“Phil!” Barrett jumped up and met him for a handshake that they both held for thirty seconds too long.

“Just wanted to say hello.”

“So glad you did. Coffee?”

“No, no. Can’t linger.”

Under the tweed jacket, Duvall wore a waistcoat and a woolen tie. Barrett stole a glance down, expecting to find wellies on his feet. But no, only a pair of sturdy leather brogues.

“Just wanted to pop in and check that all’s well.”

“Glad you did.”

“That brouhaha last night—that’s all taken care of, is it?”

“In progress,” Barrett said, tight-lipped. “In fact, the detectives are on their way over here now to review a few details. Be great if you could join us.”

“No, no. Wouldn’t want to step on your toes. Anyway, I’m afraid I have to be going. Off to Tours tonight!”

“Give my best to Madame.”

“Yes, yes, and give my love to Andrea, won’t you?”

Andrea was Barrett’s first wife, divorced eight years ago. “I sure will,” he said.

BARRETT SEETHED FOR a full ten minutes after he left. That brouhaha. As if Lucy’s death were some kind of minor dustup. He knew Duvall’s game. By downplaying the whole thing, he thought he could maintain his plausible deniability. As if such a thing existed. If Barrett went down, so would Duvall. He was the one who got Madame de Martineau’s blessing for the scheme, and he was the one who massaged the numbers to make it work, and Barrett had him on tape confirming all of the above. Or rather, on a digital voice recording that was now tucked into Barrett’s wall safe at home under the cash and jewelry.

“The detectives have arrived, Mr. Barrett.” Marcia’s voice came through the speaker. “Mr. Culligan’s assistant has shown them to the theater.”

“Ma Belle, show me the theater,” Barrett commanded the box on his desk, and instantly the screen lit up with a shot of the auditorium on twenty-nine. Detectives Riley and Cruz were waiting there, as he’d instructed. They were sitting in the front row, their butts sunk deep into the plush upholstered chairs. But they’d resisted any temptation to recline them: their seatbacks were in the locked and upright position.

Riley’s eyes were closed, and they both looked like they were dead on their asses. They’d have to be, after fifteen hours on this case and without the benefit of the fear-induced adrenaline that was keeping Barrett alert. By now they’d be desperate to wrap this up. They’d be willing to accept any reasonable theory.

Time to check in on Culligan. “Ma Belle, show me backstage left,” he said, and the video cut to Jack Culligan waiting in the wings. His lips were moving soundlessly, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He looked like he was rehearsing his lines. He was too nervous, and Barrett worried that he might be the next weak link in the chain. He’d need close watching.

“Ma Belle, connect me to Jack Culligan.” Barrett watched as Culligan pressed the wire at his ear and the call connected. “All set, Jack?”