"But if he was alone…?" Vinnie sounded puzzled.

"You mean, how was he found?" Conklin said. "For probably the first time in his life, he left the hotel in the middle of the night, went down to the beach, and shot himself there. Even then, Asbury Park was in such decline, it wasn't until noon the next day that someone found him."

"A man with agoraphobia going down to the beach for the first time in his life so he can kill himself?" Balenger shook his head firmly. "That doesn't make sense."

"The police wondered if he'd been murdered," the professor said. "But it had rained earlier in the night. The only footprints on the beach were Carlisle's."

"Eerie," Cora said.

"After his suicide, the old man's personal papers were deposited in the Carlisle family library, which is actually a storage area in the basement of the Manhattan building that used to be the family mansion. Carlisle's trust occupied the building until its funds ran out."

"The papers include the diary?" Balenger asked.

"Yes. When I chose the Paragon for this year's expedition, I did my usual research and discovered the existence of the storage area. The man who oversees the trust allowed me to examine the materials. He was trying to get various universities to bid on them. Evidently, he thought I had my university's authority to participate in the auction. I was given a day with the papers. That's when I discovered the diary."

"You weren't just repeating a rumor? There really is a vault in Danata's suite?" Balenger asked.

"All I can tell you is, there's no record of its having been removed."

"Hell, this is going to be more interesting than usual." Vinnie rubbed his hands together. "Of course, we still have to figure out which suite Danata had."

"Six-ten," Conklin said. "According to the diary, it has the best view in the hotel."

"Not the penthouse?"

"Because of Carlisle's agoraphobia, he couldn't bear large windows. A full view of the ocean would have terrified him. But he had other ways of looking. When I told you earlier that Aristotle Onassis wanted to buy the Paragon, I didn't add that Carlisle couldn't have sold it even if he'd been tempted. Without major reconstruction, almost tearing the hotel to the ground, Carlisle would have been publicly embarrassed and probably arrested."

"Arrested?" Rick asked in surprise.

"Because of his curiosity. The building has hidden corridors that allowed him to watch his guests without their knowledge."

"Peepholes? Two-way mirrors?" Balenger wrote hurriedly.

"Carlisle was diseased in more ways than his hemophilia. He allowed his diary to survive because he believed it served a social purpose. He thought of himself as a cross between a sociologist and a historian."

"Who else knows about this?"

"No one," the professor said. "Carlisle left no heirs. The man who administers the trust has remarkably little curiosity about his dead client. He's a blank-faced, bureaucratic type. The sort that does nothing but think about retirement when he's in his fifties. Does his work by rote. No expression in his eyes. Reminds me of my dean at Buffalo. I hid the diary at the bottom of Carlisle's papers. He'll never notice. But if a university buys those documents, eventually many people will learn what I just told you. Of course, it won't make a difference. The hotel will be a vacant lot by then. That's why this is the most important building we've ever infiltrated. The chance to verify and document the Paragon's history has all kinds of cultural implications begging to be included in a book."

"One that you'll write, I hope," Vinnie said.

"My final project." The professor looked pleased.

Cora glanced at her watch. "Then we'd better get going. The night's flying by."

Balenger tilted his headlamp toward his watch, surprised to see that almost an hour had passed from when they'd left the motel. Like the air in the tunnels, time felt compressed.

Cora glanced at the message slots and reached into one of the few that contained something. The paper was brittle. "Mmm, Mr. Ali Karim's credit card doesn't seem valid. The manager wishes to speak with him. Well, don't be embarrassed, Mr. Karim. I've had that happen a few times myself." Putting on her hard hat, she joined them in front of the counter.

"Too bad the elevators don't work," Vinnie said. "We've got a lot of stairs to climb. Can you do it, Professor?"

"Try to keep up with me."

Balenger warily studied dark corners as he and the others crossed the lobby.

"There's the ballroom." Conklin's headlamp indicated open doors to their right, an empty oak-floored space beyond.

"Can I have this dance, Cora?" Rick asked.

"Gosh, my dance card's all filled. But the only thing that matters is who I go home with."

Rick glanced into the ballroom, smiled, and disappeared. A moment later, an out-of-tune piano began playing "Moon River."

"My favorite song," Cora said to the group.

"A little old-fashioned for someone your age, isn't it?" the professor teased.

"Rick and I love watching those old movies Henry Mancini and Johnny Mercer wrote songs for. The romantic ones. Dear Heart. Charade. 'Moon River' in Breakfast at Tiffany's."

Balenger imagined how Vinnie felt about that.

Blank spaces interrupted the notes, some of the keys not working. The tinny music reverberated in the huge space. It put Balenger on edge. Not that Rick was pounding away. The off-key melody wasn't much louder than their voices. Someone outside wouldn't be able to hear it. All the same, it felt like a violation.

The piano stopped. Rick showed his sheepish face around the corner. "Couldn't resist. Sorry."

"I'm sure if there were any more rats around here, you got rid of them," Vinnie said.

Rick laughed and rejoined the group.

They reached the grand staircase. Between magnificent banisters the marble steps rose, then divided, curving higher toward shadows on the right and left. But that wasn't where the group focused its lights. Instead, they stared at swaths of discoloration on the stairs.

"Dried water. Probably from holes in the roof." Vinnie's shoes crunched on shattered glass so covered with grime that the shards didn't glint from the reflection of his headlamp. "The water flowed all the way down to here. Look at all the dirt it brought along."

"As we go higher, watch your footing," the professor warned Balenger. "There'll be rotted wood."

11 p.m.

14

They reached the division in the staircase. Other swaths of discoloration filled the right and left continuations of the steps.

"A lot of water," Rick said. "Years of it. When there's a strong storm, it must really pour down."

"Be careful," the professor said. "It could still be slippery."

They ascended the left curve of the stairs, probing shadows. At the top, they found a row of elegant doors with tarnished brass numbers on them. Murky wood-paneled walls were covered with dust. At intervals, corridors disappeared into darkness. The smell of mold and age was powerful. Balenger peered down at rotted Persian carpeting, its intricate pattern faded and flecked with mildew.

They turned left and followed a balcony. Every dozen paces, a narrow table was positioned against the wall. Some had vases with desiccated flowers, their petals looking as if the slightest touch would make them crumble. Then the group angled left again and came to more stairs. These were made of finely crafted wood, but Balenger couldn't be sure what kind because of the water damage they'd sustained. He peered up.

Vinnie did the same. "My God. The stairs keep following a central open column all the way to the top of the building. Hard to know for sure, but I think I see a glass roof. Moonlight. Clouds moving."