“Stone, Frederick James has committed no crime that we know of, and he’s not a suspect in any case. You trying to get me fired? Why don’t you get Bob Berman to do it?”

“That’s a thought, but I just had another one. If I were James, and I didn’t want to be located, for whatever reason, I’d rent a box at One Vanderbilt, then I’d go to the post office and have the mail forwarded to another address, and then, if I really don’t want to be found, I’d have it forwarded from that address. I might get my mail a week late, but what the hell?”

“So it would be a waste of Berman’s time.”

“Yes, it would. Mr. James has built himself a fire wall, and I can’t think of a way around it.”

“He must get paid,” Dino said.

“Yes, but the checks go to the mailbox.”

“But they have to be deposited, or the guy gets no money, right?”

“Right!” Stone said. He called Tom Jones back.

“Tom Jones.”

“This is Lieutenant Bacchetti again.”

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this. My wife will catch on.” He roared with laughter.

Once again, Stone waited. “Mr. Jones,” he said when he could get past the laughter. “How do you pay Frederick James?”

“He takes checks,” Jones said. “If I were dealing with me, I’d demand cash!” This time it was a high-pitched giggle.

“Mr. Jones, when was the last time you paid Mr. James any money?”

“Last month, when Tumult came out. His contract calls for a payment on publication.”

“All right. Dig out your most recent bank statement.”

“It’s right here in my bottom drawer, with all my bank statements,” Jones said.

Stone heard the man struggling with a desk drawer. “Got it,” Jones said.

“Now, go through the canceled checks until you find the one to James.”

“Okay, let’s see: laundry, phone bill, liquor store—hey, that’s a big one!” More laughter. “Here it is!”

“Turn the check over.”

“It’s over.”

“There is a bank’s name stamped on the back. That always happens when a check is deposited.”

“Right, there is. It’s kind of dim, though. Let me turn on a light and get my glasses.”

Stone had visions of the man sitting in a dark office strewn with empty liquor bottles.

“Okay, I can see it now. It says, ‘First Cayman Bank.’”

“Swell,” Stone said.

“You like that, do you?”

“It’s no help at all, I’m afraid. Mr. Jones, imagine for a moment that you absolutely had to get in touch with Mr. James. How would you go about it?”

“I’d e-mail him,” Jones said. “I’m not much on computers, but my nephew set it up so that I can get to my e-mail without screwing it up. You want the e-mail address?”

“Thanks, but you already gave it to me.”