“Ninety-two percent of it goes into a private trust in his name. I have power of attorney to release from that trust a certain percentage of interest earned each year to the aforementioned medical research companies. The rest remains in the trust and accrues.”

“What medical research companies?”

He turned from the window. “Those specializing in cryogenic research.”

I almost laughed. “The crazy bastard is going to freeze himself?”

He nodded. “Until there’s a cure for his cancer. And when he wakes, he’ll still be one of the richest men in the world because the interest on his money alone will keep him current with inflation into the year 3000.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “If he’s dead or frozen or whatever, how’s he keep an eye on his money?”

“How does he keep me or my successors from stealing it?”

“Yes.”

“Private accounting firm.”

I leaned against the wall for a moment, took it all in. “But, that private accounting firm only kicks into action once he’s dead or frozen. Right?”

He closed his eyes and nodded.

“And when does he intend to deep-freeze?”

“Tomorrow.”

I laughed. It was so blatantly absurd.

“Don’t laugh. He’s crazy. He’s not to be taken lightly, though. I don’t believe in cryogenics. But what if I’m wrong and he’s right, Mr. Kenzie? He’ll dance on our graves.”

“Not if you change the will,” I said. “That’s the one loophole in his plan, isn’t it? Even if he checks the will before he climbs in his cooler or whatever the hell it is, you can still change or replace it with another, can’t you?”

He sucked from the Evian bottle. “It’s delicate, but possible.”

“Brilliant. Where’s Desiree now?”

“I have no idea.”

“Okay. Grab your coat.”

“What?”

“You’re coming with me, Daniel.”

“I’m doing no such thing. I have meetings. I have—”

“I have several bullets in my gun and they’re calling their own meeting. Know what I mean?”

37

We hailed a cab on State Street and rode against the morning rush hour traffic down into Dorchester.

“How long have you worked for Trevor?” I said.

“Since 1970.”

“More than a quarter of a century,” I said.

He nodded.

“But you sold that out in a few hours last night for a touch of his daughter’s flesh.”

He reached down and straightened the crease in his trousers until the cuff of his pants settled just so on his gleaming shoes.

“Trevor Stone,” he said and cleared his throat, “is a monster. He treats people like commodities. Worse than commodities. He buys, sells, and trades them, dumps them in the garbage when they’re no longer of use to him. His daughter, I admit, I long thought to be his opposite. The first time we made love—”

“When was this?”

He straightened his tie. “Seven years ago.”

“When she was sixteen.”