“Look,” he said, his voice hardening. “You’re going to have to humor me. Hang up now and call a taxi. Call me back at that number. You’ve got it, right? Better if I don’t repeat it.”

“I have it,” she told him.

He opened his eyes to the dark, hot room and put the phone back on its cradle. He massaged his temples and rubbed a gluey substance from his eyes. He needed Eve to take him seriously, but she would do what she would do—the heiress’s prerogative. He stretched his legs out in front of him, heels on the living-room floor. It would be best if he didn’t fall asleep again. He needed his head clear when she called back, if she ever did. He closed his eyes again and tried to focus on the situation, but the yellow flashes of light that darted across the inside of his eyelids made him think of Kipper Lusk’s goldfish—waiting, doomed, oblivious.

He jolted awake when the phone rang, heart hammering. He took a deep breath and gathered himself together before he picked up.

“Were you followed?” he asked her.

“Of course not.” Her voice was altogether too glib.

He sighed into the phone. She still didn’t get it. She didn’t appreciate how dire things had become. She had no idea what Moore was thinking. “Listen to me,” he said. “They’re better at tailing you than I was. They’re not going to be so easy to see. Are you on the street?”

“Yes, I’m at an Esso station.”

“Look around,” he said. “But don’t be obvious about it. There’s going to be a car somewhere in sight. Something drab and gray. There’ll be two men in it. Do you see it?”

Again, there was a silence on the other end. “No,” she said. “There’s noth—”

The silence hung on for too many seconds. “What kind of car is it?” Keegan said. “Is it a Crown Vic?”

“I don’t know,” she told him. Her voice was distant, like the reality of the situation was only now beginning to dawn on her, and she was forgetting to talk into the phone’s mouthpiece. “It’s just an average sedan,” her breathless voice came in more loudly. “Black—or dark gray—I can’t tell.”

“Two men?”

“Just one. He’s parked in front of a carpet store,” she said. “But at the curb. He’s not in the parking lot.”

“Okay, so listen,” he said. “That’s your tail. He’s parked that way so he can get out faster. Get back in the taxi. Tell the driver you want to go to the Biltmore. But ask him to take you to the rear entrance. It’s on South Grand. Got that?”

“Yes.”