Meanwhile, there was Charlotte.

God, what had he been thinking when he married her? That he would turn that lump of clay into something worth keeping? She’d been a little nothing of a London schoolteacher when they met; now she was a little nothing of an American housewife. It was like some kind of cruel joke—on him.

One thing was certain. Mrs. Nicholson would definitely not be making the trip east, or wherever he ended up. The only question was whether he should find someone to finish her off—just one more body at this point, and well worth the twenty or thirty thousand it would cost. Anything to keep that gob of hers from flapping after he was gone.

It was just after four a.m. when Nicholson finally got home. His mind was still racing as he came down the short, curved slope of his driveway, and he nearly rear-ended the black Jeep four-door parked right in front of the garage.

“What the hell?”

His first cogent thoughts were of the disk in his glove box, and of Zeus. Jesus, was it possible somebody already knew about the recording? Could it be true?

Not wanting to find out, Nicholson jammed the car into reverse, but even that was too little, too late.

A fat man was already at his side window, pointing a handgun and shaking his head no.

Chapter 39

WHAT WAS THIS—The Sopranos? It certainly looked like it to Nicholson.

There were two of them. A second hoodlum-looking gent stepped into the glow of the headlights, pointing another gun at his face.

The fat one opened Nicholson’s door for him and then stepped back. The guy’s mouth hung open a little, and his cheap golf shirt was tucked in, leaving an impressive curve of belly suspended in midair. It seemed inconceivable that someone as sloppy as this should be working for Zeus—which left the obvious question.

“Who the hell are you?” Nicholson asked. “What do you want with me?”

“We work for Mr. Martino.” The accent was New York, or Boston, or something. East Coast American.

Nicholson slowly got out of the car, keeping both hands in sight. “Okay, then, who the hell is Mr. Martino?” he asked.

“No more stupid questions.” The corpulent thug gestured Nicholson toward the house. “Let’s go inside. We’re right behind you, bub.”

It occurred to Nicholson that he’d already be dead if this were a straightforward hit. So that meant they wanted something else. What?

They were barely inside the front door when Charlotte Nicholson’s thin, very irritating voice came seeping down from the upstairs hall. “Babe? Who’s that with you? Isn’t it late for guests?”

“It’s nothing. Not your concern. Go back to bed, Charlotte.”

Even now, he felt like throttling her, just for being where she shouldn’t be.

Her bare splayed feet and legs came into the light from the foyer as she took a step down. “What’s going on?” she called out again.

“Did you not hear me? Go. Now.” She seemed to pick up on his tone, anyway, and floated back into the darkness. “Stay up there,” he told her. “I’ll come get you later. Go to sleep.”