed, the doorman, had walked outside. He was a broad-shouldered, imposing man himself, and he didn't look the least bit intimidated by the scuffle going on. He looked angry. "Whatever the problem here is, take it elsewhere. Otherwise, I'll have to call the police."

Bingo. The doorman had heard the escalating commotion. And, like a good safeguarder of a prestigious building, he was interceding. Just as planned. Excellent.

He inched his way toward the apartment entrance. It was too early in the day for the corporate gang to head home. So the building was quiet. But that's the way he wanted it. All he needed was one tenant... just one...

There.

A middle-aged woman exited the building. He watched her descend the steps and pa.s.s by without even seeing him. His gaze shifted quickly to the inside gla.s.s door, now slowly swinging shut.

He didn't wait. He seized his chance.

He darted into the building, wedging his foot in the sliver of s.p.a.ce still provided by the closing door. Pulling it open, he slipped inside.

Forty-five seconds. Record time.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator.

"The police might not be a bad idea," Mitch had just finished informing Ed. "But this isn't a problem.

It's a potential crime." Leaning his weight against Jonathan to keep him pinned in place, Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out his PI license, flashing it at the doorman. "I was hired by Ms. Halstead. This man was on his way up to her apartment. I believe he's a threat to her life."

"I'm no threat!" Jonathan began wrestling for his freedom again. "Taylor called me. She said she found something, and that she and Reed needed to see me right away. She gave me this address."

Mitch's eyes narrowed. He wasn't impressed by the excuse. It was lame and easily discredited. So why would Mallory use it? He was too shrewd for that. And what about his feeble attempts to free himself? They were pathetic. If this guy had sophisticated enough martial arts skills to snap someone's neck, then he was the Dalai Lama.

Something was wrong.

"Show me your driver's license," he commanded.

Jonathan stopped struggling. "Why? You know who I am."

"I said, show me your license."

With a peeved look, Jonathan fished in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Here." He stuck it in Mitch's face. "Happy?"

An uneasy expression crossed Mitch's face. "Actually, no." He patted Jonathan down and then, convinced he was unarmed, released his hold on him. "What's your social security number--off the top of your head," he grilled, continuing to block Jonathan's path.

"Are you crazy?"

"Answer me."

"Fine." Jonathan ticked off the nine-digit number.

With a disgusted grunt, Mitch turned toward the doorman. "It's okay. Mistaken ident.i.ty. I apologize."

Ed glared at them. "If there's another commotion, I'm calling the cops."

"Feel free," Mitch replied.

The doorman returned to his post.

Mitch clamped a restraining hand on Jonathan's forearm as he took a step toward the building. "Wait."

Jonathan stared. "You're still not letting me go? Look, Garvey, I don't know what your game is--"

"No game." Mitch waved away his protests. "But you're not going up there. Taylor didn't call you.

Reed's not with her. So tell me about that phone call you allegedly got."

Taylor finished watering her favorite pothos, then placed it on the windowsill where it would get the proper amount of sunlight.

Stepping back, she glanced at her watch. Five minutes to go. She'd better not press her luck, or Mitch would be furious.

With a final glance around, she scooped up her purse, tucked her cell phone inside, and headed out the front door. She was just about to lock it behind her when she sensed a presence.

She whirled around, letting out a soft cry of surprise and dropping her keys.

He bent over, scooped them up, and handed them to her. "h.e.l.lo, Taylor," he said with a smile.

CHAPTER 34.

4:43 P.M.

WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET.

"s.h.i.t." Mitch punched End on his cell phone. "She's not answering. I'm going up."

He blew past Ed, his hand already reaching for his weapon. "Buzz me up. Now." He yanked out his pistol.

"I'll have to notify the--"

"Call Detective Hadman at the Nineteenth Precinct," Mitch instructed. "Tell him what's going on.

Now open that G.o.dd.a.m.ned door."

The doorman complied.

Mitch raced up the four flights of stairs, holding his pistol in front of him as he reached Taylor's apartment and saw that the door was ajar.

He shoved it open.

"Taylor!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty apartment. Pistol raised, he continued calling her name, checking out every room as he did.

All empty.

"s.h.i.t," he muttered again. "That son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Who?" Jonathan demanded, having followed him. "What the h.e.l.l's going on?"

Mitch wasn't wasting time on explanations. He pushed past Jonathan and out into the hall, squatting down just outside the doorway and peering around to see if his sense of smell had deceived him. He found what he was looking for, rubbing his ringers over a damp spot on the carpet, then bringing his fingers up to his nose. He inhaled the familiar fruity scent.

"Dammit," he rasped, furious at himself for being taken. "Chloroform." He grabbed his cell phone and called the Nineteenth Precinct, reiterating the message Ed had just called in. Thankfully, Hadman had acted. He and Olin were on their way.

Next, he punched in Reed's cell number.

4:53 P.M.

WESTON & a.s.sOCIATES, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW.

Reed grabbed the phone when it rang. Hopefully, it would be Alison Elmond, returning his call.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"It's Mitch."

The somber tone of the Pi's voice registered right away. "What's wrong?"

"Taylor's gone. I think he's got her."