He reached the Westin just after five and rode up to his room in an otherwise empty elevator. He unlocked his door, slipped out of his rumpled jacket, and went into the bathroom to wash his face and hands and brush his teeth. When he came out again, he located his invitation, dropped it on top of his jacket, and poured himself a short glass of scotch from what remained of last night’s bottle.

Then he sat down next to the phone and called Marty at the lab in New York. He let it ring. It was three hours later there, but Marty often worked late when there was no one around to interrupt. Besides, he knew Wren was anxious for a quick report.

On the seventh ring, Marty picked up. “Lab Works.”

“Hello, Marty? It’s Andrew. How are you coming?”

“I’m done.”

Wren straightened. He’d sent Marty the transfer records by fax for signature comparison late that morning, marked “Urgent” in bold letters, but he hadn’t really expected anything for another day.

“Andrew? You there?” Marty sounded impatient.

“I’m here. What did you find?”

“They don’t match. Good forgeries, very close to the real thing, but phony. In some cases the signatures were just tracings. Good enough to pass at first glance, but nothing that would stand up in court. These boys are being had.”

Andrew Wren stared into space. “Damn,” he muttered.

Marty chuckled. “I thought you’d like that. But hang on a second, there’s more. I checked the forgeries against all the other signatures you sent—friends, acquaintances, fellow workers, so on and so forth.”

He paused meaningfully. “Yeah, so?” Wren prodded.

“So while there isn’t a match there either, there is a singular characteristic in one other person’s writing style that suggests you might have a new suspect. Again, not enough to stand up in court, but enough to make me sit up and take notice. It only appears on the signatures copied freehand, not on the ones traced, which is good because it’s their freehand writing we’re interested in.”

Wren took a long drink of his scotch. “Enough with the buildup, Marty. Whose signature is it?”

Chapter 23

John Ross stepped out of the bus tunnel onto Third Avenue, walked right to University Street, and started down the steep hill. The evening air was brittle and sharp, tinged with a hint of early frost, and he pulled the collar of his coat closer about his neck. He moved slowly along the sidewalk, his gaze lowered to its surface, conscious of a slippery glaze encrusting the cement, relying on his staff for support.

Still bound to my past, he thought darkly. Crippled by it. Unable to escape what I was.

He tried to organize his thoughts as he passed close by the imposing glass lobby of the symphony hall, brilliant light spilling out across the promenade and planting areas to where he walked. But his mind would not settle. The possibilities of what he might discover when he confronted Simon Lawrence did not lend themselves readily to resolution. He wanted to be wrong about Simon. But a dark whisper at the back of his mind told him he was not and warned him he must be careful.