“Yes. Don’t shoot anybody. Even if you’re right, and if you remain safe, you’ll be in for a lot of bother, and it’s not worth it. That’s unless the other guy shoots you first, then you don’t have a choice.”

Half an hour later, Laurence left with his gun in a hip holster and a box of cartridges, an extra magazine, and a cleaning kit in a bag.

Once home, he put the pistol and cartridges in the back of a bedside drawer, where Theresa would be unlikely to see it.

—

ALMOST SIMULTANEOUSLY, an editor at a tabloid, the National Inquisitor, took a phone call in his Miami, Florida, office. “This is Pat Bolton,” he said.

“Hi, this is Chip, in Santa Fe. Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, Chip, you helped us out on that junkie actress last year.”

“That’s me. I’ve got something else for you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know the guy who won the Powerball a few weeks back?”

“L. B. Hayward? Right. We haven’t been able to pin him down.”

“I got him in Santa Fe.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Bolton was skeptical. “Tell me exactly how you tracked him down.”

“My mother is friends with a lady who sells real estate, Diana Zill. She came over the other night for a drink, all excited. She had just sold this big spec house out on the north side of town.”

“And you think Hayward bought it?”

“Well, it’s like this—the guy wrote a check on the spot for the full amount and moved in the same day, so he had no shortage of ready cash.”

“And that was Hayward?”

“Diana showed my mom the contract, and I got a look at it. The name of the buyer was Theresa Crane.”

“Not Hayward?”

“Haven’t you seen the spread in People?”

“Not yet, I guess.”

“Hayward’s got a girlfriend.”

“Ahhh,” Bolton said, “now that’s good work, Chip. Did you get any photographs?”

“Not yet. I was out there, but I got rousted by a guy with a flashlight, so I guess he must have some security around the place.”

“Well, I’m going to need at least one good photograph, Chip. You got the balls to get that for me? There’s a grand in it for you, if you do.”

“Oh, I got the balls, and a camera with a long lens, too.”

“That’s the boy! E-mail it to me.” He gave him the address. “How soon can you get it for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Go get him, Chip!” Bolton hung up. “Sheri, bring me the new People.” She did and he flipped through the magazine and found the article. He read it twice, and there was no mention of a Theresa Crane. “Shit!!!” he screamed.

“What’s the matter, Pat?” Sheri asked.

“I’m on the hook for a grand, and the girl’s name isn’t in the piece.”