I took the briefcase up to my room, where I locked the door and chained it. Then I sat at the kitchen table, loaded seven cartridges in the clip, and smacked it home. This was my new handgun. A Davis .32, chrome and walnut, with a five-and-a-quarter-inch barrel. My old gun had gotten blown to kingdom come when the bomb went off in my apartment. This one weighed a tidy twenty-two ounces and already felt like an old friend, with the added virtue that the sights were accurate. It was 1:00 A.M. I was feeling a deadly rage by then and I didn't really expect to sleep. I turned the light out and pulled the fishnet drapes across the glass doors, which I felt compelled to keep locked. I peered out at the empty street. The surf was pounding monotonously, the sound reduced to a mild rumble through the glass. The muffled foghorn intoned its hollow warning to any boats at sea. The sky was dense with clouds, moon and stars blanked out. Without fresh air coming in, the room felt like a prison cell, stuffy and dank. I left my clothes on and got in bed, sitting bolt upright, my gaze pinned on the sliding glass doors, half expecting to see a shadowy figure slip over the railing from below. The sodium-vapor streetlights washed the balcony with a tawny glow. The incoming light was filtered by the curtains. The neon "vacancy" sign had begun to sputter off and on, causing the room to pulsate with red. Someone knew where I was. I'd told a lot of people I was staying at the Ocean Street, but not which room. I got up again and padded over to the table, where I picked up my file notes and tucked them in my briefcase. From now on, I'd take them with me. From now on, I'd tote the gun with me, too. I got back in bed.

At 2:47 A.M. the phone rang and I jumped a foot, unaware that I'd been asleep. The jolt of adrenaline made my heart clatter in my chest like a slug of white-hot metal on a stone floor. Fear and the shrilling of the phone became one sensation. I snatched up the receiver. "Yes?"

His tone was low. "It's me."

Even in the dark, I squinted. "Bailey?"

"You alone?"

"Of course. Where are you?"

"Don't worry about that. I don't have much time. Bert knows it's me, and I don't want to take a chance on his calling the cops."

"Forget it. They can't get a trace on a call that fast," I said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. How are things there, pretty bad?"

I gave him a brief rundown on what was happening. I didn't dwell on Royce's collapse because I didn't want to worry him, but I did mention that someone had broken in. "Was it you, by any chance?"