Sometime after midnight his iPhone made the sound that indicated he was receiving an e-mail. He couldn’t sleep anyway, so he opened the e-mail; it was from Bob, his tech advisor:

Stone, I’ve made some enhancements to my tracking app. You can now replay up to 24 hours of the tracking of a subject. Useful to see where he went yesterday. Try it out.

Stone yawned and opened the app. He selected 24 hours from a menu and pressed the Play button. Boris’s green dot appeared, and Stone zoomed in to get a street location, which turned out to be Claridge’s Hotel. He scrolled through the hours as the green dot moved around the West End to several stops and came back to the hotel. Then an odd thing happened: Gala’s yellow dot appeared on the screen and became superimposed on the green dot. It was one PM yesterday, and Gala was at Claridge’s. The yellow dot remained there for more than an hour, then moved offscreen. Stone zoomed out and watched as the yellow dot traveled to the King’s Road, in Chelsea, location of the Chelsea Flower Show. At about three-thirty, the dot moved across London to Waterloo Station, then moved south toward Southampton, arriving at the station a little after six.

Stone switched off the phone. That was twice in twenty-four hours that Gala had been at the same location as Tirov. Stone didn’t like coincidences.

He got into a dressing gown and went down to the library, taking Felicity’s report on Tirov with him. It was ten hours earlier in L.A. He called the Bel-Air Arrington and asked for the restaurant manager.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

“Do you remember a while back you told me that you had had Boris Tirov ejected from the restaurant and the property, because he had slugged a movie critic?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

“Who was the critic?”

“James Towbin, of the Los Angeles Times.”

“Do you happen to have a fax number for Mr. Towbin?”

“Let me check my computer. He has a charge account here, so I probably do. Ah, here it is. Would you like his home or office fax number?”

“Home, please.”

The man gave him the number. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Barrington?”

“No. Thanks for your help.” He hung up and went to the cupboard that housed the fax machine. He had set it up himself, and he remembered that he had not specified that his name or fax number appear on faxes sent, so a fax received would be anonymous. He faxed Felicity’s report to James Towbin.