"And your brother," said Kurtz.

"Not the cops?"

Kurtz shrugged.

"I should shoot you just on general principles," said Angelina. But she put the.45 back in its drawer. Then she hefted the smaller Compact Witness. "You gave it back to me loaded?"

"Yeah."

"You take chances, Joe Kurtz. Stay here. There's fruit juice in the refrigerator over there, liquor at the bar. I'm going to shower again and get dressed. Emilio's car will be here to pick me up in thirty minutes. I hope to God you have a plan."

Kurtz looked at his watch.

Fifteen minutes later, Angelina phoned down for the Boys to come up. She met them in the foyer and led them into the penthouse, where Kurtz was waiting with his S&W, now sporting a silencer she had loaned him. Angelina closed the door behind the Boys.

"What the fuck…" began Leo. Marco, the bigger man, simply raised his hands and watched both Kurtz and Angelina.

"Quiet," said Kurtz. "Unload the hardware. Carefully. Tips of fingers only. Good. Now kick the guns this way. Gently. Good." He sat on the edge of a couch, the pistol covering both of them.

"Ms. Farino?" said Leo. "You part of this bullshit?"

Kurtz shook his head and tapped one finger against his lips. "Gentlemen, we have a proposition for you. Do the smart thing and you live and make quite a bit of money. Do the stupid thing and… well, you don't want to do the stupid thing."

Marco and Leo stood with their hands half-raised, Marco vigilant, Leo twitchy, his eyes flicking back and forth as if gauging his chances for leaping at his revolver on the floor before Kurtz could fire.

"Are you listening, fellows?" said Kurtz.

"We're listening," said Marco. The big man sounded calm.

"I want to visit the Gonzagas today with Miss Ferrara," said Kurtz. "Since they only allow two bodyguards with her, one of you will have to stay behind. We thought the big bathroom up here would be a good place for the volunteer to stay until we get back. Miss Ferrara had a pair of handcuffs in her bedroom, I didn't ask why, and one of you will wear those, probably connected to the washbasin pedestal in there with your arms behind you, until we return. Then we'll find a more comfortable arrangement for the next couple of days."

"Next couple of days!" shouted Leo. "Are you fucking out of your fucking mind? You know what Little Skag Farino is going to do with your sorry ass, cock-sucker?"

Kurtz said nothing.

Marco said, "Where does the money come in?"

Angelina answered. "When our negotiations with Emilio Gonzaga are completed, there's going to be more money coming in than the Farino Family has seen for decades. Anyone who helps me with this will get a lion's share."

"Helps you?" sneered Leo. "Who the fuck do you think you are, cunt? When Little Skag gets out, you're going to be—"

"My brother Stephen is not a part of this," said Angelina. Kurtz thought that she had spoken very politely for someone who had just been called the C word.

Marco nodded. Leo looked at him with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced at the weapons on the floor again.

"So which one of you volunteers is going to stay behind?" said Kurtz.

Neither man spoke for a minute. Kurtz could see Marco mulling it over. Leo's fingers were twitching.

"No volunteers?" said Kurtz. "I guess I'll just have to pick." He shot Leo through his left eye.

Marco did not move as Leo's body fell back onto the parquet floor, blood streaming from the back of his skull. Leo's legs twitched once and were still. Angelina gave Kurtz a startled look.

"You understand the drill?" Kurtz asked Marco.

"Yeah."

"My name's Howard Conway and I'm filling in for Leo, who has the flu."

"Yeah."

"You'll have your gun back, minus the bullets. Of course, when we're at the Gonzagas', you can blow the whistle on us any time."

"What would that get me?"

Kurtz shrugged. "Probably the eternal appreciation of Emilio Gonzaga."

"I'd rather have the clap," said Marco. Angelina had picked up the bodyguards' guns and was thumbing the slugs out of the magazine in Marco's semiauto. "Can I ask a question of Ms. Farino?" said the bodyguard.

It was Angelina who nodded.

"Ma'am, is this your show or this… dentist's?"

"It's my show."

Marco nodded, accepted the now-empty pistol, and slid it back in his shoulder holster. "Can I move?"

Kurtz nodded.

Marco glanced at his watch. "The Gonzaga limo's going to be here in about three minutes. You want me to do something with this?" He inclined his head toward Leo.

"There are a couple of blankets in that first closet," said Angelina. "Store him in the back of the big walk-in freezer for now. I'll get the mop."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

James B. Hansen left his office at police headquarters in late morning and drove to the Airport Sheraton. He had an absolutely untraceable.38-caliber pistol in his briefcase, right next to the clear evidence bags containing the knife, thread, and hairs he had picked up in Joe Kurtz's hotel room.

It might have been a slight problem finding John Frears's room number—Hansen was certainly not going to show his badge and ask at the desk—but the old violinist had left his phone number, complete with room extension, when he had spoken to a bored lieutenant in Homicide the week before about the unlikely sighting at the airport. Frears was making it almost too easy.

Hansen knew what the old man was up to, speaking to the Buffalo News, going on a radio talk show and all the rest. He was offering himself up like a staked-out goat, trying to flush the man he'd known as James B. Hansen out of hiding so the police would put two and two together and track down the killer. Hansen had to smile at that. Homicide detectives, under Hansen's supervision—after all, John Wellington Frears was an important man in his own little musical circles, and his murder would demand the A-team's presence—would put two and two together all right. And then the fingerprints on the knife and the DNA in the hair would lead them straight to an ex-con killer named Joe Kurtz.

Hansen entered by a side door, went up an empty staircase to the fifth floor, paused outside Frears's room, and readied the card key—programmed by Hansen himself to open any door in the Sheraton—in his left hand and the.38 in his right. The pistol, of course, would later be found in Kurtz's flophouse room. The knife—which would not be the murder weapon, but which would draw blood as if the two men were fighting over it—would be found in the hotel room. Hansen had taken care to wait until the maids would be done with their housekeeping and the long hallway was empty as he keyed the door open. The chain lock was not on. Hansen had planned to hold his badge up to the peephole if it had been.

As soon as Hansen saw the sterile, empty room and neatly made bed, he knew that Frears had fled.

Damn it. Hansen immediately asked forgiveness from the Lord for his curse.

He closed the door, went out to his SUV, and used a disposable cell phone to call the Sheraton's front desk. "This is Detective Hathaway of the Buffalo Police Department, badge number…" He rattled off the retired number he'd looked up in the dead detective's file. "We're returning a call from one of your guests, ah…" He paused a few seconds as if looking up the name. "Mr. John Frears. Could you ring him for me, please?"

"I'm sorry, Detective Hathaway, Mr. Frears checked out this morning. About three hours ago."

"Really? He wanted to talk to us. Did he leave a forwarding address or number?"

"No, sir. I was the one who checked Mr. Frears out and he just paid his bill and left."

Hansen took a breath. "I'm sorry to bother you with all this, Mr.—"

"Paul Sirsika, Detective. I'm the day manager here."