“That sounds like a very small news item,” Stavro said. “How did you happen to come across it?” For the first time in the conversation, possibly for the first time ever, Stavro seemed interested in what Ron might say next.

“Well,” Ron said casually, “Bouvier Lait. I mean . . .” He gestured at Stavro, at both of them. “Bouvier Lait.”

“So . . . you’ve been researching?”

“The best investment guidance,” Ron said, “is the product of diligent research.” He had read that somewhere, some big firm’s ad.

Stavro nodded, almost pleasantly, then, also apparently struck by a new thought, turned back to Majid. “This ‘accidental’ listing of your firm’s name on one of my trades. How did that happen? Can you enlighten me?”

Afterward, Majid was afraid he had hesitated too long before answering. He was very careful not to look at Ron. “A bank from which we borrowed shares, they know us there, so the person entering the trade, she knew it came from us, she didn’t look at the name of the anonymous entity on the form. The order came from us so she just assumed it was in our name.”

Majid stopped there. It was already a very long explanation. Possibly too long, he thought. His only consolation—Ron didn’t leap up during his speech and take credit for the “accident.”

Majid looked at Stavro for his reaction.

There was, as usual, none.

Rehearsal

REHEARSAL

Barnstable looked across the dining room table over the remains of his Saturday lunch (baguette, paté, tomatoes) at his wife. He could see the streak of undyed gray in the central part of her hair. She was only forty-three. “I just wanted to let you know,” he said, “how sorry we all are for your loss.”

“That’s very kind, detective. Are you sure you don’t want to come in and have a nightcap before you drive back to the station?”

“Well,” Barnstable said, “I am on duty. But I guess that would be all right.”

“I think it would be more than all right,” his wife said, and she winked. “I make an excellent breakfast. Wait. Let me say that again. I’m supposed to be seducing you. Did I sound like I was trying to seduce you?” She picked up her tea and took a sip.

Barnstable looked up from the script in his lap. It had been a long time since his wife had tried to seduce him, so he wasn’t sure how to answer the question. “Who wrote this script?” he said. “It sounds like a bad TV cop show.”

“Jeffrey, our artistic director. He wanted us to try something original this season.”

Barnstable knew who Jeffrey was. The little gay guy who got his rocks off tormenting the husbands his loyal corps of actresses dragged to productions of their amateur English-language theater troupe. Half-assed Noel Coward was bad enough, but this . . .