Marcena had finished with Buffalo Bill; I turned my back on young William and headed down the hall with her. Once we were clear of the office, her shoulders sagged and she dropped her perky grin.

“I am so fagged!” she said.

“You should be; you’ve done a full day’s work this last hour, what with Pete, and Buffalo Bill. I’m a little beat, myself. Is there really a Julian Love who flew Hurricanes in the war?”

She smiled mischievously. “Not exactly. But my father’s tutor at Cambridge did, and when I was up, I used to have tea with him once or twice a term. I heard all the stories; I think I can fake it.”

“I don’t suppose he flew out of Wattisham, either.”

“It was Nacton, but Buffalo Bill won’t remember after all these years what one airfield or another looked like. I mean—he thinks I’m old enough to have a father who flew in the war!”

“And the photographs of your father, I suppose, will get lost in the mail. Sad, really, because they were taken before digital photography, and now they can’t be replaced.”

She gave a loud shout of laughter that made several people stare at us. “Something like that, Vic, something very like that, hnnh, hnnh.”

13

Hired Gun

Thursday started early, with a call from my answering service. I was luxuriating in a private morning with Morrell—I hadn’t seen Marcena since dropping her off after yesterday’s prayer service. I’d gotten up to turn on Morrell’s fancy espresso machine. I was turning pirouettes in the hall, happy to be able to prance around naked, when I heard my cell phone ringing in my briefcase.

I don’t know why I didn’t just let it go—that Pavlovian response to the bell, I suppose. Christie Weddington, the operator with my answering service who’s known me longest, felt entitled to be severe.

“It’s someone from the Bysen family, Vic: he’s already called three times.”

I stopped dancing. “It’s seven fifty-eight, Christie. Which one of the great men?”

It was William Bysen, whom I thought of as “Mama Bear,” sandwiched between Buffalo Bill and Billy the Kid. I resented the interruption, but I hoped it might mean good news: Ms. Warshawski, your fearless disposition and your brilliant proposal have caused us to shred one of our billions into forty thousand small pieces for the Bertha Palmer school.

Christie gave me William’s office number. His secretary was, of course, already at her post: when the big gun starts firing early, the subalterns are there ready to load.

“Is this Ms. Warshawski? It is? Do you normally make people wait this long before you get back to them?”

That didn’t sound exactly like the harbinger of glad tidings. “Actually, Mr. Bysen, I’m usually too busy to return calls this fast. What’s up?”