12

“So my daughter’s in Tampa,” Trevor Stone said.

“Mr. Stone,” Angie said, “did you hear what we said?”

He tightened his smoking jacket at his throat, looked at her through bleary eyes. “Yes. Two men believe she’s dead.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “But from what we’ve heard of this Jeff Price, he doesn’t seem like the type who’d keep a woman as noticeable as your daughter with him while he tries to lie low. So the Tampa lead…”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. His eyes clenched shut and he seemed to be biting back against something acidic. His face was slick with sweat and paler than bleached bone. Yesterday morning, he’d been prepared for us, and he’d used his cane and dressed smartly and presented the figure of a frail but proud and resilient warrior.

Tonight, however, with no time to prepare for our arrival, he sat in the wheelchair Julian told us he used three quarters of the time now, his mind and body exhausted by cancer and the chemotherapy trying to combat it. His hair stuck out in wispy static tufts from his head and his voice was a thin whisper soaked in gravel.

“It’s a lead, however,” he said, his eyes still closed, tremulous fist pressed to his mouth. “Maybe that’s where Mr. Becker disappeared to also. Hmm?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“How soon can you leave?”

“Huh?” Angie said.

He opened his eyes. “For Tampa. Could you be ready first thing in the morning?”

“We’d have to make flight arrangements,” I said.

He scowled. “Flight arrangements are unnecessary. Julian can pick you up first thing in the morning and take you to my plane.”

“Your plane,” Angie said.

“Find my daughter or Mr. Becker or Mr. Price.”

“Mr. Stone,” Angie said. “It’s a long shot.”

“Fine.” He coughed into his fist, closed his eyes again for a moment. “If she’s alive, I want her found. If she’s dead, I need to know. And if this Mr. Price is behind her death, will you do something for me?”

“What?” I said.

“Would you be so kind as to kill him?”

The air in his room suddenly felt like ice.

“No,” I said.

“You’ve killed people before,” he said.

“Never again,” I said as he turned his head toward the window. “Mr. Stone.”

He turned his head back, looked at me.

“Never again,” I repeated. “Is that understood?”

He closed his eyes, lay his head back against the headrest in his wheelchair, and waved us from the room.

“You see a man who is closer to dust than flesh,” Julian said as he held Angie’s coat in the marble foyer.