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Meyerson, Mr. Del Fuego and Mr. Reese regarding any special security needs
they might have. In the process you would be likely to be privy to their
schedules, et cetera, thus making the business of keeping them under
surveillance considerably easier. I hope we were not mistaken."
    "Oh,
no," I said. "This will make it a whole lot easier."
    "Not only
that," said Sir Geoffrey, "but we are prepared to offer a substantial
bounty for certain other services. Clearly, the debacle cannot take place
without the beast. Ergo, it then stands to reason that the animal must be
stored somewhere locally."
    "When you
say stored, do you mean stored dead or alive?"
    "We have
no idea. And, quite frankly, it matters little to us whether the beast is
a-hoof .or a-hook. What matters is that the animal be found and at least temporarily
liberated."
    "We are
prepared to offer an additional five-thousand-dollar bonus for the rescue of
the beast," said Alomar.
    "A bovine
bounty, eh?"
    "Quite,"
Sir Geoffrey agreed.
    Alomar fished
in the other side of his jacket and came out with a gray envelope. I took it
and peeked in. Hundreds. A bunch of them.
    Sir Geoffrey
Miles spoke. "We assumed that ten thousand American dollars would suffice
to get the operation off the ground."
    'It will,"
I said, trying to appear calm.
    "Is there
anything else we can do to facilitate your work?"
    "Yes,
sir," I said. "I can think of a bunch of things."
    He folded his
arms across his chest as I spoke. When I'd finished with my list, he uttered a
single word. "Done," he said.
    Sir Geoffrey
was dialing the reception desk as Alomar saw me to the door, locking my elbow
like an undertaker, stepping halfway out into the hall with me. "When you
meet with Ms. Meyerson, Mr. Waterman . . ." he whispered in the doorway.
"Yeah?"
    "If she
shows you a videotape . . ." He checked the hall. "Uh-huh?"
    "Whatever
you do ... do not laugh."
     

Chapter 3
     
    As the young
woman in the red blazer whispered into the phone and smiled at me, I leaned
back against the reception desk and surveyed the palatial lobby. A dozen
separate conversation areas were scattered over the enormous Chinese carpet
covering the center of the room. Around the perimeter, a wide mezzanine split
the distance between the floor and the ceiling, its elegant marble rail lending
an almost classical air to the room.
    "Mr.
Waterman," she said to my back. I turned. "Sorry about the delay. It
turns out you were correct," she cooed. "We have a lovely room for
you on the ninth floor. Nine-ten."
    The gold name
tag read Marie. She was about thirty, short and about a size smaller than the
jacket she was wearing. Her brown hair was cut severely high at the nape of her
neck, giving her head the appearance of moving forward through space. Despite
the deep green contact lenses, her eyes showed the strain of one who had always
struggled to see. She slid a pair of electronic keys across the desk at me.
    "Are those
both room keys?"
    She said they
were.
    "I'll need
about three more, please."
    She gave me
that smile again. "Certainly, sir." From the drawer in front of her,
she pulled out a half-dozen blank keys. Using an electronic keypad on the desk,
she keyed in a code and ran three keys through the slot. Neat as can be, we
make a new key.
    As she slid the
keys across to me, a door behind the counter opened and a woman stepped into
the registration area. She wore a deep blue silk suit and matching shoes. About
five-five or so and very solidly put together like a gymnast, she crossed the
area behind the desk and made her way to Marie's side. "Mr.
Waterman," she said.
    The sound of
the voice startled Marie. Her narrow eyes stretched wide at the sight of the
woman. "Oh, Ms. Ricci," she blurted.
    "Thank
you, Marie," the woman said.
    Marie, who'd
instinctively begun looking around for something useful to do, quickly
translated the silence, realized that she'd missed her cue and exited stage
left in a flurry of paperwork.
    The woman
extended her hand.