But the place had to be fixed up in time for tomorrow night’s party. He could not allow the beautiful people of the Hamptons to see his place in anything less than perfect shape.

And he could not allow a word of last night’s madness to reach the press. He had sworn his staff and last night’s guests to secrecy. Most of them would comply, the former out of fear, the latter because none of them had acquitted himself particularly well during the tumult.

As for today’s workers, they would see the tires and the damage but he doubted they could reconstruct what had happened. They’d probably say that the Slippery Serb must throw some awfully strange parties.

Of their own accord, Milos’s hands knotted in fists. Who?

The question had plagued him all night. That he’d been attacked by a group calling itself the East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee had seemed absurd at first; yet when he considered that the assault had been aimed at his pride rather than his person, it became more believable. Whoever had planned it had not only guts, but a cruel and crafty mind. And that would be more in line with a clique of outraged locals than one of his hard-assed competitors. They would have dropped napalm.

“May I come in?”

Milos turned at Mihailo’s voice. He sounded excited.

“What is it, Mihailo?”

The communications man stepped through the doorway and glanced about through his thick glasses. Probably hoping to catch Cino undressed, Milos thought. But after watching her in that thong bikini she’d worn around the pool yesterday—and Milos had no doubt every male in the household had ogled her at one point or another—what was left to see?

“Remember that license plate we saw on the surveillance tape last night? I had a contact in the DMV trace it.”

“And?”

“It’s registered to a Gia DiLauro who lives on Sutton Square in the city.”

“You mean Sutton Place.”

“That was what I thought,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. “So I checked. Sutton Square is a little cul-de-sac off Sutton Place at the very end of East Fifty-eighth Street. Eight town houses at most. Very exclusive.”

“But didn’t you tell me the call was made from a pay phone in the East Eighties?”

Mihailo shrugged. “That’s where the trace went.”

Milos remembered the drab Buick on the tape last night. “A very ordinary car for someone at such a fancy address.”

“I know. Could be a live-in maid.”

“Could be.”

Milos pondered this. If the owner had been from Jackson Heights or Levittown, he’d have dropped it. But if this Gia DiLauro was rich enough or connected to someone rich enough to live in an exclusive spot on the East Side—only thirty blocks from where that arrogant shit called last night—she easily could be connected to someone with a place out here. So she or someone close to her could be involved with the so-called protection committee.

“Tell Vuk and Ivo I want to see them.”