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turned east onto Sunrise Highway, which would take us to Southampton.
    Tess asked, “You think Petrov is going to this Russian guy’s house?”
    “He’s done it before.”
    “Who is this guy?”
    “I told you. A zillionaire oligarch. Georgi Tamorov. Owns half the planet.”
    “What is their connection?”
    “Don’t know, and don’t have a need to know.”
    “But I’ll bet you’d like to know.”
    “Please don’t try to get into my head. My last two psychiatrists committed suicide.”
    She laughed again.
    Clearly Tess Faraday enjoyed my company. And clearly there was more to her than a pretty face.

CHAPTER FIVE
    T he Mercedes continued east on Sunrise Highway, then suddenly made a sharp right onto a small side road. Tess hit her brakes and made the turn, as did Matt and Steve.
    We stayed close to the target vehicle as it continued south toward the ocean.
    Tess informed me, “My parents had a summer house in East Hampton.”
    “I’m sure they did.”
    “I know every back road in the Hamptons.”
    “Where’s the ambush?”
    She ignored that and continued, “If they’re going to Tamorov’s, they’ll turn left on Montauk Highway toward the oceanfront mansions.”
    And sure enough, they turned left on Montauk Highway, which was a curving, two-lane Colonial-era road, somewhat picturesque, and slow with local traffic.
    The Shinnecock Indian Reservation came up on our right, sitting on a billion dollars’ worth of prime waterfront real estate, a perfect setting for a future gambling casino. In lieu of a casino, the Shinnecocks had a trading post on the side of the road. Matt Nexteled, “What kind of Indians are these? Dot or feather?”
    “Feather.”
    “Oh… I was in the mood for curry.”
    Everyone’s a comedian.
    Tess asked me, “Where is Tamorov’s house?”
    “Martini Lane.”
    “Gin Lane.”
    “Right.”
    “Okay, so he’s going to make a right, probably on South Main.”
    “Don’t anticipate. Just follow.”
    “You’re lucky I’m with you.” She mocked, “Martini Lane. Is that where Gin Lane crosses Vermouth Road?”
    “Drive.” I hate a wiseass. Unless it’s me.
    “And for your information, gin is Old English for a common grazing area.”
    “Everybody knows that,” I assured her.
    “What’s the name of Tamorov’s house?”
    “Tamorov’s house.”
    “The houses have names.”
    “Right. The Tides.”
    “I know it.”
    “Been there?”
    “No.”
    “You might get your chance today.”
    She didn’t reply.
    We continued, and Montauk Highway narrowed as it entered the shop-lined village of Southampton. An historical marker said JOBS LANE, 1664 , which let everyone know they were in a three-hundred-percent markup zone.
    Tess told me, “I had my first grown-up date in the Driver’s Seat—” She pointed to a pub up the road. “Right there.”
    “How’d that work out?”
    “I couldn’t get a drink. I was too young.”
    “Did they let you use the bathroom?”
    “Not funny. Now I have to go. Can I pull over?”
    “Sure.” Maybe she’s pregnant.
    She double-parked and hit the flashers, then scooted out of the Blazer and hurried toward the pub.
    I blinged Matt and Steve, who were behind me. “Quick P-stop. Stay with the target.”
    “Copy.”
    The minivan went around me and continued on Jobs Lane, behind the Mercedes.
    My Nextel blinged and Matt said, “Target turning right on South Main.”
    “Copy.” Well, that removed any doubt that Petrov was going to Tamorov’s house. But why? Probably a party. This was going to be a long day.
    Tess reappeared, hopped in the driver’s seat, and asked, “Where’d they go?”
    “Right on South Main.”
    “Told you.” She put the Blazer in gear and continued on Jobs Lane.
    “Did you call Grant?”
    “Quick text.”
    I didn’t pursue that, and she turned right toward the ocean and we caught up with the minivan. “Go around.”
    She passed Matt and Steve and took up a position fifty feet behind the Mercedes.
    Tess