It was thirty miles, give or take, from Columbus Circle in Manhattan to Edmund Mathews’s house in Greenwich and by some miracle, Jerry’s driver, a former New York State highway patrolman, made the trip in just over fifty minutes. After leaving Harry Hooper in the hotel bar, Jerry had found Max Higgins waiting in the limo in front of his building. He got in and called Edmund Mathews immediately, pretty much ordering him and Russell to leave their Greenwich office and meet at Edmund’s house within the hour. Jerry had told Max nothing. Max thought Jerry looked terrible—red-rimmed eyes, unshaven cheeks, hair in disarray, and wearing a strange and rumpled shirt-and-khakis combination under an old leather jacket such as a biker might wear. And he could smell the alcohol on his breath. Max would have to wait for an explanation because as soon as he’d spoken with Edmund, Jerry stretched out in the limo’s generous backseat and fell into a noisy and fitful sleep.

In the hours since their lunch with Jerry and Max the day before, Edmund and Russell had done nothing significant in terms of solving their problems. Russell had busied himself overseeing the implementation of some of Edmund’s ideas about buying different types of life insurance policies and legal staffers had started combing through existing diabetics’ policies looking for what Russell had called “anomalies.” Anyone who’d used a middle initial on one document and not on another, they were to see if that was grounds for termination of the policy. Any agreements in progress were halted pending investigation. But these were stopgaps. If there was to be a macro solution, Edmund and Russell hoped it would come from Jerry.

When Edmund received Jerry’s summons, he was optimistic that salvation was at hand. Jerry had sounded hoarse, and he was even more abrupt than usual. But no matter. Russell had been positively giddy as the two men waited for Jerry, Edmund more reserved. From experience Edmund knew that if Jerry had thought of something, it wouldn’t be pain-free. There’d be a price to pay somewhere down the line.

Jerry’s limo pulled up to Edmund’s front door. As Edmund watched from a second-floor window, the driver hopped out and held the door open for Jerry, who slowly stepped into the chilly winter air. Even from this range, Jerry didn’t look so hot. As Edmund made his way downstairs, his wife, Alice, ever the good hostess, opened the front door.

“Alice!” Jerry said jovially. “I was hoping I’d see you. You look as lovely as ever.” And she did, her blond bob tucked back behind her ears, her light green eyes set off by a mint-green sweater, her gym-toned legs setting off a sharp, knee-length skirt.