“No! I want to get the charges reduced to a misdemeanor and get him probation. He’s got a court appearance in about thirty-six hours, and if he misses it, it’s going to cost me a hell of a lot of money.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the kid, Stone.”

“Don’t talk to him, let me do that. If he somehow gets there before I do, play dumb and sit on him.”

“Whatever you say,” Cantor replied.

Stone hung up. “We’re going to Red Hook.”

“I want to go to bed,” Dino said. “It’s midnight.”

“Later.” Stone began picking his way toward Red Hook.

Carpenter jumped. There had been a noise outside her door. She grabbed her handbag, extracted the little Walther, and screwed in a silencer. The Carlyle would not appreciate gunfire in their hallways. She ran across the room in her bare feet and checked the peephole. Nobody visible. She flattened herself against the wall and waited.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped again. She didn’t open it.

“Carpenter!” somebody said from the hall.

She checked the peephole again. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Mason,” he replied.

He wouldn’t use that handle if he were at gunpoint. She unchained the door and opened it, stepping back, the pistol ready, just in case.

Mason walked in. “It’s all right, I’m alone.”

“Why the hell are you alone?” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we’re dealing with?”

“Of course I know who we’re dealing with,” he said in his upper-class drawl.

“And why didn’t you call before you came up? I could have shot you.”

“I was supposed to call?”

“Oh, never mind. Where is everybody?”

“I sent two men to the Harvey apartment. We’re waking up more.”

“She’s around this hotel somewhere,” Carpenter said, “I can feel it.”

“Give me a description, and I’ll circulate it.”

“Early thirties, five-five, a little under nine stone, medium brown hair, shoulder length, black eyes . . .”

“Black eyes? Nobody has black eyes.”

“All right, very dark brown. She’s dressed in a business suit, carrying a handbag that looks like a briefcase. God knows what’s in there.”

Mason produced a cell phone and made a call. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”

“I’d like it if we could bag her on our own,” Carpenter replied. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

Mason shrugged. “Why share victory with the NYPD or the FBI?”

The telephone rang, and Carpenter waited for Mason to get to an extension before answering. They picked up simultaneously. “Yes?”

“We’re in the Harvey flat,” a man said. “It’s clean as a whistle.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Carpenter said.

“Hang on, we’re checking the garden.”

Carpenter hung on for a very long time before the man came back.

“We’ve got a corpse—female, might be thirty, medium height and weight.”

“Got her where?”