“Three reasons: first, because they like it and they know it would have cost them twice that to produce it themselves; second, because they think they will make a lot of money on it; and third, because you have a very good agent.”

Peter and Hattie were hugging.

Tim Rutledge stood outside the house in Turtle Bay and watched the two large men hustle Peter Barrington and a young girl into the downstairs law office. A couple of minutes later, the men put the car into the garage, then left, walking toward Third Avenue. Rutledge took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled in a rush. Now was the time; it wouldn’t get any better. He would be in Mexico tomorrow.

He unbuttoned his coat to access the shotgun, which hung by a strap from his right shoulder. The weapon was loaded and racked; all he had to do was release the safety and fire, after he had had a few words with Mr. Barrington. He wouldn’t kill Barrington, just his son. Then the man could live the rest of his life with his grief. He started across the street toward the downstairs door of the house.

Inside, the doorbell chimed, and Joan reached for the button that released the door. She was expecting Herbie Fisher, who had requested a meeting with Stone. She pressed the button.

She heard the door open, and a man she had never seen walked in, pulled back his coat, and pointed a shotgun at her. “Be quiet,” he said. He walked to her desk, unplugged her telephone, and took it with him. “If you leave this office, I’ll kill you, too,” he said, then he disappeared down the hall toward Stone’s office. Now Joan knew exactly who he was, and there wasn’t time to dig out her cell phone and call the police.

Stone looked up and saw a man coming down the hall, carrying a shotgun in a firing position. He stood up as he recognized Tim Rutledge—bearded, but himself, nevertheless.

Peter and Hattie jumped to their feet, too.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” Rutledge said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge,” Stone replied. “How much time would you like to do?”

Rutledge looked confused. “What?”

“One to five for assault, five to twenty for manslaughter, or life without parole for first-degree murder?” Stone was playing for time; he didn’t know what else to do. “Also, New York State has the death penalty.”

Rutledge took a moment to sort that out, and Stone saw Joan come out of her office and begin to creep silently down the hall.

“I’m going to kill your son,” Rutledge said.

“And why would you want to do that?” Stone asked, edging toward Peter.

Hattie reflexively stepped between Peter and the shotgun.

“Get out of the way, young lady,” Rutledge said, “or I’ll kill you, too.”