“Okay, here’s your American passport. It was issued three years ago and has a dozen stamps from Europe and the Caribbean. We’ve already changed the hair color. You’re a marketing executive with a computer company in San Francisco. Here are your business cards and some stationery. The company knows your name, and if anyone calls there, you have a secretary and voice mail. You were born in Shaker Heights, a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, thirty-four years ago, educated in the public schools there and at Mount Holyoke College, in western Massachusetts. You have, in your wallet, in addition to your California driver’s license and credit cards—all valid—an alumni association membership card. You’re registered at the hotel under the Kinsolving name.” She pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper, stapled together. “Here’s your legend. Memorize it.”

Carpenter flipped through the sheets. “Very thorough.” She turned to Stone. “What do you think?” she asked, tossing her hair.

“Very nice, Susan. You want to have dinner sometime?”

Stone and Dino sat in the back of Dino’s car, rolling down Park Avenue.

“Dino, a favor?”

“What do you need?”

“Since Larry Fortescue’s death has been established as murder, would you feel comfortable calling the DA’s office and letting them know that? I’d like to get the charges dismissed, and then I can plead Herbie down to a misdemeanor and get him probation.”

“Sure, I’ll call down there first thing. You know who the ADA is?”

“Call the deputy DA and do it through him. It’ll be faster.”

“Okay.”

They pulled into Stone’s block.

“Slow down,” Dino said, checking both sides of the street. “Stop here.” The car rolled to a stop in front of Stone’s house. Dino got out and looked around. “Okay,” he said, waving Stone out of the car.

“Come on, Dino,” Stone said, “you’re creeping me out.”

But Dino stood by the car, his gun in his hand, until Stone was inside.

16

Florence Tyler left the brownstone on West Tenth Street and strolled slowly through Greenwich Village, looking into bars and restaurants and, occasionally, checking a menu posted in a window. It was nearly six o’clock, and she was dressed in a business suit and carried a Fendi purse. Then she saw what she was looking for.

The bar was called Lilith, and a peek through the window showed it to be quite stylish. The after-work crowd was building, and all the customers were women.

She walked in and took a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender, dressed and coiffed to look as much as possible like a man, came over. “Good evening,” she said in a smooth baritone. “Can I get you something?”

Another woman, butch, but still pretty, slid onto the next stool. “Let me get it,” she said.

“Thanks, I’ll stay on my own,” Florence said, not unkindly, meeting the woman’s gaze.