“I did? Well, okay. Good luck finding him.” Jones hung up.

“What?” Dino asked.

“His bank is in the Cayman Islands, well known for banking secrecy. We’re not going to find him that way.”

“What about his e-mail address? We could call his provider. Who is it? AOL or Hotmail? One of those?”

“Nope. He’s got a domain of his own: frederickjames dot com.”

“Then it’s got to be registered somewhere.”

“Yeah, but even if we could track it down, we’d find that his address is One Vanderbilt, or some hotel where he stayed for a few days.”

“We could see if he has a phone number in New York.”

“If he does, it will be unlisted.”

“If it’s unlisted, I can find out the number.”

“I just had a thought,” Stone said. He picked up a phone and called Dan Griggs.

“Griggs.”

“It’s Stone. How’s Lundquist doing?”

“He made it through the night, and he’s stable. The doctor says we can probably ship him home in a few days.”

“Good. Listen, Dan, we’ve got another line on Paul Manning. He may be using the name Frederick James. James is a novelist with a new, bestselling book out, and he’s something of a will-o’-the-wisp. Can you check the local hotels and see if he’s registered?”

“Okay, Stone, but I have to tell you, I’m wearying of Mr. Manning, and I can’t keep putting resources into finding somebody who did nothing but trash somebody’s house.”

“I understand, Dan, and I appreciate your help.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Griggs hung up.

Stone called Bob Berman. “How you doing?”

“Okay. What’s up?”

“The hotel guest list turned up the name of one Frederick James, an author. Can you do the whole skip-trace thing—address, phone number, credit report?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a Social Security number?”

“No, but hang on.” Stone dialed Jones again.

“Tom Jones.”

“Mr. Jones, I need Frederick James’s Social Security number. I know you’ve got it. You can’t pay him without it.”

“Sorry. The checks are made out to a corporation.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You didn’t ask me.” Jones laughed loudly.

“What’s the name of the corporation?”

“Frederick James, Limited; it’s a Cayman Islands firm.”

“Thanks,” Stone said, and hung up. He punched the button for Berman. “Sorry for the delay. No SSN; he deals through a Cayman Islands corporation. I don’t suppose you can get anything on that.”

“Probably not. You have any idea where the guy lives?”

“Until recently, he lived in Easthampton, New York. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

Stone hung up to see Liz appear in the doorway, holding the copy of Tumult. “What do you think?” he asked.