“Let’s just say that I have a client who is interested in clearing up the matter. Not the whole twelve million, of course, but a decent fraction.”

“How decent a fraction?”

“How about a million dollars?”

“How about six million?”

“It’s not going to happen, Frank.”

“And what do we have to do to get this money?”

“Nothing, really. Just agree to a settlement and sign a release.”

“Releasing who from what?”

“Releasing anybody from any liability connected with the fraud.”

Stendahl was silent.

“Frank?”

“I’m just trying to figure this out,” he said. “Who’s your client?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential and will have to remain so.”

“I just don’t get it, Stone,” Stendahl said. “Both the people responsible for the fraud are dead, and the money vanished into thin air, or at least into some offshore account we could never find. Who would want to give us a million bucks out of the goodness of his heart?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Frank. I was contacted and instructed to contact your company and make the offer. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I just don’t get it,” Stendahl said again.

“You want me to tell my client you said no?”

“Of course not,” Stendahl nearly shouted. “I’ll have to take this upstairs, see what they have to say.”

“I can have the money in your account twenty-four hours after I receive the release.”

“I’ll tell them that.”

“And, Frank, it’s going to be an iron-clad release—broad and deep, covering anything anybody could ever have done to Boston Mutual in the matter of this policy.”

“Stone, do you have any idea how hard it would be for an insurance executive ever to sign such a document? It would turn his liver to rock candy.”

“Maybe a million dollars would melt it.”

“Where can I reach you?”

Stone gave him the cell phone number. “I’m in Florida,” he said.

Stendahl groaned and hung up.

Stone called his office again and dictated a release. “Type that up, leaving the amount blank, and have it ready to fax to Stendahl,” he said.

“Will do,” Joan replied.

Stone pulled back into traffic. On the way back to the yacht, he passed West Indies Drive, where Elizabeth Harding’s house was. He was going to have to get used to that name.

“Liz,” he said aloud. “Liz, Liz, Liz.” He thought about the nights he had spent with her aboard the yacht in St. Marks, and the memory stirred more in him than he was comfortable with. After all, he was pimping—well, that was too strong a word—representing Thad Shames in the matter of Liz Harding, and sleeping with the woman his client was chasing would probably violate some canon of legal ethics.

He was back on board Toscana, sipping a rum and tonic on the afterdeck, when his cell phone rang.

“Stone Barrington.”