"That's him," Ralph said. A shadow loomed beyond the louvered glass: a thin man. Dora pulled the door open.

"Had car trouble," the man said, stepping inside. "Left it up the block. It's running rough as a paint shaker."

Joe, watching him, was rigid with amazement.

He was of medium height and slight of build, his light brown hair tied in a ponytail that flopped over the hood of his blue windbreaker.

This was the man who lingered around the apartments. The silent watcher. Joe caught a whiff of motor grease as he moved past Dora to the table.

"Let's have a look."

Dora opened the briefcase and handed him the copies.

"Shuffle them out, Dora. My hands are greasy from the car."

She spread the statements across the kitchen table; he stood scanning them as she sorted through, then looked up at her, smiling.

"This is what we want. Exactly. You've done a good job here." He winked at her. "You two are quite something."

The man watched as Dora put the papers in a neat pile again and slid them back into the briefcase on top the copier, carefully closing the lid.

Removing a white handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around the handle. "No need to get grease on the leather. I'm just filthy." He smiled again, holding the briefcase away from his pantleg, and moved toward the door. "Wish me luck, folks, that I can nurse the old car into the village."

"I could phone for a tow truck," Dora offered.

"I'll take it slow. I think it's the carburetor, but I should be able to make it to the garage all right." He stared down at his dirty hands, let Dora open the door for him.

The man's name was never spoken. When he had gone, Joe endured what seemed eternal confinement between the chips and cookies while Dora fixed breakfast and the two folks ate a never-ending meal of fried sausage, fried eggs, instant grits, toast, and coffee. At first the smells made him hungry, but after prolonged exposure, he wanted to throw up. He woke from a fitful doze as Dora began to do the dishes, running hot water into the sink, plunging her hands into the suds.

When she had put the dishes in the drain, she hurried to the bedroom and returned wearing a yellow-and-purple mumu and flipflops and carrying a blanket and a beach umbrella. Ralph padded out dressed in skin-tight black exercise shorts and a red tank top straining across his considerable girth. Joe watched them toddle down the steps and plow through the muddy, sandy marsh to a streak of sand at the edge of the water, watched them spread their towels on the fish-scented shore. As Ralph put up the beach umbrella, Joe leaped down from the refrigerator and resumed his own search, swiftly prowling, poking with a nervous paw.

He found no other suitcase smelling of Greeley. He dug into the bags belonging to Dora and Ralph, then looked for the money beneath the beds and up under the bedsprings and under the couch cushions, all the while listening for footsteps on the porch or the sound of a car-or the soft thump of paws hitting the windowsill.

He tossed the bathroom, too, then pawed open the kitchen cabinets. He fought open the refrigerator but found no wrapped package that might contain money. Standing on the kitchen counter, he was just able to open the freezer, a favored place for householders to hide their valuables according to Max Harper. Leaning into the cold, he sniffed several paper-wrapped packages, but the smell of each matched its handwritten label: pork chops, shrimp, green beans. He nearly froze his ears off. Being practically inside the freezer, trying to listen for intruders, feeling as nervous as a mouse in a tin bucket, he backed out gratefully into the warm kitchen.

When he could think of nowhere else to look-couldn't figure a way to take the top off the toilet tank or remove the light fixtures-he gave up, sprang out the open window, and trotted up the hill behind the cottage. Fleeing the scene through the woods, he hit the wide gardens above, galloping between those substantial homes wondering where Greeley had hidden the money and what Dora and Ralph were up to. Telling himself that Dora Sleuder wouldn't rip off her own aunt Mavity.

13

WINTHROP JERGEN liked to tell his clients that he was a sentimental nonconformist, that he would endure almost any inconvenience so he could enjoy the magnificent view from his out-of-the-way office-apartment.

In fact, the view meant nothing. That wondrous vista down the Molena Point hills wasn't even visible when he sat at his desk, only the tops of a few ragged trees and empty sky. He had to stand up or move to the couch before the glare of sun-glazed rooftops stabbed at his vision. And this morning the so-called view was a mass of wind-churned trees and ugly whitecaps. That was the trouble with being close to the water, these violent winds whipping inland. Now, standing at his desk looking down to the dead-end street below, observing the weeds and the three battered service trucks parked behind Charlie Getz's rusting van, he wondered why he tolerated this disreputable display.

According to the provisions of his lease, he could have refused to let Damen undertake the remodeling, but he thought it better to endure a few months' annoyance in order to acquire a more respectable environ. And it was always possible that Damen would overextend himself, sink more money into the project than he could manage, and would be in need of cash, perhaps a personal loan.

Glancing at his watch, he left his desk and in the bathroom removed his sport coat, tucked a clean bath towel over his white shirt and tie, ran hot water into a washcloth and steamed his face, bringing up a ruddy color and relaxing the tightness that prevailed after he'd been at work for several hours. He brushed his teeth, used the blow-dryer to touch up his hair, removed the towel, and washed his hands. He was to pick up Bernine at twelve-thirty. He'd had trouble getting a reservation on a Saturday, but Bernine had raved about the Windborne. The restaurant was indeed charming, a rustic, secluded aerie clinging to the seacliffs south of the village. Bernine said she liked the ambiance. The moneyed ambiance, he thought, amused. As long as Bernine wasn't buying. If he kept this up, lunch or dinner every day, she could prove to be expensive.

He wasn't sure whether Bernine Sage would become a client or a lover, or both. It didn't matter. One way or another, she would be useful. She was blatantly obvious in coming onto him, but she was a good-looker, kept herself groomed and dressed in a style that commanded attention. A nice showpiece. And she seemed to know her way around, knew a lot of worthwhile, influential people.

As long as they understood each other, the relationship could be mutually entertaining. With Bernine on his arm he got plenty of appraising looks. She attracted interest, and interest, in a certain strata, meant money.

Straightening his tie and slipping back into his sport coat, he returned to the computer screen to finish up a last group of entries. He checked his figures, then closed and secured the file with a code and punched in the screen saver, a slowly wheeling montage of various foreign currencies. Putting his backup disks safely in the file cabinet, he locked it and locked the desk, left no disk or hard copy accessible. And without the code, no one could access his hard drive.

Surely no one around here had reason to snoop, or very likely had the knowledge to override his code. But he made it a point to follow set routines. He was successful in large part because he did not deviate from carefully chosen and rigorously observed procedures.

Two incidents of the morning did bother him, however. Small mistakes he must have made, though he abhorred carelessness.