“I told you everything at lunch. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll be there with a cop,” Stone said. “Where do I go?”

“We’re broadcasting from what the network calls the ‘executive studios,’ on the top floor of their headquarters building on Seventh Avenue. You know the building?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave your name with the security guard—and what’s the name of your cop?”

“Bacchetti. What time?”

“Be there at a quarter to eleven, sharp, and go straight to the control room and stay there. We go on the air, live, at eleven thirty, and I don’t want Barron to see you.”

When Stone hung up, he was starting to feel excited.

At noon Saturday, Stone called Dino’s new apartment in the West Village. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Is Dino back in town yet?”

“No, who is this?”

“This is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, yes, we met at the wedding. This is Mary Ann’s mother. I’m just over here tidying up a little so the place will be nice when they get in.”

“What time are they due, Mrs. Bianchi?”

“I’m not sure exactly. They were supposed to come home last night, but Dino was on a winning streak, and they missed their plane. He said they’d get whatever flight was available today. Dino wanted Sunday to rest before going back to work.”

“I see. Mrs. Bianchi, would you write a note to Dino and ask him to call me the moment he gets in? Say that it’s important.”

“Okay, I’ll tack it to the door, so he’ll be sure to see it.”

Stone thanked her and hung up.

The day droned on with no word from Dino, and Stone began calling every hour on the hour. There was no answer. At seven thirty, he got out his tuxedo and began to get dressed. At eight, he called Dino again and still got no reply. At eight thirty, the doorbell rang. Stone thought about it for a moment, then he retrieved his badge and gun from the dresser drawer and strapped on the ankle holster.

When Stone opened the front door, a limousine was at curbside and a mustachioed, uniformed chauffeur stood on the stoop. Stone asked the chauffeur to wait. He went to the living-room phone and called Dino’s number again.

“Yeah?” Dino—sleepy, exhausted.

“Dino, it’s Stone, hang on.” He ran back to the front door. “What address are you taking me to?” he asked the chauffeur.

“Sorry, sir,” the man said, with what seemed to be an Italian accent, “I can’t tell you; it’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m not supposed to wait either; I’ve got a schedule to keep. If you can’t come now, I’ll have to leave.”

“I’ll be right with you,” Stone said and ran for the phone again. “Dino.”

“Huh?”