THEY SLEPT WELL, had breakfast in bed, then dozed off again. The doorbell rang. Stone looked at the bedside clock. Ten minutes past eight. He picked up the phone, which automatically connected him to the intercom. “Yes?”

“Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“FBI.”

“You must have the wrong house.”

“Are you Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got the right house. Are you going to let us in?”

“Wait right there.” Stone put on his nightshirt and a robe over that, then got into his slippers and walked downstairs. He had a good look at the two men through the armored glass before opening the door on its chain. “Let me see some ID.”

The two men held up badges, close enough that Stone could read their names on the IDs, Smithson and Peters. He opened the door. “Come in.”

He led them into the living room and pointed at chairs. “All right, what is it?”

“Are you alone in the house?” Smithson asked.

“None of your business,” Stone replied.

“Mr. Barrington, I caution you that it’s a crime to lie to a federal agent.”

“I’m not lying, it’s none of your business.”

“It’s going to be like that, is it?”

“Probably, unless you give me a good reason to talk to you. Your curiosity is not enough.”

“We’re investigating the theft of a . . . piece of luggage.”

“Thank you, but all my luggage is present and accounted for.”

“Not your luggage.”

“Then why are you in my house at this hour of the day?”

“That was dictated by the ferry schedule.”

“Doesn’t the Bureau have helicopters anymore?”

“We do, but that seemed like overkill for this errand.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I told you, we’re investigating the theft of a piece of luggage.”

“We’ve already been through that—let’s not start again.”

“Did you visit the home of former-President Joseph Adams in Santa Fe a few days ago?”

“Yes, but I didn’t steal any of his luggage.”

“What did you and President Adams talk about?”

“We reminisced about old times. Mr. Adams appeared to confuse me with someone else.”

“With whom did he confuse you?”

“Someone named Tom. I didn’t get the last name.”

“Why did you visit President Adams?”

“To reminisce about old times.”

“Mr. Barrington, are you hiding something from us?”

“I’m sorry, my attorney has just advised me that I don’t have to answer that question—or any other question.”

The two men looked around. “I don’t see an attorney,” Smithson said.

“You’re looking at him.”

“You’re an attorney?” Smithson asked.

“I’m surprised you don’t know more about the people you question.”

“He’s an attorney,” Peters said to his partner.

“Well, at least one of you Googled me,” Stone said.

“Mr. Barrington, if we searched your house, would we find a piece of luggage that doesn’t belong to you?”