“And Johannes? You took him to Amsterdam, didn’t you? You tried to make him give you that damned diamond. Hendrik, Hendrik, you never change.”

“His heart was no good. There was nothing I could do.” He took her hands and held them tightly, and she was surprised his were so warm. “You don’t believe me.”

“Hendrik, please.” Her voice caught, and she was angry with herself for her tears, for thinking, hoping, he’d changed-for wanting to believe they both could pretend Amsterdam had never happened. “I can never believe you again.”

He looked wounded, and yet at the same time not surprised, almost welcoming the blow. Then the earnestness, the frustrating, endearing, appalling optimism, the unshakable belief in himself, took over. “I can stop this, Catharina. If you tell me where the Minstrel is-”

“No!” She pounded him once on the chest with her fist. “Damn you, Hendrik, no! Even if I knew I’d never tell you. The Minstrel died with Johannes. Now go-for the love of God, Hendrik go.”

“Catharina…”

She shook her head and resisted the impulse to run. Willie wouldn’t; their mother wouldn’t. And she had to protect Juliana. Catharina made herself look at him, into the eyes that had never told anything that was true. “Understand me, Hendrik; leave my daughter out of whatever trouble you’re in this time. If you touch Juliana-if anyone connected with you touches her-there’s nowhere you can go, nowhere you can hide that I won’t find you. If you should die before I do, you’ll see me in hell.”

Hendrik swallowed and licked his chapped lips, and he whispered, “Don’t hate me, sweet Catharina.”

“I don’t, Hendrik,” she said, so tired. “I never did.”

She pushed past him, knocking over the bucket as she ran inside and shut the door hard behind her, clicking shut the deadbolt lock. The sound echoed in the quiet shop.

Hendrik de Geer stood in the dirty water, and he looked without expression toward the shop. Catharina warned herself that he was the same thoughtless, selfish coward he had been in Amsterdam. How could she feel any pity for him after what he’d done? Nothing had changed. Not Hendrik, not herself, not their past.

She watched him through the window. He bent over, righting the bucket, and picked up one of her rubber gloves. He pressed it to his lips. Catharina bit back a cry as he walked over and hung the glove on the doorknob.

He said nothing, and then he walked off slowly down Madison Avenue, alone.

Juliana had changed into J.J. Pepper to keep herself from being followed to LaGuardia Airport and then changed back into herself in the Gazette ladies’ room, leaving J.J.’s clothes in a paper bag under the sink. Then she proceeded to the newsroom. She was dressed in a chocolate wool gabardine suit with a Hermès scarf at her neck and her hair pulled back. She thought she looked distinctive, if not brass tacks. A reporter pointed out Matthew’s desk, which was as yet unoccupied. She went over and sat on the straight-backed chair next to it, glancing at the notes and papers on his desk. She saw the obituaries on Rachel Stein and her uncle and felt her expression turn grim.

A tall woman with dark horn-rimmed glasses came over and asked if she could help her. Juliana introduced herself. “I’m Alice Feldon,” the editor said, eyeing her. “So you’re Stark’s piano player.”

Juliana winced. “When’s he due in?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“It’s very important I see him. I-I have new information for him; I’m sure he’ll want to know.”

“Don’t count on it.” She picked up a scrap of paper and a pencil, jotted down something, and handed both back to Juliana. “That’s his home number and his address. You decide what you want to do.”

Alice Feldon marched back to her desk, and Juliana picked up the phone but stopped herself from dialing. If Matthew answered, what would she tell him? I was just wondering when you were coming in to your office. He’d ask why; she’d tell him because she was there waiting for him. He’d tell her, “Then wait, goddamnit.”

She tucked the scrawled address in her pocket and called for a cab.

With one of his men posted on the street, Phillip Bloch grinned at his former platoon leader from the front stoop of his elegant townhouse. “Morning, Sam.”

“Bloch-what are you doing here?” Ryder went pale. “I thought we had an understanding that you would never come to Washington. For God’s sake, get inside quickly.”

“Calm down, Sam.” Bloch entered the quiet foyer. He had a plastic container of fresh fruit salad in one hand, and with a plastic fork, he stuck a hung of cantaloupe into his mouth. At one time he’d smoked cigarettes incessantly. Now he received his oral gratification from various fruits and seeds. Sometimes he felt like a goddamn squirrel. He went on pleasantly, “I love D.C. Christ, I could buy a whole case of melons for what I pay for one stinking salad here.”

Ryder bristled. “We can talk in the study, but I hardly think we should prolong this meeting, Sergeant.”

“That’s okay by me.”

Bloch followed the senator into the study at the back of the house, passing an elegant dining room done in Queen Anne. The sergeant knew it was Queen Anne because for years his mother had kept a picture of a dining set-an Ethan Allen reproduction-taped on the refrigerator. It was what she wanted some day for her dining room, which was pretty much a wreck. Nobody in their household could afford it or even gave two shits whether or not she ever got it. Losers, his mother had called them; you’re all a bunch of losers. She was an old lady now, but she probably still had that goddamn picture on her refrigerator.

The study didn’t remind Bloch of anything he’d ever known, except maybe a whorehouse or two. Oriental carpet on the hardwood floor, cherry from the looks of it, leather club chairs and sofa, brass lamps, masculine ornaments, paintings of horses. A framed picture of Sammy as a decorated first lieutenant in the U.S. Army stood on an antique secretary, but about the only thing he’d done that entitled him to be decorated, in Bloch’s estimation, was not getting any more people killed than he had. The frame, the sergeant noted, was silver, probably sterling.

“Fancy, fancy,” he said, looking around the room. “About what I expected.”

“Let’s get on with this.”

Ryder gestured nervously to the leather chairs, and they both sat. Bloch finished his salad.

“Two things,” Bloch said, still amiable. His men were feeding him nice, timely reports. He felt in control. “First, one of my men spotted Hendrik de Geer outside Catharina Fall’s bakery this morning. He ain’t out of this. We tried to take him out last night, but-”

“For God’s sake, don’t tell me anything!”

“What, the place bugged or something? Sammy, Sammy, relax. Anyway, I figure de Geer’s trying to get the diamond on his own. Not good. Second, as you well know, Matt Stark ain’t lying down on this one. My man says he was here-”

“What?”

“Listen, Lieutenant, I’ve got to keep my finger on things.”

“You’ve had me watched?”

“Don’t be such a wimp. Yeah, I’ve had you watched-for your own protection as well as mine. Will you quit interrupting? I’ll assume for now you didn’t tell Stark anything, but if he keeps digging around, you won’t need me to ruin you-he’ll be glad to do the job.”

“De Geer’s a drunk, and Stark doesn’t have a thing he can use. Just ignore them both. Sergeant, I think it’s time you accepted reality: the Minstrel’s Rough was a good idea, but it didn’t pan out. Let it go.”

“Sammy, Sammy,” Bloch said, shaking his head with feigned disappointment. “You give up too easily. We ain’t even started to look for this stone yet.”

“Not we, Sergeant.” Ryder leaned forward, looking more terrified than determined. “I’m no longer involved. I told you, I can’t be.”