I realized that I was displaying an unacceptable prejudice toward Fredric Tobin, that I really wanted him to be the murderer. Not Emma, not Max, not Zollner, not even Stevens. Fredric Tobin-Fry Freddie.

Try as I might to cast others in the role of murderer, it came back to Tobin in my mind. Beth, without actually saying so, suspected Paul Stevens, and all other things being equal, it was more likely him than Tobin. My thoughts about Tobin were too involved with my feelings for Emma. I just couldn't get the image out of my mind of those two screwing. I mean, I haven't felt that way in a decade or so.

I didn't want to railroad Freddie, but I decided to proceed on the assumption that he did it, and I'd see if I could make a case against him.

Regarding Paul Stevens, he might well be in on this, but if Tobin had recruited Stevens, why did he need the Gordons? And if Stevens was not in on the plan, was he on to the plan? Was he like a vulture waiting to swoop in and take his share after the long, hard work of the hunt had been done by others? Or was it Stevens acting alone without Tobin or anyone else? I could certainly make a case against Stevens, who had knowledge of Plum Island, the opportunity, the guns, the daily proximity to the victims, and above all, the personality to hatch a conspiracy and kill his partners. Maybe if I was lucky, I'd get Stevens and Tobin a hot squat.

And then there was the possibility of someone else…

I thought about all that had come before Tom and Judy Gordon wound up with their brains blown out. I could see Tom and Judy and Fredric living too high, spending too much, alternatingly confident and frantic about the success of their venture.

They were meticulous in laying the groundwork for the so-called discovery of the treasure. Interestingly, they decided not to locate it on Tobin's waterfront estate. They decided to go with a local legend, Captain Kidd's Ledges. Of course, they would tell the world afterward that their research led them to that particular spot, and they'd confess that they hoodwinked poor Margaret Wiley, who will kick herself for selling the land, and she'd be convinced that Thad was punishing her. The Gordons would have presented Mrs. Wiley with a jewel as a consolation prize.

Often, in a murder investigation, I look for the simplest explanation, and the simplest explanation was simple indeed: it was greed. Freddie had never learned to share and even if he wanted to share, I wondered if the treasure was big enough to cover his debts and save his vineyard. His share would certainly be no more than fifty percent, and the government's share, state and federal, would be about the same. Even if the treasure were worth ten million dollars, Freddie would be lucky to see two and a half million. Not nearly enough for a spendthrift like Lord Tobin. And if there was another partner-a live one, such as Paul Stevens-then certainly the Gordons had to go.

But I still had unanswered questions-assuming the Gordons had uncovered the treasure on Plum Island, did they have it all with them on the day they'd met their end in their own backyard? Was the treasure in that ice chest? And where was the original treasure chest, which had to be reburied and found in a way that might satisfy a nosy archaeologist or Treasury agent?

While I was mulling this over, I wasn't paying attention to the roulette wheel. Roulette is good for people with things on their minds because it's such a mindless game; like the slots, it's pure luck. But with the slots you can time your rate of loss and pass the night in a catatonic, slack-jawed state in front of the one-armed bandits and not lose much more than the grocery money. With roulette, however, at the ten dollar table, with a fast croupier and fast bettors, you could get hurt fast.

I got up from the table, took another cash advance on my credit card, and went to find a friendly poker game. Ah, the things I do for my job.

I did okay at the poker table, and by midnight, I was back to minus two thousand and change. Plus, I was starving. I got a beer and a sandwich from one of the cocktail ladies and played poker until one a.m., still down two large.

I retired to one of the bars and switched to scotch. I watched a rerun of the news on TV, which failed to mention the Gordon murders at all.

I reran the entire case in my mind-from the time Max stepped on my porch to here and now. And while I was at it, I thought about my love life, my job, and all that, which brought me to confront the question of where I was going.

So, there it was, about two in the morning, I was two thousand dollars poorer, I was alone but not lonely, I was slightly lit, I was supposed to be three-quarters physically disabled, and maybe a hundred percent mentally disabled, and I could have easily felt sorry for myself. Instead, I went back to the roulette wheel. I was unlucky at love, so I had to be lucky at gambling.

At three a.m., another thousand dollars down, I went to bed.

I woke up on Saturday morning with that weird where-am-I? feeling. Sometimes the woman next to me can help out, but there was no woman next to me. Presently, my head cleared and I remembered where I was, and I remembered getting scalped by the Mashantucket Pequots-or, perhaps I should say I was financially challenged by my Native American brothers.

I showered, dressed, packed my toothbrush, and had breakfast in the casino.

Outside, it was another beautiful late summer, almost autumn day. Maybe this was Indian summer. I got in my Jeep and headed south toward New London.

On the northern outskirts of the town, I stopped at a service station and asked directions. Within fifteen minutes, I was on Ridgefield Road, a sort of exurban street of neat New England clapboards set on good-sized pieces of land. The area was semirural; it was difficult for me to figure out if you needed buckos to live here or not. The houses were medium-sized and the cars were medium-priced, so I figured it was a medium neighborhood.

I stopped at number seventeen, a typical white clapboard Cape Cod set about a hundred feet back from the road. The nearest neighbors were some distance away. I got out of my Jeep and walked up the front path and rang the doorbell.

As I waited, I looked around. There was no car in the driveway. Also, there was no sign of kids' stuff around so I concluded that Mr. Stevens was either unmarried, or married no children, or married with grown children, or he'd eaten his children. How's that for deductive reasoning?

I noticed, too, that the place was too neat. I mean, it looked like someone with a sick, fascist, orderly mind lived here.

No one answered my call, so I went to the attached garage and peeked through the side window. No car. I went around to the rear yard, whose lawn stretched about fifty yards to a woods. There was a nice slate patio, grill, lawn furniture, and so forth.

I went to the back door and peeked through the windows into a neat and clean country kitchen.

I seriously contemplated a quick B amp;E job, giving the place a toss and maybe stealing his diploma for fun, but as I gave the house the once-over, I noticed that all the windows had alarm tape on them. Also, under the eaves to my right was a TV surveillance camera doing a one-eighty-degree sweep. This guy was a piece of work.

I went back out front, got into my Jeep, and dialed Stevens' phone. A voice mail came on, giving me several options having to do with his home fax and home e-mail, his beeper number, his post office box mailing address, his office phone, office fax, office e-mail, and finally a chance to leave a voice message after two beeps. I haven't had that many options since I stood in front of a condom vending machine. I pushed three on my phone pad, got Stevens' beeper number, dialed it, punched in my mobile number, and hung up. A minute later, my phone rang and I answered, "New London Water Authority."