"What?"

"Do you really think the Maxfield Plaza would benefit from any of these programs?"

"Absolutely. I know it would. You think I'm crazy, but I swear, we wouldn't be the only ones doing this. We have to stay ahead of the curve, Soph. Otherwise, we die."

She'd heard just about all the new Gen X slogans she could stand and was about to let fly with what she really thought, when Margie walked into the room.

"Hi, Henry, Sophie." As usual, her smile was amused, more of a smirk. "Gee, with a little more heat, you could smoke a ham in here."

Henry glowered. "You're interrupting. What do you want?"

"I was looking for my dad." She tucked a lock of chocolate brown hair behind her ear.

"Nathan's upstairs on the mezzanine level," said Sophie. "He's waiting for you."

"Me? Why?"

"He said you two had a meeting this morning."

Her face puckered in confusion. "Not that I know of."

Sophie turned to look at her. "You mean he's not here to see you?"

"Nope." The smirk returned. "Hey, great save, Sophie. You get me to think he's here to see me, so if I happen to run into him, I think there was a mixup- when in reality, it's just more of the same. You and Nathan getting together behind my dad's back."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Is it?"

Henry piped up: "Anybody ever tell you you're a real brat, Margie?"

Her smirk evaporated. "What did you say?"

"I said you're a brat. B-R-A-T. You leech off my daughter's goodwill, and at the same time, every chance you get, you stick it to her. I'm watching you, missy. You may have your dad wrapped around your little finger, but not me. Now get the hell out of here. We're working."

Margie's mouth fell open.

"Did you hear me? Leave!"

Turning on her heel, Margie stomped out.

After she was gone, Sophie reached across the table and squeezed her dad's hand.

"I know. I'm awesome. Now, let's get back to the list."

29.

Bram checked the white pages and found that Phil Banks had an unlisted phone number and street address. It didn't surprise him. After thinking about the problem for a few minutes, it occurred to him that perhaps Vince Parillo might know it. He phoned right away. Vince not only had the address, but he gave Bram directions. When Vince heard about the message his niece had left on Bram's answering machine, he was furious. He muttered something about his old army buddies, two-by-fours, and paying Phil a little visit later in the day. Bram promised he'd call and let him know how Chris was doing.

Half an hour later, Bram pulled off a quiet Wood-bury street and eased his new-used-silver Bentley into Phil's driveway. He cut the motor and sat for a second gazing at the stucco house. It was a modern two-story, with a lower deck that ran along one side and around the back. In Bram's opinion, it was ugly-boxlike and boring. But it was also impressive in its own overstated way. Noticing that one of the doors to Phil's three-stall garage was open, and hearing country music blaring from inside, Bram figured he'd found his man.

Slipping out of the front seat, Bram glanced at the house again, wondering if Chris was inside. He found Phil bent over the engine of his Corvette. He was wearing jeans and a dirty sweatshirt, and appeared to be deep in thought.

When Phil looked up, he seemed confused. The confusion quickly turned to irritation. "Jeez, Baldric. For a second there I thought you were that old actor. What's his name? Cary Grant."

"We all have our doubles."

"Don't flatter yourself." Phil turned down the music. His hands were smeared with grease, so he picked up a rag and began to wipe them off. "What are you doing here? Or do I need to ask?"

"I came to see Chris."

"How did I guess?"

"She left me a message yesterday. Said she'd call me last night. She never did."

"This about that job offer?"

Bram nodded. He might as well play along.

Narrowing one eye, Phil said, "How come you're so interested in helping my wife, Baldric? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were hustling her."

Bram shrugged. "What can I say? I'm just a nice guy."

"Right."

"She here?"

"Nope. You drove all this way for nothing." He glanced out the garage door at Bram's car. The sight of the Bentley seemed to annoy him.

"If she's coming back soon, I'll wait."

"Sorry," said Phil, tossing the rag over his shoulder. He returned his attention to the engine. "She left town this morning. Said she needed to get her head together."

"Meaning what?"

"Hell if I know. You know women."

"Where'd she go?"

"None of your goddamn business. Now get the hell off my property."

Bram didn't believe it for a second. If Chris was gone, Phil was behind it. And that left Bram with two big questions: What had he done with her, and most important, was she still alive?

"You're lying," said Bram. "She wouldn't just leave without calling someone in her family."

Phil reared back. "Who the hell do you think you are? All of a sudden you know my wife better than I do?"

"Where is she!"

"Gone. That's all I'm gonna tell you." He picked up a wrench, hefting it in his hand like a weapon.

Bram backed up. "Your alibi for the night Fabian and Loy were murdered is bogus. Chris admitted it to me."

Phil cracked a smile. "That's hearsay, Baldric. Not admissible in a court of law."

Bram didn't mention he had it on tape, that Chris had left it on his answering machine.

"It's also not true. Maybe I'll sue your ass for slander. I got so many lawyers on my payroll, I could keep you wrapped up in litigation for years. You want to lose that Bentley, huh? That fancy diamond ring?"

"Just tell me where she is and I'll leave. Just so I know she's safe."

"You saying I'd hurt her?"

"You already did."

"The black eye?" He laughed. "That was an accident. We were sitting on the couch and I stretched my arms, caught her a good one."

Now Bram had two stories, and neither one was true.

"But if you don't get the hell out of here, the black eye I give you will be for real. So will the broken nose and the cracked ribs. It would be a shame to see that pretty face of yours all banged and bruised, that nice tweed suit and blue oxford shirt bloody." He brought the wrench up, tapping it in his other hand. "You either leave on your own, or I throw you off my property. Your choice."

Bram glanced at a door that opened into the house. "Chris?" he shouted, hoping she'd hear. "Chris! It's Bram Baldric. If you're in there, come out. I need to talk to you."

"You don't hear very well," said Phil, advancing another step.

"Actually, my mother agrees with you." He turned to the door. "Chris!"

"Look," said Phil, moving back behind the front end of the Corvette. "You've got me all wrong, Baldric. I'm a reasonable man. You wanna look inside? Go for it."

Bram's eyes snapped back to Phil, wondering if this was a trap. But he had to take the risk. He turned slowly and stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. "Chris?" he called again.

The house was silent.

Bounding up the stairs, Bram checked every room on the second floor. All were empty. After searching through the first floor, he located the basement stairs and started down. It didn't take him long to realize Phil wasn't lying. Chris wasn't home.

After checking the freezer just to assure himself he'd looked everywhere, Bram started back up. Phil was standing in the doorway, looking down at him.

"Find her?" he asked.

"No."

"Did you check the chimney? Maybe I stuffed her up there. Or how about the freezer? That's a perfect place to hide a body."

"Shut up."

"Oh, my my. Frustration. Like I said, Baldric, she left town. She wanted some privacy and I intend to see she gets it."

"Her car," said Bram.

"Gone," said Phil. "You wanna see? Come on back out to the garage."

Now that Bram was at the top of the stairs, he met Phil's eyes with a hard stare of his own. "You've done something with her."

"Nothing I wouldn't like to do with you, given half a chance." His breath stank of stale coffee and cigarettes.

"You married her to shut her up, but it didn't work. You killed Fabian and Loy, and now you've killed Chris."

"Prove it."

Bram was startled. He didn't even deny it. "You crazy psycho piece of crap! Tell me!"

"Get out," said Phil, his voice cold as rebar.

With his heart banging wildly in his chest, Bram said, "Gladly."

An hour later, he was standing in Al Lundquist's cubicle. "He murdered her!"

"Calm down," said Al, leaning back in his chair.

"You've got to get on this! Now. Banks is responsible for three deaths. I told you, Chris wasn't with him that night. He went out to his car to sleep while she watched the movie. He could have gone anywhere."

"He didn't kill Fabian and Loy."

"How can you say that?"

"Because . . . because I can. I can't say any more."

Bram glared at him. "You think Gladstone did it?"

"No comment."

"Did Sophie call you?"

Al cocked his head. "Why would your wife call me? She doesn't even like me."

Bram didn't want to get into it right now, because he didn't think it had any bearing on the murders. Still, he figured Al should know. "Anika Gladstone gave her husband an alibi for the night of the murders, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, she was lying, too. Sophie ran into her over at the Rookery Club right about the time Ken Loy was shot. She couldn't have been with Andy unless she can be in two places at once."

Al held his eyes. "Sophie would swear to this?"