“That’s a question only a lifelong bachelor could ask,” Dino said. “If you’re in Palm Beach, and she’s not, you don’t call home and say, ‘Honey, send my dinner jacket, will you?’ It would take too long to explain why to her, and in the end, she’d never believe you. Besides, I need a new one, anyway. Somebody threw up on the last one at a wedding last year, and the cleaners could never get it all out.”

“Where you want to shop?”

“They got an Armani here?”

“They do.”

“Giorgio always does my dinner jackets.”

Stone found a parking spot on Worth Avenue. He put the top up to keep the sun from overheating the black leather upholstery, and they walked to the shop.

Dino conferred with a salesman, and shortly, a fitter was marking up a white dinner jacket. “You like the white?” he asked Stone.

“I like. Very elegant.”

“I thought you would. I’m getting this just for you.”

“You’re sweet.”

The fitter looked at them oddly. “What about the lump, sir?” he said, nodding toward the pistol on Dino’s belt.

“Allow for that,” Dino said. “I’ll be wearing it to the party.”

“Well, this is a first for Palm Beach,” the man muttered, but he did his work.

When they returned to the car, the driver’s side window was a web of pieces, held together by the lamination.

“Looks like a golf ball hit it,” Dino said.

Stone looked up and down the street. “That’s not funny.”

“Sure it is,” Dino laughed.

“You see her anywhere?”

“No, but a silver Volvo sedan has been following us.”

“Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”

“What good would it have done? It would have just ruined your day.”

“You’re right about that,” Stone said, flicking small shards of glass out of the driver’s seat.

They drove back to the house and walked to the yacht.

“A message for you, Stone,” Callie said, handing him Bob Berman’s number.

Dino glanced at the piece of paper. “What have you got Berman on?”

Stone led him into the saloon and picked up a phone. “One William Charles Danforth of Washington, D.C.”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s the passport Paul Manning is using these days.”

“Oh.”

Stone called Berman. “It’s me. You got something?”

“I got a lot,” Berman said. “You want me to FedEx it to you, or you want to hear it now?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. Mr. Danforth is all over the Internet, just like you’d expect a substantial person to be. He’s got a credit history going back only four years. It’s little stuff, credit cards, couple of department stores—Saks, Macy’s. There’s apparently no Mrs. Danforth, and there are no mortgages on the reports. He rents an apartment in the P Street house in Georgetown, has for four years.”