Rowland continued to look at the fax. The name Marie-Thérèse had so proudly sewn onto a dress nearly thirty years before was familiar to him: Rivière—one of the aliases chosen by Star. He could see, obviously he could see, the implications of this: Star might indeed be that lost New Orleans child. But Rowland still did not believe it.

At that moment the telephone rang. It proved to be the hotel’s assistant manager speaking in an agitated way. Rowland could just hear the sound of a woman’s crying; he stiffened. “Forgive me, Monsieur McGuire,” the man said. “But could you come down to my office? We need your assistance.”

“Is it urgent?” Rowland began. The man interrupted him.

“Yes, Monsieur McGuire,” he said quietly. “I fear it is.”

Mina thought the night would never end. She thought her opportunity would never come.

At first, for hour after hour, Star was so up: she could feel him soaring and when she looked at his eyes, the pupils were pinpricks, they blazed with blue-black light.

He read the tarot twice. He bathed twice, and showered once, locking her in the bedroom while he did this. When he came back from the shower, it was around two in the morning—Mina couldn’t be certain, because her watch had stopped. She kept shaking it and holding it to her ear and watching the hands, but they didn’t move. Star saw none of this. He was laying out clothes on a chair: a black suit, a brand-new white shirt still in its plastic wrapping, a necktie, black socks, black shoes. He polished the shoes three times, then he stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself. He acted the way some women acted in front of a mirror, Mina thought. He held his hair back, then let it flow around his face and shoulders; he turned this way, then that. He smiled at himself in the glass, and Mina, crouched on the bed, thought he looked more beautiful than ever, and utterly insane. He flirted with his own reflection, lowered his thick black lashes over his beautiful eyes, and gave himself a lingering look.

“I could have been a movie star,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “A really major star—don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” Mina said in a small voice. “I guess you still could…”

Star turned, and frowned.

“Oh, no,” he said almost kindly. “That’s not on the agenda. I know what my future will be. I have it all mapped out.”

Then he told her exactly what he was going to do the next morning, and when.

“You see,” he said, “the Cazarès collection will last one hour. It begins at eleven and ends at noon. I’ll be there, out front, watching it. It’s not easy to get in, of course. Invitation only, and those invitations are very carefully checked. There’s security, muscle—everywhere. But I can get around that. Maria’s been helping me. I had a practice run last fall. It worked like a dream. It will work again, Mina, I know that. The cards know that…”