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Bruce found out that Barnstable was clear, so we just came over the top of the New York TCA.”
    Was he saying too much, explaining too much—protesting too much? Was he—?
    “Is Diane there?”
    “Diane?” Thank God, he could ask the question straightforwardly, truly surprised, no calculation required, the luxury of innocence. “No, she’s not here. Why?”
    “Oh—” In the single word he could hear it: the constant mother-and-daughter refrain, that long-running third-rate tragedy. Or was it a farce?
    “Oh—” came the drearily predictable follow-up, the lamentation that never ended. “—we had a fight yesterday. Her grades came, from Swarthmore. Actually, they came in Saturday’s mail, but Dolores misplaced part of the mail, the usual. I think we’re going to have to let her go. I just don’t see any other way. We should talk about it, tonight. We—”
    “Millie. Let Chester handle it. That’s his job, to keep things running smoothly. Tell him to fire her, and hire someone else. Christ, Chester’s paid good money, to—”
    “Could Diane be in the village, do you think? She left about three, yesterday. Slammed out, the usual. She’s on probation at Swarthmore next year.”
    “Well, she’ll—”
    “Where else would she go, if she didn’t go to the Cape?”
    “Listen, Millie, I’ve got to—”
    The phone warbled, another line. Thank God, reprieve.
    “Listen, Millie, that’s Jackie, I’m sure. And I’m running late.”
    “We’ve got the dinner at the museum tonight. I’m introducing Dr. Granger, you know. So we’ll be at the head table.”
    “I’ll be home by six.”
    “And if you see Diane—” Heavily, she let it go unfinished.
    “I’ll talk to her. Yes.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Gotta go. Love you.” It was their standard wind-up line, now even more meaningless, more grotesque. Millicent, worrying about a college report card. Him, struggling for survival, fighting for freedom itself. At the thought, the instant’s image of a barred prison door suddenly seared his consciousness.
    Automatically, he pressed the call-waiting button. “Yes?”
    “Mr. Daniels. Are you weathered in?” It was Jackie, tactfully giving him room to maneuver. Did Jackie know about Carolyn? Did she suspect? Yes, almost certainly Jackie suspected. She and Kane, his accomplices. Price tag: a hundred fifty thousand for Jackie, seventy-five for Kane. Checkbook loyalty. Was there any other kind?
    “No—no,” he answered, “it’s not the weather. But there’s—Bruce says there’s a radio problem on the airplane. A backup radio, nothing serious. But it’ll be two hours, probably, before I can get out of here. You’d better reschedule everything for a two o’clock start, and I’ll keep you updated. Anyone I should call in the meantime?”
    “Kent Williams, on his refinancing package?”
    “I should, Jackie. But I’m going to ask you to do it. If he can’t stay in New York beyond, say, four o’clock, then tell him I’ll come out to Los Angeles in the next two days. Tell him we’ve only got the last inch to go, assuming the interest rates behave. Charm him.”
    “I’ll try—” She made no effort to disguise her disapproval. So it was happening. Beginning with the change in Jackie’s voice, it was already happening. Henceforth, she would be watching. Covertly watching. A hundred fifty thousand, after all, was finite; it only bought so much.
    “I’m sorry, Jackie. I’ve—there’s something I’ve got to handle, up here. A family problem.” He considered, then decided to say, “It’s Diane. I just got off the phone with Millie.”
    “Ah—” Now her inflection suggested a reprieve, a reservation of judgment.
    When was the last time he’d apologized—to anyone?
    “Okay?” he asked. It was, essentially, another apology, a muted plea.
    “Sure. See you about two.” She hesitated. “Good luck.”
    “Yes. Thanks.”

10 A.M., EDT
    A S KANE SWITCHED OFF the Buick’s ignition and set