“Take your time going uptown,” she said. “Don’t jump any lights.” Carpenter got out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “I think I’ve been made, and I think it’s our friend. I’m in a cab, heading up Third Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street, and she’s right behind me. I’m going to the Carlyle hotel. Call the manager there and set me up quickly, get me registered. I don’t suppose you can get anybody there in ten minutes? I didn’t think so. No, don’t call the cops. We’re going to have to handle this the best way we can, and all by ourselves.” She hung up.

“That’s funny,” the driver said.

“What’s funny?”

“You didn’t have an English accent when you got into the cab.”

Carpenter handed him a fifty. “Forget you heard it,” she said. “Drop me at the hotel, leave your meter running, and don’t pick up a fare until you’re at least twenty blocks away, all right?”

The driver looked at the fifty. “Yes, ma’am!”

Carpenter got out of the cab at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance to the Carlyle and walked briskly to the front desk. “My name is Carpenter. May I have my key, please?”

The man at the desk looked at her for a moment, then opened a drawer and handed her a key. “High floor, interior suite, as requested,” he said.

“Anybody asks for me, call the number you were given,” she said. “There’ll be somebody here soon.”

“Sleep well,” the clerk said.

Carpenter got onto an elevator before she looked at the number taped to the key. She gave the operator the floor number. Her cell phone vibrated as soon as the elevator began to move. “Yes?”

“It’ll be twenty minutes before we can get a team into place,” the voice said.

“So long?”

“We’re scattered. Don’t answer the door until you get a call first.”

“Right.” She snapped the phone shut and got off the elevator. She found the door and let herself into a small suite, chaining the door behind her. The view was of an air shaft, but she closed the curtains anyway before turning on lights. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“All right,” she said, “check this: Name Ginger Harvey, lawyer, lives in the East Eighties.”

“Hold, please.”

She could hear the tapping of computer keys.

“East Eighty-first, near Lexington,” he said.

“Get somebody over there now. If no one answers, go in and call me back.” She hung up, shucked off her shoes, and paced the floor. It worried her that Ginger Harvey was real.

21

They finished their dinner quickly, and Stone went to the front desk. “The photographer who was here earlier,” he said to the woman. “Do you know where I can find him?”