Vicky was suddenly hanging over the seat between them, pointing through the windshield as they cruised into another town.

“Look! Another windmill! That’s the second one I’ve seen. Are we in Holland?”

“No,” Jack said. “This is still New York. A town called East Hampton. And speaking of which…”

He unfolded a map and figured out where they were.

Immediately he realized he should have checked sooner.

“Hang a U-ie when you can. We overshot our turn. We have to get back to Ocean Avenue and then to Lily Pond Lane.”

“Thanks, Chingachgook,” Gia said as she got them going the other way. “Lily Pond Lane… wasn’t that mentioned in a Dylan song?”

“Believe so.”

“I read somewhere that Martha Stewart lives on Lily Pond Lane.”

“Hope she fixed us something good for lunch.”

As they wound their way south toward the ocean, the homes grew larger and larger, one more imposing than the next, and the walls and privet hedges and fences around them grew taller and taller, all posted with signs listing the security company that guarded the grounds behind them.

“Who owns these?” Gia said.

“The Calvin Kleins and Steven Spielbergs of the world.”

“And the Milos Dragovics.”

“Yep. Them too. He’s supposed to be at the end of Faro Lane—there. Hang a left.”

Faro Lane was short and straight; the three-story house at its end blocked any view of the ocean and a good part of the sky. A Mediterranean-style tile roof, but royal blue instead of red, capped light blue stucco walls.

“I think he likes blue,” Jack said.

He scanned the perimeter as they passed. A high stucco wall with what looked like broken glass embedded along the top—more aesthetically pleasing than razor wire, he supposed; videocams jutted from the walls of the house, sweeping the grounds. No security service was listed on the wrought-iron gate—Dragovic probably used his own boys as guards—but Jack spotted a German shepherd through the opening.

And then Gia stopped the car.

“Hideous,” she said, shaking her head and making a disgusted face as she stared through the windshield. “No other word for it. Of all the colors available, he had to pick those? Whatever look he was going for, he missed.”

“No-no!” Jack said. “Don’t stop!”

He glanced up, saw a security camera atop the gatepost pointed directly at him, and quickly turned away.

“What’s wrong?” Gia said.

“Nothing.” Damn! Was that cam used as needed or on continuous feed? Did they have him on tape? “Just keep moving and see if we can find a way to take a walk on the sand.”

Should have come alone, he thought. Never guessed she’d stop. But what’s done is done. And no point in making too much of it. Who’d be suspicious of an old Buick stopping to take a gander at the big blue house? Probably happens every day.

Gia drove farther west and found a public parking area for Georgica Beach. The three of them kicked off their shoes—Jack surreptitiously removed his ankle holster and jammed the little Semmerling into his pocket—and barefooted it up the dunes. Jack and Gia strolled hand in hand eastward along the higher dry sand while Vicky frolicked along the waterline, playing tag with the waves.