“When I called this same number a few minutes ago, I spoke to someone named Gregory.”

“Scott Waller.”

“Okay, I get it.” But now he asked himself again why she had mentioned Miller Tanner — his first thought made no sense. She was a kidnap victim; an unpleasant feeling would be the least of it. “Where is Gregory now?”

“Shootin’ pool, crushin’ beer cans on his forehead.”

Their private Kalispell language for Who knows? Merrill said, “He’s using the time we’re talking to trace my call. I was told Chino loves his electronic toys and that he has all the latest.”

“You’ve been a busy boy, Merrill. You don’t even sound like you.”

Busy boy, and calling him by his last name was even more private language. “You have no idea,” he said.

“I’m ready. But here comes Gregory, and he’s got a big shit-eating grin on his face. Gotta jam, kiddo. You, too.” And, so quickly he barely had time to feel a stab of alarm, she was gone.

Shaken, Merrill hung up, quickly crossed Halfmoon Street and got into a waiting taxi. He gave the driver the paper on which he had written Ruiz’s address as O’Malley had dictated it to him on board the Lear jet. Merrill had already called Ruiz’s number again and had gotten an answering machine. He was still asking himself about Mildred Tanner. No, Amy had said like being at Mildred Tanner’s.

He waited for a passing street to allow a view of the hills to the east. On the next block a stucco cathedral rose against the sky, and as the taxi passed, the moon raced behind the steeple. Amy had just told him she been taking a moonlight dip. And Mildred Tanner had lived on the east side of town.

Amy takes it to the hoop.

While her husband consoled himself with some of her highest praise, Merrill was a busy boy when he pleased and surprised her, whether it involved planting a tree she had been thinking about in the front yard or something more intimate between them. What he could not help seeing was that she was the one in danger, and she had found the strength to reassure him.

The clock on the dashboard indicated a little after nine-thirty. Originally Chino, whoever he was, the genius, had wanted him. O’Malley had asked, how do you know you haven’t been set up? By whom? When had it begun? Finding Ghost had seemed an incredible stroke of luck. Made to order: an abandoned, disabled sailboat packed to the gunwales with drugs and money. How had it gotten there? Dismasted in relatively tranquil seas? Who would have done that?