"It better be."

"I want you out of this city tonight." He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out an airplane ticket. "Your flight leaves at nine. I don't care where you go or what you do after you get to L.A.-just stay lost. You've got enough money there to start a new life wherever you choose. I never want to hear from you again, is that clear?"

Andy could smell Irazarian's acrid sweat. It made him want to gag.

"Don't you want the stuff? You could act a little grateful, you know. It took some doing."

"You want thanks?" Andy was incredulous. "After what you've done?"

"Hey, you're the editor."

"You nearly cost me everything!"

Irazarian dropped the briefcase and came at him, pinning him to the concrete pillar with the force of his body. He outweighed Andy by a good hundred pounds, had played defensive tackle for the Golden Gophers once upon a time. As far as Andy was concerned, he was an educated thug.

Pressing his forearm hard against Andy's throat, he whispered, "You're a weasel, Gladstone. You may think you're a big man now, but you're a loser. You'll always be a loser." His breath stank of booze and cigarettes.

Andy knew enough not to show weakness around a bully, even though Irazarian terrified him. If he told what he knew, Andy would go to jail for sure. His life would be ruined. He had a second chance now, and he wasn't about to blow it.

Irazarian pinned him a moment longer, then backed up. In the darkness, he looked like a refrigerator wearing a raincoat. He was huge. Andy's knees felt wobbly. He had a gun in his pocket, but he'd only brought it in case of an emergency. He didn't want to threaten Irazarian. Instinctively, he knew that would be a mistake.

"Look," said Andy, "take the money. Go make yourself a life somewhere else."

"I'm a writer, a reporter. That's what I do."

"It's what you did," said Andy. "You could be prosecuted for fraud if you stay here. There are people at the paper who want your blood. I'm trying to protect you from them."

Irazarian laughed. "You're protecting me?"

Even a few inches away, it was so dark that Andy could barely make out Irazarian's face. And yet he could feel the man's sneer as if it gave off waves.

"We need each other, asshole," said Irazarian. "Don't forget it." He handed Andy a package and Andy handed him the ticket.

"Just leave," said Andy. "And don't ever come back." He waited for Irazarian to go, but instead of returning to his car, he just stood there.

Andy didn't know what to do, so he took off running. When he was a good hundred feet away, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Irazarian had walked across the street and was standing directly under a streetlamp.

Andy got in the SUV and started the motor. His hands shook so hard, he could barely get the key in the ignition. He told himself to breathe, that it was almost over. When he tore past the streetlamp, Irazarian reached up and pantomimed tipping his hat. But it was the smile and the spooky intensity in his eyes that caused something bitter and abandoned to rise up in Andy's throat. As he was driving away, that old bitterness nearly choked him.

14.

Early the next morning, Sophie pulled back the blankets and swung her feet out of bed.

"What time is it?" mumbled Bram.

"It's early," said Sophie. "Just after six."

"Why are you getting up? Did the alarm go off?"

"I can't sleep. I thought maybe I'd putter in my office for a while."

Bram flipped over on his side, tucking the covers up under his chin. "Don't putter at anything I wouldn't putter at."

She smiled. "I won't." She stroked his hair for a moment. "You go back to sleep."

"I couldn't possibly. I'm wide awake." A few seconds later, he started to snore.

After showering and dressing, Sophie took Ethel out for her morning ablutions. Ethel, their old black mutt, never wanted to walk very far. She was the hotel mascot now, and she took her job seriously. If she wasn't on her large paisley pillow in the Maxfield's first-floor lounge by eight A.M., she descended into a funk. Of course, it was hard to tell if Ethel was in a funk because her normal demeanor wasn't all that lively. Still, having lived with Ethel for so many years, Sophie could read her eye twitches.

After getting Ethel settled on her throne, Sophie headed for her office. As she rounded the bend in the corridor, she spotted her father at the other end of the hallway. He was down on his hands and knees.

Sophie felt her blood pressure rise. "Dad," she called softly, "what are you doing?"

He looked up and waved.

Sophie could see now that he had a portable tool chest next to him.

"This piece of carpeting was coming loose," he said. He searched through the chest until he found what he was looking for. A hammer. Placing it on the floor, he continued his search.

"You can't repair that now. You'll wake the guests."

"One tack," said her dad. "That's all it will take. Two at the most."

"Dad?"

"Then you can join me for breakfast-after I replace a lightbulb on nine."

"Dad, we have a full maintenance staff."

"So? You think I'm too old to swing a hammer?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"I had to get out of the apartment, Soph. Your mother is driving me batty. She thinks she's Agatha Christie."

"Excuse me?"

"She's up at the crack of dawn every morning to read the newspapers. She's been following that Bob FabianKenneth Loy murder case. She has this crazy theory, and I'm sick of hearing about it."

"What's the theory?"

"Oh, no," he said, holding up a box of carpet tacks as if he'd found the Holy Grail. "You wanna hear about that, go talk to Miss Marple."

He'd piqued her curiosity. "Actually, I've been following it myself."

"Go," he said. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a cigar.

"You can't light that in here."

"I know, Officer. I just chew on it for moral support. Makes me feel purposeful and manly, like I'm Winston Churchill."

Just think, thought Sophie as she walked away. Her mother was one of the most famous women writers of all time, and her father was the Prime Minister of England. She hated to think what that made her. Napoleon, no doubt.

Sophie joined her mother in her parents' bedroom. She sat in a bright yellow chintz-covered armchair while her mother made the bed.

"I'm surprised your father mentioned my theory," said her mother, fluffing a pillow before she spread the chenille bedspread over it. "Tell me the truth. Did he call it Pearl's 'crackpot' theory? I know he did."

"Well-"

"Don't bother putting a pretty spin on it. He thinks I've lost my mind."

"Why?"

"Because I don't believe Bob Fabian is dead."

Sophie's mouth dropped open. "You what?"

"See, you think I'm crazy, too."

"No, I . . . well-"

"It's okay."

"But you were at the funeral."

"So? I was at the wake, too. And if memory serves, there was no open casket. Who's to say he was in there? Can you prove it? I can't."

"But Mother, he was shot in his home-by the same person who shot Kenneth Loy. He was taken to the emergency room, where he died. That's all been verified by the police."

Her mom opened the closet and began sorting through her father's suit coats. "You're correct up until the point where they say he died. None of the police reports said the bullet killed him. The reporters merely inferred that."

"Of course it killed him."

"Then why haven't the police ever stated that?"

Sophie couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her mother had to be wrong.

"You want to look at the newspapers? I've saved all the clippings. I thought it was strange right from the start. That officer what's his name-Lundquist- he hedged every time the questions turned to Fabian's death. He just kept saying no comment, that it was all under investigation. If Fabian died from that supposed gunshot wound, why wouldn't he just admit it?"

"I don't know."

"Because Bob Fabian isn't dead, that's why."

"Then where is he?"

"I'm still working on that part." Her mom found a chewed-up cigar in one of her father's vest pockets. She held it by the tip, as if it were made of plutonium, and dropped it into a small wastebasket next to the dresser. "Filthy thing."

"I guess maybe I'd like to look at those clippings."

"Sure," said her mother. "You'll see. I'm not wrong."

Sophie followed her out to the living room.

"Here," said Pearl, lifting a manila folder off the coffee table. "You look, read for yourself, see if your old mother isn't smarter than the average bear."

Sophie took the folder, smiling weakly.

"And then you come back and we'll figure out where Bob Fabian is. Every good sleuth needs a side-kick. You can be my Dr. Watson."

"Gee," said Sophie.

"Yeah, it's cool. We'll show your father, Mr. Doubting Thomas, what's what."

Several hours later, Sophie was sitting at her own breakfast table reading through the clippings when Bram finally emerged from the bedroom. He looked sleepy, his chocolate-colored hair rumpled as he sat down at the table, tying his midnight blue silk robe snugly over his pajamas.

Ducking his head sheepishly, he said, "I'm sorry about last night. I acted like a jerk."

Sophie had gone to bed around eleven. Bram didn't get in until much later, so they hadn't talked yet about Nathan's call, or his unexpected appearance yesterday at the hotel.

"I'm not involved with Nathan Buckridge in any way," said Sophie. "I don't know how I can be more clear than that."

Bram rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "I believe you. But why can't he just fade away? Every time I start to think he's gone from your life, he pops back up."

"He's getting married, honey. To Elaine Veelund."

That snapped him to attention. "That's why he called?"

"He wanted to tell me in person, but when I wasn't around yesterday, he decided to phone. That's all, Bram. I can't make him disappear off the face of the earth, but I don't love him. I care about him, but that's it. I'll admit, when he first came back into my life, after not seeing him for so many years, there were unresolved feelings. But I've worked through all that. You're the only man I want in my life."

Bram grinned. "Music to my ears."

"So, can we be done with Nathan now? No more jealousy?"

Bram crossed his chest and held up his hand. "Promise."

"Good. Now, you can help me figure this out." She pushed the manila folder across to him. Next, she pushed the morning paper. "Just like your buddy Al Lundquist told you, there's an article this morning that talks about that 911 tape."

Bram glanced down at the Times Register, scanning the front page. "Boy, if that doesn't narrow the suspects, I don't know what would. Sounds to me like Bob's murderer was either Andy or Phil Banks." He opened the folder. "What's all this?"

"It's every article Mother could find about Ken Loy's and Bob Fabian's murders. Except, get this. She thinks Bob is still alive."

Bram looked up, stared at her a moment, then burst into laughter. "You've gotta give Pearl credit. She's not afraid to take the road less traveled. But this time, I think she's stumbled off a cliff."