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tied together somehow. The Jane Street Six. The murder of your son. The stolen paintings. The Hut of Horrors.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not well, Mr. Lockwood.”

“What did Billy Rowan tell you when he came to see you?”

“He asked for my forgiveness. And I gave it to him.”

Vanessa Hogan does not blink. She keeps her gaze steady. Her mouth barely moves, but I am convinced that she is smiling.

Then I say, “You know where Billy Rowan is, don’t you?”

She doesn’t move.

“Of course not,” she says in a voice that’s not even trying. “It’s getting late. I’d like you both to leave now.”

CHAPTER 18

Vanessa Hogan shuts down after that.

“Kind of blew that one,” Jessica says, as we head out the door.

We hadn’t, but I don’t want to get into that now.

As we slip into the back of the car, my phone rings. I put it to my ear and say, “Articulate.”

Jessica rolls her eyes.

Kabir says, “You want the whole story, or should I cut to the chase?”

“Oh, please draw it out and be extra verbose. You know how I love that.”

“The black Lincoln tailing you belongs to Nero Staunch’s crew.”

I would ask him how he knows, but I’d encouraged him to cut to the chase and so he had. Kabir tells me anyway: “It was registered to a craft beer place the family uses as a front. By the way, do you know who runs the Staunch crew now?”

“I do not.”

“Leo Staunch.”

“Okay,” I say. “And that matters because…?”

“Leo Staunch is Nero’s nephew. More to the point, Leo is Sophia Staunch’s baby brother.”

“Ah,” I say. “Interesting.”

“Not to mention dangerous.”

“Where is this black Lincoln now?”

“Open up the map app on your iPhone. I’ve dropped a pin from the tracker device, so you can keep tabs on it.”

“Okay, good. Anything else?”

“Remember how yesterday tons of media outlets wanted interviews because your Vermeer had been found at a murder scene?”

“Yes.”

“Now imagine adding onto that the murder victim was Ry Strauss.”

It would indeed be a feeding frenzy. “What are you telling them?”

“I’ve learned how to say ‘No comment’ in twelve languages.”

“Thank you.”

“Ei kommenttia,” Kabir says. “That’s Finnish.”

“Anything else?”

“Tomorrow morning. You have Ema for breakfast.”

The one appointment I would never miss or forget.

I hang up. Jessica stares out the window.

“Would you like to go for an early dinner?” I ask her.

She considers it for a moment, and then says, “Why not?”

We arrive at the grill room at the Lotos Club, an elegant private social club whose early members include Mark Twain. It’s located in a French Renaissance town house on the Upper East Side. The grill room is in the basement. It is all dark woods and rich burgundy walls. The bar is front and center. Men must wear a jacket and a tie, something you rarely find in Manhattan anymore; some consider this dress code outdated, but I relish these old-world touches.

Charles, the head waiter, recommends the sole meunière, and Jessica and I both choose it. I select a Château Haut Bailly, a Bordeaux wine from the Pessac-Léognan appellation. Their whites are underrated.

I feel my phone buzz and excuse myself. You never pull out your phone at the Lotos Club. You instead make your way into a private phone booth, the only place where you are allowed to use it. As expected, it’s PT. I answer.

“Articulate.”

“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” PT says. “As you can imagine, it’s been an insane day.”

“Anything new on your end?”

“Nothing worth reporting. You any closer to catching my killer?”

“Killers,” I say. “Plural.”

“You think there’s more than one?”

“You don’t?”

“I’m really only interested in the one.”

PT was talking about Arlo Sugarman, of course—the man he’d witnessed shoot his partner, Patrick O’Malley. “Here,” I say, “our interests may differ.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “What do you need from me?”

“There was a robbery at the Bank of Manhattan four months ago,” I say.

“Okay, so?”

“I need to know everything I can about it, especially suspected perpetrators.”

“Bank of Manhattan,” he repeats. “I think we caught one of them.”

That surprises me. “Where is he?”

“How do you know it’s not a she?”

“Where is she?”

“It’s a he. I just want you to be woke, Win.”

I wait.

“I’ll look into it.”

“Also, do you have anything on the shell company Strauss set up to buy his apartment and pay his bills?”

“It’s anonymous. You of all people know how hard it is to get information.”

Oh, I do. “You can still find out the setup date, the state, the attorney, perhaps even the bank used to pay the bills. Someone was paying for Ry Strauss to live in the Beresford.”

“On it.”

I rejoin Jessica. The wine is opened. Jessica is, no surprise, delightful company. We laugh a lot. We finish one bottle and open a second. The sole is superb.

“Odd,” she says.

“What’s that?”

“Have we ever been alone before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We always had Myron in the room.”

“Feels like we still do,” I say.

“Yeah, I know.” Jessica blinks and reaches for the glass. “I really messed up.”

I don’t correct her.

“My marriage sucks,” she says.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you?”

“I am now.”

“Did you hate me when I left Myron?”

“Hate probably isn’t the right word.”

“What is?”

“Loathe.”

She laughs and raises her glass. “Touché.”

“I’m joking,” I say. “In truth, you never mattered to me.”

“That’s honest.”

“I never saw you as a separate entity.”

“Just a part of Myron?”

“Yes.”

“Like an appendage?”

“Not that relevant, frankly. Like an arm or a leg? No. Never that important.”

She tries again. “Like a small satellite orbiting him?”

“Closer,” I say. “In the end, you caused Myron pain. That’s all I cared about. How you affected him.”

“Because you love him.”

“I do, yes.”

“It’s sweet. So maybe you understand better now.”

“I don’t,” I say. “But go on, if you wish.”

“Myron was such a big presence,” Jessica says.

“Still is.”

“Exactly. He sucks all the air out of the room. He dominates by just being there. When I was with him, my writing suffered. Did you know that?”

I try not to scowl. “And you’re blaming him?”

“I’m blaming us. He’s not a planet I’m orbiting. He’s the sun. When I was