Stone looked at the key. It said Bentley. He dug into the plastic bag and found the remote control, opened the garage door. There was a shiny green Bentley Flying Spur inside. A promotion!

Joan came into the garage and hugged him. “I’m so glad you are all right. When I heard about it I thought I was out of a job.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stone said.

“Just to cheer you up, Herbie is waiting for you.”

“Swell,” Stone said. He walked into his office and found Herbie asleep on the sofa.

Herbie stirred and raised his head. “Hey, Stone.”

“Hello, Herbie.”

“I hear you spread your car around half of Connecticut.”

“Close.”

Herbie sat up. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For getting my money out of Jack’s business.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s a mess all over again.”

“What’s a mess?”

“The Gunn company. TV says they got away with nearly two billion.”

“Herbie, start at the beginning.”

“Stephanie and David. She came home from the office yesterday and told me to pack a bag and come with her. I did, and we drove out to Teterboro, where there was a Boeing Business Jet waiting. David and his girl were there, too.”

“Go on.”

“Stephanie said we were going to the South Pacific, to Attola. I asked her when we were coming back, and she said we weren’t, unless I wanted to live in a federal prison.”

“And why are you still here?”

“I told her she didn’t tell me we were leaving the country, so I didn’t bring my passport. And you know what she did?”

“No, Herbie.”

“She kissed me and said, ‘Well, fuck you, kid; you’re out.’ Then she got on the plane and they left. I didn’t hear anything else until this morning, on TV.”

Stone began to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Herbie asked.

“I was just thinking that there are two very pissed-off ladies right about now in the DA’s and the U.S. Attorney’s offices.”

“If you say so,” Herbie replied. “Oh, there are some guys in your waiting room that want to talk to us.”

“Us?”

“They’re FBI agents. I told them I wouldn’t have anything to say until my attorney arrived, and Joan said you were on the way, so they waited.”

“Okay, Herbie,” Stone said, hanging his tattered coat on the back of his chair and sitting down at his desk. “Trot ’em in here and let’s see if we can get you out of this one.”

And Herbie did.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again I am grateful to my agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, for their tireless efforts on my behalf over the past thirty years. They are peerless.

Again I am grateful to my editor at Putnam, Rachel Kahan; my publisher, Ivan Held; my publicist, Michael Barson; and all their colleagues for keeping my career on the boil.

AUTHOR’S NOTE