I pressed the buzzer and pressed it again.

After a long stretch of time, a voice came through the little black squawk box beside the door.

“Who the ’ell are you two and what are you after?” The voice was harsh, dismissive, and, surprise surprise, British, like a London cabbie on a wet morning with the traffic snarled and a poodle making puddles on the backseat.

I stepped away, scanned the wall left and right of the door, found the small camera staring at me, smiled and waved like a beauty queen.

“We’ve come to see Mr. Dean,” I said into the box.

“Bugger off.”

“We’re his lawyers. We have something to deliver that I think he’ll be anxious to see.”

“Do you know what ’our it is?”

“Late? My bad. Just tell Mr. Dean his lawyers are here and they’ve brought for his perusal the deposition of Derek Manley.”

We didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and the gate was unlocked. A man in sharp black pants, loafers without socks, and a gray V-neck sweater, all apparently quickly thrown on for our benefit, scowled before leading us into the house. He was medium height, medium build, nothing too threatening there, but his hair was razored close to his skull, his nose had been broken and reset badly, his eyes were cold and gray and frankly scary.

He led us through a central hallway and then left, into a large sitting room, with urns and red walls and stiff French furnishings. There were paintings of horses. There was a fireplace the size of a Yugo. There was a wall of old leather-bound books in matched sets. A huge grand piano, its cover raised jauntily, sat expectantly in the corner. It smelled of must and ashes and perfume, that room, it smelled of money stashed in boudoir drawers.

“Wait ’ere,” said the man. He slid a heavy wooden door closed behind him after he left the room.

A leather-topped table by the window caught my attention. Small, precisely carved pieces of wood were scattered across it, some painted, most not. I picked up a large conical piece, painted red and white and black. It looked like something, yes it did, and then I realized what. It was the stack on that decaying ship in the harbor. He was building a model of the old ocean liner, trying to put it all back together, but he hadn’t gotten far.

Beth strolled along the bookshelves and ran a finger across a row of spines, leaving a trail in the dust. “I suppose Mr. Dean is not much of a reader,” she said.

“Why don’t you open one and check if the pages are cut.”

“The collected works of Victor Hugo. The collected works of Charles Dickens. The collected works of Alexandre Dumas.”

“Quite a collection. Anything appear like it’s been read recently?”

“Here’s one a little bit out of place. The collected works of William Shakespeare. Volume Three, the Tragedies. And there is a silk page mark in… Hamlet.”

“To be or not to be?”

“No, actually. A different speech of Hamlet’s, with the last line underlined. ‘O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.’ ”

Just then the door slid open.

“Helloo? Victor? Have you gone postal or something? What are you doing here?”

Kimberly Blue was standing in the doorway, a thick white robe clutched tightly closed. Her hair was loose and in disarray, her face clean of makeup, her feet bare. She looked impossibly young and impossibly lost amidst the stuffy moneyed decor of the house. She appeared, just then, despite the anger twisting her features, like someone who needed to be rescued. Behind her, glowering, stood the man who had let us in.

“We came to visit the CEO of Jacopo Financing,” I said. “We came to see Mr. Dean.”

“Are you forgetting? External relations? Everything goes through me? I thought you understood that. This is such a poodle. And why didn’t you return my calls? I called, like, five times to find out about the deposition. I wish you had let me sit in. How did it go?”

“It was very interesting.”

“Colfax said you had the deposition transcript. Why don’t you just leave it with me and we’ll talk about it tomorrow? When people are, like, awake?”

“I want to hand the deposition to Mr. Dean personally.”

“Victor. No. You can’t. This is totally bogus. I am the vice president of external relations-”

“And now we know how you got that job.”

“Oh, shut up. That is so uncalled for. You have so little idea of-”

“You want, Miss Blue,” said Colfax, “I can just take it from ’im. It won’t be so ’ard, ’andling a twig like that.”

“Like it wasn’t so hard handling Joey Parma?” I said.

Colfax smiled. “That was a piece of wedding cake, it was, and you’ll be ever more a snap, you septic little fuck.”

“Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey,” said Kimberly, each exclamation growing louder. “Just cool your tools and get over yourselves. It’s not all about you boys, okay? Victor, what are you really doing here?”

“Mr. Carl has some questions,” said a voice from behind Kimberly, a bray of a voice with a sharp Boston accent. “And he thinks himself entitled to some answers.”

Kimberly and Colfax both stepped aside and Edward Dean entered the room.

He was a tall, overly dramatic man, wearing a silk paisley gown over his silk pajamas, an ascot at his throat. His left hand, held like a claw in front of his stomach, gripped a cigarette between two middle fingers. His long blond hair was combed back, his teeth were big and bright, his eyes were shining. But it wasn’t the teeth or eyes or hair you noticed first about Edward Dean, and it wasn’t even his absurd anglophile lord-of-the-manor getup. What you noticed first was his face, shiny, stiff, smooth, strangely expressionless, somehow unnatural, almost like a mask glued over his features. As if he had suffered a Botox overdose and never recovered.

“I have wanted to meet you for some time, Mr. Carl,” said Dean, his mouth carefully forming the words, the one live thing among the stillness of his strange dead face. “Kimberly has said some very complimentary things about you.” He stiffly swiveled his neck toward Beth. “And who is this you brought along?”

“Beth Derringer,” said Beth.

“The Derringer of Derringer and Carl?”

“The same.”

“I’m frankly stunned. I pictured you as an aging lion, mentoring Victor in his bruising legal career, not a lovely young woman. How did your name end up first on the letterhead?”

“Talent,” said Beth. “I was admiring your books, Mr. Dean.”

“Call me Eddie. And they’re not mine. They came with the rental of the house, along with the piano and the paintings of horses.”

“I love paintings of horses,” I said. “Especially when they’re playing poker.”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” said Beth, “that you were reading Hamlet.”

“Was I? Maybe yes. I find him inspirational.”

“Shakespeare?”

“The Dane. Despite all his inner torment and his dithering, in the end he gets the job done, doesn’t he? Avenges his father’s death, restores his mother’s honor. So yes, I was rereading Hamlet. I love to read. I still remember picking up my first thick novel, feeling its heft, holding it with such fear and wonder, as if it held all the truths of the world.”

“What was it?” asked Beth.

He walked over to the shelf, searched for a bit, picked out a book. “Dumas. How many times my best friend and I were sent to the principal for sword fighting with wooden yardsticks I couldn’t tell you. I think back and it’s still the best book I ever read. A great influence to be sure. What was the book of your youth, Ms. Derringer?”

“To Kill a Mockingbird,” said Beth. “I read that while still in grade school and knew who I wanted to be.”

“Atticus Finch,” said Eddie Dean.

“Exactly,” said Beth.

“And you, Victor?” asked Eddie. “What was your earliest great literary experience?”

“A beat-up old paperback of The Godfather,” I said. “Page twenty-seven.”