Dedication: Deaths of the Shah

Dedicated with love

to four fantastic women,

two beautiful granddaughters

and five handsome grandsons:

To Shirley, my wife, who gave me Cynthia, Rebcca and Melissa

To Cynthia, who gave us Logan and Riley

To Rebecca, who gave us Ryan and Zachary

To Melissa, who gave us Sam, McKenna and Dylan

.....what more could I ask for.

CHAPTER ONE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

The weather on the eastern slopes of the Zagros rarely had been hotter and drier this early in the summer. All but a few of the normally full runoff streams were now dry or slowed to a trickle. Sparse vegetation at this elevation offered little resistance to the searing mid-day sun, with reflected glare burning-out even the shadows cast by the rocky overhang bordering the rutted trail. However primitive, this twisting road through the mountain range was the shortest passage connecting the village of Deheq in the north with the trading center at Najafabad, more than a days journey southeast.

A heavily laden wagon inched its way over a rise, pulled by a lone mule, who at times seemed barely able to maintain headway. Rubble from frequent rockslides further impeded progress and caused the wagon to lurch wildly. The driver spoke continuously to the animal, first cajoling, then rebuking. The severe angle of a rear wheel went unnoticed as the old man concentrated on the treacherous trail ahead.

The wagon driver, Husein el Sadiq, was no stranger to the desolate province of Isfahan, having spent his entire life in these mountains. He had made this journey countless times since first accompanying his father as a small boy more than a half-century ago. He knew every rock formation and every turn in the road between his home, still hours away to the north, and the market where he traded figs, goat cheese and grapes for grain and other supplies. Today he had been on the move since dawn, and had stopped only twice; once to relieve himself, and once to eat his lunch of dried fish, black bread and cheese, in a small glen where he also refilled his waterskin from a stream - the last he knew he would find before home.

The rocky prominence bordering the right side of the road began to flatten as the wagon rounded a long bend. Gradually dropping to road level it revealed a panorama of fertile valley extending to the east as far as the eye could see. Rocky slopes sparsely tufted with green gave way to a stand of broadleaf timber, then rolling pasture and, disappearing in the distant haze, the quilted contrast of planted fields. Passing his favorite lookout, the old man stopped, as had become part of his regular routine, to admire the beauty and stark contrast of his world. Below, in a hillside clearing, he spotted sheep and goats and heard the shouts of two young shepherds as they herded their flock down a steep wash.

Until now, he had led a very uneventful and colorless life, probably influencing no one. What Husein el Sadiq could not know was that in less than five minutes he would start a chain of events that would forever alter the history of the world.

CHAPTER TWO

The two boys were paying little attention to their charges. Achmed leaped over a slab of rock as he darted between two sheep to the far side of the gully. He roared with laughter and then yelled again at his cousin Mohammed, who had stumbled and fallen. It seemed no matter how hard he tried, Mohammed could not master these tricky slopes that were his cousin's playground. More than anything, Mohammed wanted just once to out-jump and out-run Achmed. He may be almost a year older, Mohammed rationalized to himself, but he can outrun me through these rocksonly because he's spent most of his life up here with his smelly sheepand goats. Things would be different on the streets of my city. Besides, he smiled, being able to run like a mountain animal isn't as importantas other things - his sisters all say I am more handsome, particularlyKatarina.

Big for his age at twelve, Achmed outworked most of his father's hired hands, and was proud that his father considered him a man and gave him much responsibility. He loved his family and his home, but, even though he would not admit it to anybody, he was jealous of his visiting cousin. He was envious because Mohammed not only lived in the city in a big house with servants, but his father was the leader of the frontiersmen, the Cossacks, and everybody knew he was the most important and feared man in the province.

Despite his nagging envy, Achmed looked forward each year to early summer when his uncle brought Mohammed to spend the holiday. Even though his uncle stayed only a few hours, he came with gifts for the entire family and, before leaving, would pluck Achmed from the ground and take him for a whirlwind ride through the valley on his giant white stallion.

Besides his veiled resentment of Mohammed, Achmed had another perceived problem; being the youngest of six children. The other five were girls. Since he was after all his father's pet, this bothered Achmed only when his sisters persisted in treating him like a child and, worse, when they doted on Mohammed and told him how cute he was. But because he could physically intimidate his cousin, envy notwithstanding, he secretly enjoyed having Mohammed around each summer. By taking great pride in showing Mohammed how to gather and drive the sheep, and how to tend the other animals, it enabled Achmed to brag to his sisters that he was certainly somebody special, definitely not their little brother. And because many people said they looked more like brothers than cousins, he also loved to show everybody how he could outwit his little brother and beat him in games such as they were now playing.

Mohammed could not keep up and had disappeared from sight. Probably fell again, thought Achmed, or was he hiding on the other side of the gully? As Achmed scanned the rocky slope his attention was caught by something near the top of the rise; a wagon stopped up on the high trail, the driver apparently watching him. Suddenly, a wheel collapsed, sending the rear of the wagon down over the edge of the rise. The driver jumped to the ground and tried to halt the slide of the wagon with his body. Mesmerized, Achmed watched as the man and his mule strained to stop the wagon's backward motion, only to have the rim of the road crumble and break away. The traces snapped, the animal lurched forward, and the wagon slowly toppled over the edge, the driver disappearing beneath it. In an instant a cloud filled with dirt and rock grew until it seemed the entire upper slope was cascading down the wash directly toward him. Achmed knew he was trapped; his only hope was to get beyond the far crest of the gully. His screamed warning to Mohammed was lost in the thunderous roar.

Mohammed, exhausted and out of breath, had been hiding behind a huge slab of rock when the deafening noise started. The ground began to shake and, before he could react in any way, his feet were swept from under him, causing him to fall beneath a rocky outcropping just before the avalanche roared past. In the lee of the sheltering ledge he escaped the main rockslide, but was caught in the spreading dirt and rubble. Quickly covered, he panicked at the thought of being buried alive and kicked and clawed with all his strength. Finally freeing his arms, he pushed the dirt from his face and gagged as he spit the choking grit from his mouth. Crying, the tears caking the dirt in his eyes, Mohammed kicked even harder to free his legs. His shame at crying quickly turned to anger - anger at himself - when he realized what his father would say, and how he would be teased by Achmed and his uncle, if he was seen crying.

Hearing a cry and thinking it was Achmed, he grabbed at the ledge in front of him and scrambled upright. He heard the cry again, but then realized it wasn't human, it was a half-buried sheep just a few feet away. Thankfully, the deafening roar had stopped and the sun could be seen again through the settling clouds of dust. Squinting through the haze he yelled Achmed's name again and again, but the only sound came from the few surviving animals on the far side of the gully. Mohammed retched when he realized that most of the flock was probably buried under his feet, and his cousin might be with them. His first reaction was to run - run to his uncle's farm, about three kilometers down the valley. But the thought of his father stopped him; I must at least try to find Achmed. Father must be proud of me!

Still sobbing, he wiped his face and mouth on his sleeve and stepped carefully through the fallen rock. Moving toward the bottom of the wash he saw some splintered wood and a broken wagon wheel protruding from the rubble. Totally confused and not knowing where to begin, he began pulling at pieces of wood. He stopped when he thought he heard his name being called. Nothing. He screamed Achmed's name again and again, and then listened. From almost below his feet he heard a faint voice, "Mohammed, Mohammed, I'm here...under the wheel. I can't move. Be careful...I'm hurt bad."

"I'll be careful, don't worry. Keep talking so I know where you are."

But silence from beneath his feet led Mohammed to scream his cousin's name repeatedly. Digging with a piece of broken wood, he exposed a cavity below the wheel, in which he saw Achmed's ashen face. Seeing his closed eyes Mohammed yelled over and over, "Oh no, no, don't be dead, don't be dead!" For what seemed an eternity Mohammed dug and pried and pulled. His hands were bloody when he finally made an opening large enough to drag Achmed through. Eyes now partly open, and obviously in great pain, Achmed mumbled that he couldn't move his legs, and then lapsed again into unconsciousness. Mohammed shook Achmed in panic when he realized his cousin might really die before he could get help.

A strange animal noise caused him to look up, and he was surprised to see a large mule angling down the rocky slope toward them. Not having seen the incident that started the avalanche, Mohammed had no idea where the mule came from, but shuddered with relief when he realized that the mule might help him save his cousin. If only he could grab the dangling reins. Remembering a piece of leftover lunch bread in his pocket, he offered it and found the animal to be quite friendly, and easily led by the broken harness.

Mohammed was drenched with sweat when he finally succeeded in wrestling Achmed's lifeless body onto the mule. He lashed him in place as best he could with part of the reins and, shaking with fear and exhaustion, grabbed the mule's collar and began the long descent to the valley below.

CHAPTER THREE

Before reaching the road that led to the farm, the mule and boys were spotted by a farmhand who had been working on a perimeter fence. Having talked with both boys early that morning, the farmhand knew something was wrong when he saw the limp figure on the back of a strange mule. Minutes later he intercepted them in his horse-drawn tool wagon. After a quick look at the unconscious boy, without a word to Mohammed the farmhand untied Achmed from the mule and carefully lifted him into the back of the wagon. With a thankful Mohammed clutching both Achmed and the bouncing wagon, they sped at a full gallop toward the farm.

Achmed's mother became hysterical when she saw her son. His father screamed at the farmhand, "Get the big wagon, and hitch-up my four best horses. Now! Hurry!" He then ran through the house like a madman, tearing a mattress from a bed, gathering blankets, bandages, and canteens of water. Within minutes they were on their way to the hospital at Isfahan. The farmhand drove the team and Mohammed and his uncle rode in the wagon with Achmed, who now lay wrapped in blankets on the mattress, his head cradled in his father's arms. It would be yet another hour before they would arrive at the hospital.

Even though it served the entire province whose name it bore, the hospital at Isfahan was small and poorly staffed. The small oscillating wall fan did little to offset the stifling heat in the room. The lone doctor on duty in the emergency ward was sweating profusely. He and two nurses had just spent more than two hours attending Achmed's injuries, more the result of intimidation than dedication - Achmed's father had not left his side. The boy had sustained a broken leg, a fractured skull, at least three broken ribs, and numerous cuts and bruises. The doctor expressed concern about severe shock, about which he knew very little, and the fact that Achmed had not regained consciousness.

It was now well past sundown. Mohammed and the farmhand, uncomfortable with the heat and sickening odors inside the hospital, had returned to the wagon some time ago. After they both stretched out on the mattress, Mohammed, for at least the third time, was relating his terrifying experience in finding and rescuing his cousin. During their wild ride to the hospital Mohammed had told the story to his uncle, and was disappointed and angry when his uncle seemed too preoccupied with Achmed to listen. He would now be equally upset if he could see the sleeping farmhand. Mohammed's voice trailed off in the darkness as the excitement of the day finally caught up with him and, he too, fell asleep.

Inside the hospital, Achmed's father paced the dimly lighted corridor like a caged animal, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the hospital's director. Outraged when the staff doctor had been reluctant to discuss his son's chances for survival, he had demanded that the director be summoned from his home.

After what seemed like an interminable wait, the door to the outside flew open and the director stormed into the waiting area. He barked a reprimand and slapped an orderly dozing at the front desk. The staff doctor watched through an open doorway and mumbled to himself as he quickly ducked from sight - tonight's going to be a nightmare, the bastard will make us all pay for having his dinner interrupted.

Even though he had been furious when told that someone was at his door with a message from the hospital, occurring just as he was slicing the lamb roast, the director's anger quickly turned to fear when told the patient's name and the demands of the patient's father. He had left immediately for the hospital, knowing full well what the consequences would be should he ignore the summons.

The director apologized effusively to Achmed's father for his delay in arriving, all the while mopping perspiration from his florid face and bald head. He yelled for the absent staff doctor and then directed the orderly to fetch cold drinks for he and his guest. When the staff doctor finally appeared he was greeted with a profane tongue- lashing for not summoning the director sooner and was ordered to immediately produce the boy's chart and x-rays. Twenty minutes later, after scanning the records and examining Achmed himself, the director led Achmed's father into his office. Closing the door behind them, he motioned to a visitor's chair and then retreated behind his cluttered desk, as if it offered him protection. "Sir, your son should survive his ordeal, but the next forty-eight hours will be crucial. I guarantee that he will have the best medical care available, and I, sir, will not leave the hospital until the crisis is past - on this you have my word." Again mopping perspiration from his face, the director looked like he was about to have a coronary. "I suggest you go home now and return tomorrow..."

"No!" Achmed's father shouted. "I, too, will stay here. He is my only son...everything I have is for him! He cannot be allowed to die. I will stay here until he is out of danger. I will watch over him - and I will watch you!"

CHAPTER FOUR

Four weeks later, Mohammed's father and mother arrived at the farm to attend a feast in celebration of Achmed's recovery. The only visible evidence of Achmed's injuries were a leg cast and crutches. The entire family was there, together with neighbors and friends from miles around. A pig and a lamb were roasting in an open pit, and tables were piled with mountains of food and sweets. There were dancing and games and singing and toast upon toast. But the highlight of the festivities came when Achmed's father lifted Mohammed to his shoulders and, signaling for everybody's attention, toasted Mohammed as the hero who had saved his son's life. Mohammed flushed with embarrassment when the people applauded. He was even more thrilled when later his father shook his hand, congratulated him, and told him that he never had been as proud as he was that day of his only son.

Even Achmed treated him differently now. And when Mohammed left for his home at the end of the summer, Achmed tearfully told him that he owed him his life, and such a debt could only be repaid in kind.

Little did he know.

THE UNITED STATES

THE NINETEEN-NINETIES

CHAPTER ONE

I didn't mind picking up David at the airport. What ticked me off was driving in a blinding rainstorm in my day-old car, a car that twenty minutes ago turned into an instant sauna when the air conditioner suddenly blew hot air. So much for technology and cars with automatic everything.

The Philly International terminal wasn't much more comfortable, but at least the rain had slowed some as I was parking the car. According to the arrival's board his flight was on time, which was the first thing to go right today. As I approached the gate the British Air passengers were just starting to file through.

His long flight and our heat and humidity aside, David Nesbitt looked like most people picture an affluent London banker, which he is; mid-sixties, steel gray hair and van-dyke beard, well over six feet tall without an ounce of fat and, as always, impeccably tailored. Walking ram-rod straight he obviously takes great pride in his appearance.

I haven't seen David in almost a year. We've worked together a number of times during the past dozen or so years, whenever his employer would retain my company to help spend their money - or more accurately, the money of one of their deep-pocketed clients. Over the years my company has found and bought things for them; things like ranches for raising cattle and thoroughbred horses, resort hotels, factories, farms, and land to build things on. All kinds of things. It was an intriguing relationship. I'd guess that over the years we've spent about a half-billion of somebody's money, plus or minus a few mil. And from what we could piece together, it was all for the same buyer. We knew David, and we knew his bank - one of the oldest and most prestigious in England - yet we hadn't a clue as to the identity of old moneybags. It was a screwy business relationship, almost bizarre.

"David, good to see you again."

"Likewise, Cole. Looks like you're having a bit of weather."

"We've had sweltering heat and humidity for almost two weeks; one of those damned Bermuda highs. It's typical Delaware Valley August, but if we're lucky the storm will cool things off some. I sure hope so, because we won't have air conditioning until we get to my office. I took delivery of my new car yesterday, and on the way here the air conditioning died."

"Pity. Had I known you were shopping for a new automobile I would have sent you literature on one or two of our superior British motorcars," David chuckled, knowing his dry humor wasn't wasted on me.

After claiming his luggage, we returned to my car and headed for my office in Jersey, with the windows down. The rain had stopped, but it was still warm and sticky.

"Is our property settlement still scheduled for the day after tomorrow?" David asked.

"Yes, four o'clock on Wednesday. Before we have dinner tonight I'd like to review the survey and settlement papers with you. Tomorrow morning we can drive out and look at the land. We've completed a preliminary site plan and there are a few problems, mostly with drainage and a buffer zone, but after my last meeting with the township engineer I think we have solutions he'll accept."

"That's good. I am anxious to see the land, particularly the surrounding area, but tomorrow morning presents a problem. Before I left London I had my secretary change my hotel reservations here. I'm spending tonight at the Taj in Atlantic City; I thought I'd give the wheel a try - but I can be back in your office by mid-afternoon tomorrow. That should give us ample time to visit the site, that is if it's convenient for you. And by the way, you are more than welcome to come with me to the casino."

"No thanks, as close as AC is, I try to stay away; I never seem to know when to walk away from the table. But please go and enjoy yourself - it's not the least bit inconvenient. How are you getting there and back?"

"I've arranged for their limousine to pick me up at your office at ten o'clock tonight. That should give us sufficient time for dinner, wouldn't you say? They'll return me to your office tomorrow afternoon."

"Ten should be fine," I replied. "I have a great little Italian restaurant in mind for dinner. I think you'll enjoy it."

The wet roads made the commute traffic worse than normal, whatever the hell normal is these days. By the time we arrived at my office the staff had left for the day but, as usual, my partner Suzy was still there. Suzanne Hammel - I'm the only one allowed to call her Suzy - is the better half of Hammel & McQuaid, Incorporated. I'm the other half. We're primarily builders and developers, and we do most of our own engineering and design. Over the years we've also acquired a number of investment properties, most as settlement on bad debts. This led us into real estate management, which in turn brought us more business from David's bank; management of a few of old moneybag's properties. Truth is, we'll do just about anything in our field as long as it's legal and will make money.

Suzy is the widow of Walter Hammel, the founder of our company, who died six years ago in an automobile accident. Walter hired Suzy as his secretary when she came east from San Francisco with her young daughter about twelve years ago, running away from a bad first marriage. Walter had hired me fresh out of engineering school about four years before Suzy showed up. When I interviewed for the job he told me he had a sixty-year old body with ninety-year old knees, and he was looking for an engineer with a strong pair of legs who wanted to learn the construction business. I qualified on both counts and he hired me.

He was a widower, and even though considerably older than Suzy, he obviously also had an eye for a great-looking pair of legs. I always felt that she was somewhat on the rebound, and seemed to crave the kindness and affection that Walter freely gave - not only to her, but to her daughter Julia as well. But the chemistry must have been right, because less than three years later Suzy and Walter were married.

Walter had no children from his first marriage and, from the beginning, treated me more like a son than an employee. We quickly developed a bond that was even closer than I enjoy with my own father; partly, I guess, because I've lived about twelve-hundred miles from my parents since finishing high school. When Walter died so tragically I felt as though my whole world had ended as well; the future I had so carefully planned revolved around Walter and the business. I really enjoy engineering and design, and spent the first few years in the company rotating between board work and field assignments, but the last nine or ten years I've had precious little time on the drawing board; mostly chasing around from one construction project to another, or bird-dogging something for David's client.

Walter's estate was divided between Suzy, Julia and myself. I inherited a nice little nest egg plus about thirty acres of prime land near Hilton Head, Julia had her college education secured with a fantastic trust fund, and Suzy was left everything else, including the business.

In the weeks following Walter's death Suzy received and promptly rejected two very lucrative offers for the business. She said Walter left it to her and, by God, she was going to either run it successfully, or run it into the ground. And, much to my surprise, she offered me a full partnership to help her run it. She became Ms. Inside, while I as Mr. Outside. Not only does she do a great job managing the office, but she can wrap a tough client around her little finger in nothing flat, combining a no-bullshit approach with a rare mix of high-society class and sensual charm. Better yet, she uses the same approach to keep our accounts receivable on time. Our aging schedule has to be one of the best in the industry.

On the subject of age, I know she tops my thirty-eight years by at least three or four; Suzy jealously guards her age, and can get really testy whenever anyone is stupid enough to ask her about it. But, not so amazingly, her age is rarely the subject of male conversation. What is, is her long-legged blond good looks, and the way she fills-out her clothes. And it appears the heritage will continue for a long time; Suzy's fifteen-year old daughter Julia is a clone of her mother.

After David washed-up, he joined Suzy and me in my office. As he usually does when he visits, he produced two small wrapped boxes from his attache case. Ever the gentleman, he bowed slightly as he handed both to Suzy. "Suzanne, you look lovelier then ever. This is another sterling owl for Julia's collection, and a small piece of Victorian jewelry I thought you might enjoy."

"Thank you, David, you're a dear," she said, "Julia will be pleased, and you know how I love Victorian jewelry. Julia's coming here directly from her tennis lesson - she's been looking forward to seeing you. She should be here any minute now."

"Suzy, bring Julia in when she arrives. David and I have a lot to do before dinner, and I'd like to get started. David's going to the casino later, so we have to be back here before ten. If you'd like, why don't you and Julia join us for dinner?"

"Thank you Cole, but tonight will be difficult. Julia won't be dressed for dinner, and I stayed late to catch-up on some paperwork; today has been absolutely impossible. Besides, I'm sure we can all get together before David returns home, possibly dinner tomorrow evening."

"Sounds excellent to me," David said with a grin, "as long as you all join me as my guests."

Dinner was exceptional. It's a small place where you bring your own wine. David and I shared an antipasto and then each had a great filet of blackened salmon, accompanied with sides of salad and linguine, warm, crusty bread and a bottle of my best Chianti. We finished with creamy cannoli and espresso. I've always had difficulty deciding which is more satisfying; good food or good women. I can live very happily with an excess of women. Luckily, good metabolism and exercise help offset my indulgence in the other.

We made it back to my office with half an hour to spare. My car's air conditioning still didn't work and, since it was a warm, steamy evening, I invited David in to wait for his limo. I decided to use the time to quiz him again about our mysterious client. Past attempts at this had produced almost nothing, so I decided to try a different approach.

"David," I started, after we settled into the two most comfortable chairs in my office, "Suzy and I consider you a good friend, in addition to being a great client. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what you and your bank have meant to Hammel & McQuaid. In the years we have worked together I don't think you and I have had one serious disagreement. But, unfortunately, the issue of your client's identity is beginning to cause real dissension between my brother Ben, Suzy and myself. I know you and I have gone in circles over this more than once - I've even tried making an inside joke out of it with Ben and Suzy - but Ben is dead serious and refuses to see any humor in it. And, common sense tells Suzy and I that we can't disagree with him.

"As our company attorney, Ben has badgered us for years to find out who we're involved with. It may seem ridiculous to you, but Ben's concern is that we're unknowingly aiding in the laundering of mob or drug money. He believes that if somebody were to come down on you or your client, Hammel & McQuaid would be in a very precarious position. Just yesterday, Ben told me he intends sending you a letter formally requesting identification of your client. He said he should have done it years ago. His pessimism and concern have started to rub off on Suzy, and, I admit, I'm getting..."

"Pardon me," David interrupted, an edge to his voice, "sending the letter will accomplish nothing, except to agitate my directors, and possibly jeopardize our relationship. Believe me when I tell you that we have been as concerned about this issue as your brother - and we have been for quite a few years. Not too long ago it resulted in the resignation of three of our directors. This happened when they panicked after discovering that over the years we had received a number of inquiries from Scotland Yard, Interpol, and even your own CIA, about the client's identity."

David got out of his chair and began pacing my office. His face was expressionless as he continued, "You must believe me when I say that no one in my organization knows who the client is. Also, other than myself and Alexander Trimble, our CEO, no one even has access to any of the key account records. With those records an investigation might uncover the name or names, but, with the mind-boggling paper trail and red herrings created by the client we're convinced it would take years of digging - and with no guarantee of success. Some years ago we did attempt an investigation, thorough but very discreet. It quickly ended in a blind alley and we backed off. To conduct such an investigation today presents a risk we just cannot take. It is not an exaggeration to say that if an investigation succeeded in identifying the client, and they in turn exercised their threat to terminate our relationship, it would most likely destroy the bank. At best, the financial impact would be staggering.

"Off the record, I can give you the reason for our dilemma, and how the whole bloody mess started." David's gaze drifted around the room. He seemed to be searching for words, almost stalling - totally out of character. He also was avoiding my eyes, and this bothered me even more. I'm pretty good at flushing-out a snow-job, so maybe I was hearing what he thought I wanted to hear.

"The account was first opened in 1953," he continued. "and by the way, the age of the account is what still convinces most of our directors that we are not handling drug money, either then or now. Likewise, the international dimensions of the account quells their fears about mob ties. Personally, I have disagreed all along with their rationalization - drugs and world-wide organized crime existed long before 1953 - but it satisfies them, so I keep my opinion to myself.

"To get back to my story, it all started when the bank received a detailed letter of instructions followed by a wire transfer from a Milan bank. The transaction was to cover the purchase of ten-thousand shares of our bank's stock - a relatively small purchase, and a bit out of the ordinary, but properly structured. What was odd were the instructions. They were brief, but very explicit. They stated that future investment activity would occur on a regular, but unscheduled basis, and would always be either by wire transfer or private courier. They also told us to retain all shares, unless notified otherwise, and to pay any administrative fees and taxes incurred by the account. Finally, they warned that outside accountants would conduct unannounced, periodic audits of their portfolio and, the kicker; that any attempt on our part to trace transactions, or otherwise meddle, would result in immediate loss of the total account.

"I've been told that Peter Willard, the bank officer who was assigned to handle the initial transaction, and later the full account, wasn't overly concerned about the unusual conditions. The bank was prospering in the post-war economy; our stock had appreciated more than twenty percent during the previous year, and Peter apparently thought the investor was some eccentric old coot trying to capitalize. At the time he also assumed that future investments would be in additional bank stock. He was wrong."

David sat down and loosened his tie. He was more up-tight than I had ever seen him and it was making me uncomfortable. "For the first year or so," he continued after a deep breath, "there was little activity, and the investments were limited to bank shares. But then we started receiving very large deposits, with specific instructions as to what other things we were to purchase or invest in. This type of investment management in the banking industry is fairly common today, but in the mid-fifties it was somewhat unique, particularly at our bank. Willard and the other bank officials at that time had, at best, little experience in such matters. In a matter of a few short years they placed the bank in an inextricable position. Alex Trimble and I agree they must have been blinded by optimistic dreams of unlimited bank growth, possibly fueled by personal greed.

"When I took over the account in 1967, after Peter's death, the bank had grown considerably, most of the growth attributable to the value of the account. It had mushroomed to the point where a majority of our directors finally began expressing concern about the phantom ownership. There was considerable talk about the situation - all behind closed boardroom doors - but they couldn't agree on a course of action. The issue was repeatedly tabled. By the mid-eighties, when Walter Hammel turned our projects over to you, the account represented a considerable percentage of our total assets. Today its value is staggering, probably more than the combined national budgets of two or three small countries I could name."

"David, I hear what you're saying. Most of it is news to me, but I seriously doubt it will change my brother's mind. And it'll add fuel to his argument when he hears your personal feelings about the possibility of drug and mob ties. You have to admit, it's a classic money laundering scenario."

"I agree, up to a point..."

"Look David, for now the best I can offer is to set up a meeting between you and Ben, maybe tomorrow afternoon after you return from Atlantic City. I think Suzy and I should sit in as well. Would that be acceptable with you?"

"Yes. I don't know what more I can add, but I'm willing to talk to Ben and try to convince him not to do anything rash."

"One other thing," I continued, "your statement that the bank's financial security would be jeopardized if the client's identity is disclosed puzzles me. How? What the hell David, if I know anything I know how much of the client's money Hammel & McQuaid has invested in hard, real property. No stocks, no bonds, no pork bellies or commodity futures. Just hotels, resorts, land, mineral rights, industrials - all rock-solid deals. We've never been permitted to buy into anything; it has always been buy it all - or buy nothing! The client wouldn't be a partner to anybody. I'm sure most, if not all, of our deals have appreciated ten-fold. I mean what the hell David, how can that hurt your bank?"

"Cole, your involvement usually ends when the investment is in place, so you probably don't know what frequently happens at the other end. You are correct about the present worth of most of the investments. Other than their early purchase of shares in our bank, no stocks, no bonds. And they have prohibited investment in any publicly owned entities. We can only guess that this is caused by their obvious desire for complete control, and concern for their anonymity."

David again got out of his chair and walked to the window where he gazed out at the darkness, his face expressionless. "We very closely monitor the performance of all account holdings. Early on, we were ordered by the client to liquidate anything that didn't appreciate at least seven percent each year. I can recall only one exception to that rule. And, regardless of performance, it applies to anything in which they feel a killing can be made with a quick turnover. So, and this is where the wicket gets sticky, with a percentage of the total account constantly being turned over, we're forced to retain considerable working capital, usually the proceeds of liquidated assets. However, to maintain a good bottom line, we invest most of this capital in short-term paper, usually at the highest current rate of interest. Good banking practice demands we do this. But this also forces us to outguess the client; we base our strategy on short-term market projections, plotted against what we think the client will order us to buy - massaging the crystal ball if you will - and creates the situation that can seriously hurt us. At any given time we're holding between four-hundred-fifty and six-hundred million in deposits for the client, only a small portion of which is liquid. Loss of the account would therefore cause a colossal cash flow pinch. If you understand the domino effect this might create, you can certainly appreciate our concern. It could even bring down the bank."

On a few occasions in the past I had actually felt guilty about some of the fees - large but legitimate - we had invoiced David's bank for our services. It now struck me that the effect of those fees was as significant as spitting in the ocean. The account was big all right; I never realized just how big. "I'm trying to understand, David, but it's hard to reconcile all of what you've said. How can so much money be handled for so many years without some direct contact, without a screw-up by somebody?"

"There have been a few, but fortunately they've been at our end and have been easily resolved. The basic procedure hasn't varied one iota since the first transaction." David looked at his reflection in the window and buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie. "All withdrawals requested by the client and account earnings are wire transfers to a number of banks in your country, South America and Switzerland, or are paid out as cash transactions, picked-up at our bank by courier, usually with about five days notice. They use a number of courier services, but never the same one twice running. Traceable, you ask? Probably. And I'm sure without too much effort; if it weren't for the confounded risk! All instructions and correspondence from their end arrive by messenger or, believe it or not, by regular mail. Mail comes with various postmarks, mostly from the continent, and always without a return address.

"Due to the paper balances on hand, actual deposits by the client are now much more infrequent, usually occurring only when they have ordered a major acquisition. When they do occur, it's by wire transfer from the same Milan bank. Speaking of Milan; in addition to the usual identification number, shortly after the account was opened it was labeled 'The Milan Portfolio' by Peter Willard. It is still known by the same name. And Cole, to put things in perspective, in 1953 all account records were kept in a single manila folder in Peter's desk. Today the account has a dedicated file room, with an integral vault, and is administered by myself and a staff of five."

I was about to ask another question when a honking horn broke the silence. His limo had arrived. We agreed to continue the discussion tomorrow afternoon and I gathered-up his luggage and headed for the parking lot. After wishing him luck in the casino, I watched the taillights of the white Lincoln disappear down the drive, then set the security alarm, locked the office and headed for home. The Phillies were playing in St. Louis and I could probably catch the last few innings on the tube.

On the drive home I thought about what I had heard tonight. It was mind-boggling. Whoever our oddball client was, he or she - or maybe it - had been around a long time, and was very, very rich. Too rich for my tired brain to comprehend. It had been a long day.

CHAPTER TWO

When I awoke the next morning the sun was shining and a light breeze was fluttering the birch tree outside my window. Mrs. Tomasello, my housekeeper, would undoubtedly suggest we turn off the air conditioning, as she usually did whenever there was more than a breath of air.

She didn't disappoint me. After I showered, shaved and dressed, I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when she came in from the rear yard, a bunch of fresh picked flowers in her hand. "Buon giorno," she said, "it's a beautiful day. The weather has changed, it's much cooler than yesterday and there's no humidity. Please turn off the air conditioning so I can open the windows. I love a breeze through the house."

"Consider it done," I said, smiling to myself. "By the way, I won't be home until late tonight, so please don't fix dinner for me."

"Mi scusi, you don't eat enough, and you're getting too thin," she said, scolding me with a wagging finger. "I'll fix something and leave it in the refrigerator for you. Something easy for you to heat-up when you get home."

"That won't be necessary because I'll already have eaten. Besides, I'm not losing weight, with you constantly feeding me I have to work like hell to keep my weight where it's been for the last ten years." As always, I knew this was a debate I'd never win, so I finished my coffee and headed for the door. After stopping to turn off the air conditioning.

"You won't let me cook breakfast for you either," she said,

in her best wounded-dove voice, "so at least have some fruit on your way to the office, per piacere, and don't swear at me." She grabbed my arm as I opened the door and jammed an orange in my hand. Like I said, why argue.

Mrs. Tomasello is sixty-three years old, has two grown daughters, and buried two husbands before she was fifty-five. She's been my housekeeper ever since I got fed up with apartment living eight years ago and bought myself an old three-story Victorian money-pit in historic Haddonfield. She comes in three days a week to clean and do my laundry; no cooking - or at least that was the deal when I hired her. As it turned out, she cooks whenever I'm home to eat - sometimes when I'm not - and does whatever else she feels needs doing; everything from food shopping to watering the garden.

Angelina Tomasello is the traditional Italian momma; small in stature, strong as an ox, capable of totally intimidating you in her native tongue when she's frustrated or trying to impose her will, then wrapping you in a tender hug to show her affection. She treats me like a son, so I guess I shouldn't complain. And I'm sure she knows how much I care for her. When my parents came to visit from Florida, shortly after she came to work for me, I overheard part of a conversation between she and my mother. Mom gave her a complete set of instructions on my care and upbringing. I guess I'm now one of the few men accused of ignoring two mothers.

There was a stack of telephone messages from yesterday awaiting me on my desk. Nancy, my secretary, had also left a few letters for my signature. I knew I had about thirty minutes of peace and quiet before the staff arrived and the phones started, so I spent the time reviewing revised estimate sheets for a project we're bidding. It's a complex estimate; a new middle school and high school, plus heavy renovation of two old schools - lots of margin for costly error - and bids are due day after tomorrow. I'm due to meet again with our estimator at eight this morning to see how much we can sharpen some of our numbers.

Our meeting ended shortly after ten. I had just poured my second cup of coffee of the day when Nancy buzzed me. She said a Lieutenant Ronko of the Atlantic City police department was on my line and that he insisted on speaking with no one but me. Before picking up the receiver it flashed through my head that David had gotten into some kind of trouble, although I couldn't imagine him breaking the law. I didn't know anybody else in Atlantic City, and certainly not in their police department. "Hello, Cole McQuaid," I said.

"Mr. McQuaid, my name is Ronko, Lieutenant Ronko, with the Atlantic City police. I'm calling in regard to a David Nesbitt, from London, England. Do you know him?"

"Yes I do. He's one of our clients. What's the problem?"

"There is a problem, Mr. McQuaid, and it's serious. I can't discuss it on the phone, so I'm afraid I have to ask you to come to my office. If you don't have transportation I'll send a car for you. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but it's important that you get here quickly."

"I have a car, and I can leave almost immediately, but can't you give me some clue as to what this is all about? Is David in jail?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't discuss it further on the phone. When you get here ask for me at the front desk - Lieutenant Al Ronko." He then gave me directions to his station from the expressway.

"I'll be there in about an hour," I responded, and hung up the phone. All kinds of crazy thoughts were racing through my head. What the hell was going on? It must be serious, but why hadn't David called me if he had a problem - why Ronko? I didn't like the answer to that question. I stopped at Nancy's desk on my way out and told her what Ronko had told me, and that I would call her as soon as I knew what was wrong.

I made it to Ronko's office in just under an hour, and found him on the second floor of the building. His office was small and cluttered, and reeked of cigarette smoke. He stuffed out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on his desk as he arose to shake my hand. He was on the short side, bald on top, with a fat face and bushy mustache. The mustache did nothing to hide his veined, bulbous nose. It looked like Al Ronko enjoyed his booze. "Please sit down, Mr. McQuaid, thanks for getting here so quickly." He produced a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but there's been a homicide. David Nesbitt is dead."

Damn! My worst fear had just come true. I had pushed this reality from my mind a dozen times on my way here. I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. "God, no! What happened...are you sure it's David?"

"I'll tell you what I can at this point, but first I need answers to a few questions. Also, when we finish here I'd like you to come with me to the morgue. The description of Nesbitt given to us by the hotel staff fits, but we need a positive ID. Now, when and where did you last see him?"

Cold sweat trickled down my spine as I recalled my conversation with David last night, and of the plans we had made for the next few days. I told Ronko about having dinner with David, and of seeing him off in the limo. I also mentioned David's plans for last night and today at the casino. "I'm curious Lieutenant, just how did you locate me so quickly?"

Ronko leaned across his desk and handed me a business card. "Recognize this?" he asked.

"Yes, it's my card. Where did you get it?"

"It was in Nesbitt's pocket when he was found. Just before you arrived I spoke with a girl in the limo service office. Your name came up there, too."

"Please, Lieutenant," I asked, "tell me what happened. This whole situation is unbelievable."

"Well, we're still piecing bits of information together, but apparently Nesbitt returned to his room from the casino around three this morning. He phoned room service and ordered breakfast for seven-thirty. We don't think he ever made it to bed. When the waiter arrived with breakfast he found the door partly open, badly sprung. When he pushed the door open he saw Nesbitt on the floor in the bathroom. The waiter called security; they called us. Everything so far indicates Nesbitt had been dead for a couple hours before he was found. Those hotel doors are tough. By the looks of things, whoever broke in had some heavy-duty equipment and knew what they were doing. And Nesbitt must have been taken by complete surprise; there were no signs of a major struggle, no calls to the desk, and nobody in other rooms on the floor heard a thing."

"How was he killed?"

"Two shots through the temple, one on either side. We know the shots were fired at very close range, probably with a silencer since nobody heard anything."

"Is it possible he was killed resisting a robbery? He could have been carrying a lot of cash; after all he came here to gamble. Have you checked with the casino to see whether..."

"Hold it," Ronko interrupted. "We don't think it was robbery, there are too many inconsistencies. And we have talked to some of the casino people. But before I go any further with this I need you to come with me to the morgue. We've got to have a positive ID, just to be sure. I'm sorry to put you through it, but you can save us a lot of time and trouble, particularly since he's from out of the country. After you confirm the ID we'll have to come back here, 'cause we'll need a statement from you, too."

On top of the foul smell, Ronko's office was hot as hell. My stomach needed this whole bad dream to end; I felt like I was going to lose my breakfast and I really didn't need any more upset - I needed to get outside. The morgue was probably in another building, and maybe on the way there I'd get lucky and find some fresh air. Besides, even though my heart still held out some hope, my head told me it was David.

The trip to the morgue did nothing to relieve my queasiness. Once inside, things got worse. When the attendant pulled back the sheet I knew it was David, not so much by the facial features as by the hair and beard. Unfortunately, there wasn't a doubt. I've always considered myself physically and emotionally tough, but I had never seen what gunshot wounds can do to a human face. The attendant offered to uncover more of the body if I had any doubts, but cautioned me that there were other wounds. I said no thanks, I had seen enough.

On the way back to the station Ronko questioned me about David's personal life, what little I knew of it, and his relationship with my company. He admitted that they had no suspects, but that the lab crew was still in the casino hotel room doing their thing, and that maybe they would turn up something his people could run with. He didn't sound the least bit optimistic.

I again questioned the possibility of robbery. "Anything's possible," he responded, "but I still don't think so. I admit, we have a lot more in-house casino robberies than the public ever hears about, but they rarely result in murder. Usually the victim gets mugged by some low-life trying to cover his losses, or by a doper desperate for a fix. We're waiting to talk to the roulette dealer from Nesbitt's table when he comes on duty today. One of the pit bosses remembers Nesbitt and said he thought he dropped about six or seven hundred at that one wheel, but he didn't flash around any big money. To further spoil your robbery theory, Nesbitt's wallet and credit cards were scattered on the bed in his room, along with traveler's checks and more than seventeen hundred bucks in cash. Why would thieves or druggies leave that kind of loot behind? It just doesn't happen, particularly when it appears they weren't scared off. The only thing that appears to be missing is his luggage. There was none in his room and the bellhop can't remember for sure, but he said he took up two or three bags when Nesbitt checked in. He said Nesbitt also gave him a nice tip."

"He had a carry-on bag and a two-suiter when he left my office last night," I said. "I know because I carried them out to the limo. But why in hell would somebody leave behind that much cash and steal two suitcases? It's crazy."

"Exactly," Ronko answered, pulling into the station parking lot. "There are a lot of things that don't add up. When he was found, your friend was gagged and his hands and feet were bound with duct tape. He also had what looked like burns - maybe from a cigarette or cigar - on his hands and the soles of both feet. It was almost as though he was being tortured. Maybe we'll know more after the autopsy. It's scheduled to be started within the hour."

I still couldn't believe any of this, it was crazy. I followed Ronko back upstairs and gave my statement to a police stenographer. I told Ronko I'd take care of notifying London about David, and that I would call him as soon as possible with instructions for the body. Ronko knew how to reach me, and I asked him to call me immediately if the autopsy turned up anything or if there were any other developments. He said he would.

Walking back to my car I felt totally wiped out, and I felt even worse knowing I had a couple of tough phone calls to make. My car was parked in the sun and was stifling. After putting down the windows, I called Nancy on my car phone and, as directly as I could, told her of David's death - leaving out the grisly details. She was stunned. She probably had had more frequent involvement with David than anybody in our office, including Suzy and myself. She usually talked with David

or his secretary at least once a week. She liked him, and enjoyed mimicking his clipped British accent. I asked her not to say anything to Suzy; I'd take care of that myself, and I wanted to do it in person. I also told Nancy to cancel everything on my schedule for the next few days, since I had no idea what'll happen when I call London. I sensed, rather than heard, Nancy crying on the other end of the line. After I ended the call I fiddled again with the air conditioning controls, to no avail.

So I left the windows down and drove home with the wind whistling through the car, trying to get the stink of death and cigarette smoke out of my nose and off my body.

Suzy and Nancy were sitting in my office with the door closed when I arrived. They were quietly talking and trying to console each other. Nancy saw the unasked question on my face and apologized. "I'm sorry, Cole. I came in here to be alone and Suzy came in and found me crying. I had to tell her."

An apology certainly wasn't necessary and I said so. They both asked the expected questions, and I told them what I had found out in Atlantic City, leaving out the details I didn't even want to think about, much less discuss. When I mentioned David's missing luggage, Nancy said that shortly after I left for Atlantic City she had found his attache case standing on the floor next to the sofa here in my office. She had put it in my closet for safekeeping. She said she knew it was David's because of the hunter green color; he had had it custom made some years ago. I guess he and I were so preoccupied with our discussion last night, the attache was overlooked when we walked to the limo.

It was now almost nine-thirty in the evening, London time, and I couldn't chance waiting any later to call. I asked Nancy to get me David's home phone number, but had second thoughts as I started to dial. Damn! I just hated delivering this kind of news by phone, even though I knew I had no choice. On top of that it seemed almost cruel for me to call his wife when I had never met the woman. Then I remembered that because of the time difference, David had also given Nancy other phone numbers where he might be reached after banking hours. I asked her to check and was relieved when she found a home telephone listing for Alexander Trimble, David's boss. I don't know why, but I felt a lot more comfortable calling him. I couldn't delay any longer so I dialed Trimble's number.

A woman answered the phone. I asked for Trimble by name, and after a long wait he came on the line. "Mr. Trimble, we've never met. My name is Cole McQuaid, of Hammel & McQuaid in the States. We've worked with David Nesbitt and your bank for a number of years..."

"Yes," he interrupted. "I know exactly who you are, Mr. McQuaid, David has told me quite a bit about you personally. And I'm certainly familiar with your company, including your latest endeavor. The parcel of land you procured for us seems to meet all of our client's specifications. But why are you calling, isn't David there with you?"

"Mr. Trimble, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I have very bad news...David is dead. He was killed early this morning." I heard a gasp at the other end and then a deep sigh. I waited, not knowing what to say next. Finally, Trimble spoke, his voice quivering, "McQuaid, oh god, this is terrible. He and I have been close friends for over forty years. This is unbelievable...you say he was killed - was it an accident?"

"No, I'm afraid he was murdered. The police say they have no suspects, and apparently they're not even sure what happened." I then told Trimble about David's side trip to the casino, and what I knew about his death. I also mentioned that David's family had not been notified. When I finished he said that he and Mrs. Trimble would immediate visit Mrs. Nesbitt to inform her of what had happened; the Nesbitt home was apparently just a short distance away. We then discussed arrangements for sending David's body home.

"Mr. McQuaid, if you'll be so kind as to contact British Air and arrange for shipment of David's body, I'll take care of everything on this end. Just let my office know which flight he'll be on. I believe they have a flight out of Philadelphia every evening. And please, call me if your police uncover any further information...anything. Do you feel the police are competent? Should we hire our own investigator?"

"Mr. Trimble, I'll take care of everything here. I think we should be patient and let the police handle things, at least for a few days. I don't even know the results of the autopsy yet. But I promise you, if I feel they're not doing enough, I'll call you. At this point I don't think a private investigator can do any more than the police."

"All right, I trust your judgment. At the moment I'm finding it very difficult to think straight. This news is so shocking to me I'm not sure what I should do, but there is one thing of which I'm certain; I think it very important that you and I meet in the immediate future. David's death is going to be devastating to my Board, and they're going to have many questions that I probably cannot answer. On the other hand, if his death was not the result of random violence, there are some things that may have a bearing on what has happened. At least you should know what they are. I apologize for the imposition, but how soon could you come to London? Of course we'll pay all expenses."

I was more than a little confused by what I'd just heard. David's death was scary enough, but what the hell was Trimble talking about? I'm not sure, but I knew I'd have to find out. "Can't we discuss this by phone, maybe in a day or so? It would certainly simplify things."

"No! I'm sorry, but that is out of the question - it is too risky. After we talk you'll understand why. I would greatly appreciate your cooperation in this."

Trimble may not realize it, but he really knows how to sink the hook. Now I'm really puzzled and frustrated. And if the situation wasn't so somber I'd probably be ticked-off. All my life I've hated waiting for things; particularly things that directly affect my life or my business. Things like waiting for a phone call you know is coming; tomorrow's answers to today's crossword puzzle; waiting for people to make a decision, when you know they've already made one - like bankers and clients; and waiting for people to share important information they admittedly have - like now. Maybe I'm just impatient, or maybe it's a flaw in my personality, but it annoys the hell out of me. Under the circumstances I guess I have to bite my tongue and cooperate.

"Well, today is Tuesday, Mr. Trimble, I'll have to cancel or reschedule some things to come this week, but that shouldn't be a major problem. There's also the question of how soon David's body will be released, and what you want us to do about settlement on the new property. It's still scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at two."

"Have the settlement postponed for thirty days. That certainly is not an unreasonable request, considering what has happened. If they refuse to cooperate let me know and I'll call them and threaten to cancel the entire deal.

"If David's body is released tomorrow or Thursday, you might possibly accompany it home. I'm sure services could not be held before next Monday, and that would allow us to meet on Friday or Saturday. I do think we should talk as soon as possible."

"Postponing settlement shouldn't be a problem, I'll call them first thing in the morning. I'll also call the police about David's body. And please assure Mrs. Nesbitt that we'll handle all arrangements here. I should be able to call your office by four tomorrow afternoon, your time, and give you the details. There is a British Air flight out of Philly for Heathrow every evening; at least there was the last time I flew to London. I don't know if everything can be done in time for the Thursday flight, but we'll certainly try. Friday is probably more realistic."

"Just do your best, Mr. McQuaid. I'm sorry you had to get caught up in this tragedy, but on behalf of all of us here I do thank you for your kind assistance. David and his wife Anne just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary - they were very close. I really dread calling on her tonight with such terrible news."

It was shortly after five when I walked into Suzy's office. She was curled up in a chair, looking out the window, and holding a cup of tea. Her eyes were still red and puffy. I told her about my conversation with Trimble, and asked why she hadn't gone home, considering how upset she was.

"I waited because I hate the thought of facing Julia alone with the news about David. She thinks the world of him. He has been the closest thing to an uncle she has ever had. I'd be grateful if you'll come home with me and help break the news to her."

"Sure, I understand how you feel. I'm sorry that both of you have to go through this. I can't help but think back to when Walter was killed. I was worried about how you would come through it, but I was totally convinced it would destroy Julia - she had become his pet, and other than you probably the center of his world. But we both know she handled it well, and seemed to get her life back on track faster than either of us. So don't underestimate her ability to cope. She's tough Suzy, and she's a survivor. Maybe it's just another blessing of youth."

"You may be right, Cole, but she's much older now and I just don't know how she's going to react. She baby-sat for a neighbor this afternoon, but was supposed to be home about half an hour ago. I haven't called because I'm afraid my voice will give me away if she answers the phone. She's probably getting dressed for dinner now, as you know we were supposed to be David's guests for dinner this evening. I hate to impose, but if you don't mind I think we should leave right away. I certainly don't want her hearing about David on the radio or TV."

Julia was coming down the stairs as we came into the living room. She was dressed for dinner, and her big smile told us that she hadn't heard the news. I got my usual high-five, low-five greeting from her, followed by a solid punch to my shoulder, to which I responded by pinching the tip of her nose. Julia is an unbelievably competitive athlete. A high school sophomore last year, she beat-out a junior and a senior to advance to first-singles tennis. She also played soccer, passed-up basketball because she thinks it's a stupid game, and, at third base was the leading hitter on the varsity softball team. But with all of that, Julia is a very beautiful young lady, and probably the nicest, most level-headed teenager I've ever known. To my knowledge, she has never given her mother a moment of grief. The only problem I've heard Suzy mention was the issue of Julia's dating; Suzy absolutely forbids lone dates until Julia is sixteen. Given the number of young stallions I've heard about, if she were my daughter I'd probably never let her out of my sight. At five-seven she is only an inch shorter than her mother. Her light blond hair is long but curly; it balances her height and beautifully frames her wide, full mouth and striking blue eyes. She and her mother have the most vivid blue eyes I have ever seen.

It upset me to think about what I had to do. It saddened me even more when my mind raced back in time six years, dejavu; I had stood in this same room, fumbling for words, trying to tell Suzy as painlessly as I knew how that Walter had just died in an automobile accident. A few minutes ago, on the way home from the office with Suzy, I was searching again for words to use with Julia. As I stared at her, I knew there were no right words, and that any further delay on my part would not make the telling any easier. Suzy's face was white as a sheet, and I guess mine reflected my thoughts; as I looked at Julia the smile left her face and she asked me what was wrong. Instead of answering, I took her by the hand and led her to the sunporch, with her mother following behind.

When I finished talking, Julia stared at me in silence for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, she threw her arms around my neck and began sobbing. "It's not fair," she cried, her tears wetting my cheek. "First I lost my daddy, now uncle David. Why does it always happen to my family, to me...it's not fair. It's just not fair, dammit...it's not!"

The three of us sat on the sunporch until well past sundown. I held Julia in my arms until the tears stopped and she finally began to calm down.

She then began asking questions about how David had been killed. I told her he had been shot, but was determined not to tell her any more. So I lied, and told her I had no further information or details, but that we probably will know more after the police finish their investigation. We hadn't eaten dinner, so I went to the kitchen and found the ingredients for a batch of McQuaid's famous country scrambled eggs. With muffins, jam, and lots of hot coffee, it makes for a decent meal, even though it's a much better Sunday breakfast. The three of us kind of picked at the food and wasted more than we ate. I cleaned up the kitchen while Suzy helped Julia get ready for bed, and finished just as she walked through the kitchen door and said that Julia was already asleep. The sedative she had given her earlier had apparently worked. "I'm glad," I said. "it's been a long, tough day for all of us. The next few aren't going to be much better either, I'm afraid. I'm going home and hit the sack."

She took both my hands in hers and looked up at me. "I couldn't have gotten through this tonight without you," she said softly, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you for being so kind to Julia, and to me." With that, she kissed me tenderly on the mouth. In the years I have known Suzy, that was the first personal contact we have ever had, other than the usual Christmas and birthday pecks on the cheek. Even though we have been partners for some time, I have always considered her the boss's wife. Untouchable. And she has never indicated that she wanted it any other way. I guess old habits are hard to break.

CHAPTER THREE

By nine-thirty the following morning I had contacted Ben and the property owner's agent and their attorney, and agreed on a new settlement date. The agent and his lawyer both bitched about the eleventh-hour postponement, but when I explained what had happened they reluctantly went along. It also didn't hurt that we threatened to walk away from the deal if they refused. I knew they needed our cash much more than we needed their land.

I then called Ronko. He told me the autopsy hadn't produced any surprises; the cause of death was the gunshot wounds. But David had been tortured before he died. Aside from the burns Ronko had mentioned yesterday, David's lower abdomen and groin areas had been pierced numerous times with something sharp, maybe an ice pick. Ronko said the wounds weren't deep, but had occurred before he died. There was a lot of blood. God, David must have gone through hell!

"Look Lieutenant, David was big and strong, and in good shape. There is no way one person could have done this without a helluva fight, and you said there was no sign of that in the room. It just doesn't add up - something's wrong. The only way it could have happened is if there was more than one attacker. Even then they would have had a fight on their hands. Maybe they drugged him."

Ronko mumbled something I couldn't understand, then responded in a voice so low I could hardly hear him, "We know he had a few drinks, but drug results were inconclusive. The lab boys still have some more tests to run. And we haven't ruled out the possibility that more than one person was involved."

There was a long pause. I was about to say something when he continued, again almost whispering, "Mr. McQuaid, I'm sorry, but I've said too much already. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. I'll tell you part of it, but only because I think you should know that something screwy is going on with our investigation. Maybe you know something I don't. First thing this morning Captain Murphy called me into his office and chewed my ass - but good. Murphy's my boss. He said he doesn't like the way I've handled Nesbitt's homicide; supposedly sloppy procedure on my part, too many loose ends. So he ordered me not to discuss the case with anybody, including you. It's goddamn ridiculous, the case isn't two days old and everything's been done by the book. Murphy's had nothing to do with the investigation until now - he was off yesterday and hasn't even read my reports - so I told him it looked like somebody was squeezing him to muzzle me, but I sure as hell can't figure out why. He denied it; said I was overreacting. Truth is, other than the casino people you're the only outsider I've talked to, and the killing has gotten hardly any media coverage. After my session with Murphy, I had my men do a quick check through the department. As far as we can tell there have been no calls about Nesbitt, other than yours, and no sign of anybody snooping around. I don't know who or why but somebody got to Murphy; he knows who you are, and knows you were here yesterday, and that we talked. I told him I didn't discuss the investigation with you, that in fact you could be considered a suspect, and I only answered some of your questions because you i.d.'d the body. That's when he said no, you're a civilian, and could compromise our investigation; you'd just have to keep your nose out of police business. His words exactly. It's bullshit, you never stuck your nose in our business - I think he's the one overreacting. Just understand that Nesbitt's homicide still has top priority with my squad, and I'm not the one stonewalling you - I'm only following orders. Oh, one more question before we end this; you said Nesbitt was a London banker, do you know anything more about his background that might explain Murphy's action - was he some kind of big shot?"

"David was just a banker, and a hell of a nice guy. He was one of the top two or three executives in his bank, but certainly no 'big shot'. I've already told you all I know about him. I have no idea why anybody would pressure your boss or interfere with your investigation, certainly nobody I know of. And I have no intention of meddling in your case; all I want is for you to catch the bastards who killed him. I talked with David's boss last night, and believe me, he feels as I do about this, and he expects results. I can promise you that he has the resources to back up his demands and, if you don't come up with something in the next few days, you're going to have his private investigators all over your case like ants at a picnic - whether your boss likes it or not. That's the way David's boss wants it, and I can assure you that's the way it's going to be. Understood?"

I knew I was going well beyond what Trimble and I had discussed last night, but since I didn't have a clue about where this guy Murphy was coming from, I felt it was a bluff worth running.

"Yeah, I do." He started to say something else, but stopped. Again there was a long pause before he continued. "I really can't talk any more now, but I'll tell Murphy what you said about Nesbitt's boss. In fact, it'll give me great pleasure. One other thing before I hang up - Nesbitt's body can be picked-up anytime this afternoon or tomorrow morning. We're finished with it. Are you handling the arrangements?"

"Yes, in fact that's the main reason I called. I'll call the funeral director now and see if I can have the body picked up this afternoon. I'm going to fly to England with the body, and I probably won't be back before next Tuesday or Wednesday. So, if anything important develops, tell your boss to call Nancy Todd, my secretary. She can get in touch with me, if she thinks it's necessary." I hope my sarcasm was obvious. "And before you hang up, I have one question for you: what the hell do you mean by saying 'I could be considered a suspect'? How the hell can that be?"

"Come on, Mr. McQuaid," he said with no humor in his voice, "unless we find evidence to the contrary, anybody who had contact with Nesbitt is a suspect."