Bisbee had thin hands. He was holding onto the clipboard with both of them so tightly that the knuckles were white.

"Which you did?"

"Yes... There was another name you mentioned. Soldiers Field Development."

"Yeah?"

"That was the company that was developing the property."

"That Conroy wanted you to appraise?"

"Yes."

"You know anything about Nathan Smith?"

"No."

"Any other names mean anything to you?"

"No."

Bisbee's shoulders were hunched and he was sitting stiffly on the stone wall as if it were cold. Which it wasn't. He hung on to his clipboard.

I took a card out of my wallet and tucked it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

"Anyone threatens you," I said, "call me. I'll take care of it."

Bisbee nodded without looking at the card, or at me. Across the field the driver of the cement truck was hosing down the cement chute. Five men were watching. Bad ratio.

"Thanks for your help," I said.

Bisbee nodded again. I left.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX.

I sat with Vinnie Morris in my car parked on the second level of a parking garage beside a hotel in downtown Worcester, near the Centrum. Almost everything in downtown Worcester was near the Centrum.

"She drove out here this morning with an overnight case," Vinnie said. "Checked in a little after one."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

"You see any sign of Conroy?"

"Nope."

I looked at the dashboard clock. It was 2:47. I didn't like digital clocks. Nice phrases like quarter to three were becoming obsolete.

"You'd recognize him?"

"Yep."

"He ever make you when you tailed him before?"

"Nope."

"Okay," I said. "I'll hang here. They'd both know me. You go to the lobby and sit around and try to look like a hotel guest."

"I'll read a newspaper," Vinnie said.

"Master of disguise," I said. "If she goes out, follow her. If Conroy comes in, follow him. Find out what room he goes to. You got a cell phone?"

"Yep."

I took out a business card and wrote my car-phone number on it and gave it to Vinnie.

"If they get together, stay with them and call me."

"Okay."

Vinnie got out and walked toward the stairwell. He moved very precisely. As if he'd been expertly crafted. He was medium-sized and liked Ivy League clothes. Except for the way he moved, he didn't look anywhere near as dangerous as he was. I let the motor idle so the car phone would work, and punched in a number. My status was rising. I got right through to Bobby Kiley.

"Your daughter has checked into a hotel in Worcester with an overnight bag," I said. "I'm waiting for Marvin Conroy to show."

"Which hotel," Kiley said.

I told him.

"I'll be there in an hour," he said.

"I don't want Conroy spooked," I said. "There's a hydrant across the street from the main lobby entrance. Park there and wait for me to find you. What are you driving?"

"Black Lexus sedan," Kiley said. "Vanity plates-Like-A-Will-More-A-N."

"It'll be me, or a guy named Vinnie Morris, who's almost as good as me."

"I'll be there," Kiley said. "Thanks."

We hung up. I couldn't find anything on the radio that was recognizably musical. I did not want to listen to the opinions expressed on the talk shows. I didn't want to tie up my car phone, so I couldn't call Susan up. When all else fails, think about the case.

I still didn't know exactly what was happening. The business about taking the gun so it would look like murder was just the kind of smart move a couple of morons like Mary Smith and Roy Levesque would choose. The fact that the finger of suspicion would then point at Mary, his heir, would never have occurred to them. Or it could be a double fake to cover up the fact that they really had killed him and Roy was too dumb to get rid of the gun.

But I did know that the only connection between what seemed like two separate cases, but probably wasn't, was Marvin Conroy. He was connected through the bank to the Smiths and Soldiers Field Development and that side. He was connected through Ann Kiley to Jack DeRosa and Chuckie Scanlan and that whole side, where people were getting killed. If I believed Bisbee, and there was no reason not to, Conroy and Soldiers Field and Pequod Bank were involved in some kind of swindle. The need for an inflated appraisal made me wonder if it was a land flip. But in wondering that, I exhausted my expertise. Rita would know. Or she would have somebody in the firm who would know.

At 4:53 my car phone rang.

"I'm on the seventh floor," Vinnie said. "She's in room 7112. He's in there with her."

"Here I come," I said.

As I headed for the stairs to the lobby I looked down and saw Bobby Kiley's Lexus. When I got to the seventh floor, Vinnie was standing outside the elevator, looking like a man waiting to go down.

"Turn right," Vinnie said. "Halfway down the corridor."

"He wonder about you when you rode up with him?"

"Maybe. But what's he going to do?"

I nodded.

"How you going to get in?" Vinnie said.

"Maybe I'll knock on the door, like in the movies, tell him there's a message?"

Vinnie grinned. "And he says slip it under the door."

"And I say he's got to sign for it."

"And the dope jumps up and opens the door."

"Or he tells me to blow," I said. "Especially if n.o.body knows he's here and how could they send him a message."

"Always works in the movies," Vinnie said.

"I can take it from here," I said to Vinnie.

"You don't want me to shoot n.o.body?"

"Thank you for asking," I said. "Another time."

"Sure."

"Guy named Bobby Kiley is parked across the street from the lobby entrance in a black Lexus sedan, vanity plates say "Lawman." Send him up and tell him I'll be outside the room or in it."

"Kiley," Vinnie said.

"Girl's father," I said.

Vinnie nodded. He pushed the b.u.t.ton for the elevator. The door slid open. The same car I'd come up in was still there. Vinnie got in, pushed the b.u.t.ton for the lobby, and the door slid shut. I walked down the hall to room 7112 and stood opposite the door and leaned on the wall and waited. I was still there when Bobby Kiley came down the corridor.

"Is he in there?" Kiley said.

"Yes."

"Have you knocked?"

"I was waiting for you."

Bobby Kiley took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

"I'll knock," he said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN.

It was probably two full minutes, and Kiley had knocked three times when Ann opened the door with the chain on.

"Daddy?"

"Open up, Ann," Kiley said. "We need to talk."

"Daddy, not now."

"Now, honey."

Through the narrow s.p.a.ce produced by the barely opened door I could see Ann Kiley's eyes shift briefly to me, and back to her father.

"Daddy, I'm busy."

"I know," Kiley said. "And I know who you're busy with. Open the door, Annie."

"Daddy," she said, emphasizing the two syllables, stretching out the second one.

"Annie, you're a full-grown woman. Who you sleep with, and how often, is your business and not mine. But we're dealing with four or five murders here... and you're involved, and I am going to get you uninvolved. If we have to kick this thing in, we will."

I think he meant that I would. But it was not a time for quibbling over p.r.o.nouns.

"I have to close it to take the chain off," Ann said.

Kiley nodded. The door closed. The chain bolt slid. The door opened and we went in. Ann was wearing a hotel-issue white terrycloth bathrobe. Her hair was mussed. Her clothes were haphazardly draped on the hard chair in front of the desk by the window. On the desk was a bottle of champagne and two gla.s.ses. The king-sized bed was still made, but it was badly rumpled and the pillows had been pulled out from under the spread. There was no one else in the room. But a man's clothes were carelessly folded on the armchair to the right of the door. I walked to the bathroom and opened the door. Marvin Conroy was standing behind the pebbled gla.s.s door in the shower stall with only his pants on, the belt still unbuckled.

"Who would think to look here," I said and held the shower door.

It is hard to look dignified when you're caught hiding in the shower with your pants unbuckled. Conroy did his best as he came out of the bathroom, but it didn't seem to me that he succeeded. He buckled his pants as inconspicuously as he could, and stepped into the brown loafers with the black highlights, which he had left neatly at the foot of the bed. Shirtless, he looked kind of soft, not fat exactly, but like a guy who makes his living shuffling money. I could tell he was holding his stomach in. He saw his shirt hanging on one arm of the soft chair and retrieved it and put it on, though he didn't tuck it in. As he dressed, he rejuvenated. By the time his shirt was b.u.t.toned he was nearly back to bank CEO. Ann sat on the side of the bed without a word. Her head was down, and she looked at nothing.

"Bobby," Conroy said. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?"