“Trust me, it’ll work,” he says. “Women love that shit. They can’t resist it.”

“You don’t know Joselyn. I think she can resist anything. And if not, she’ll just analyze the hell out of it until it dies.”

“No. Trust me. She won’t be able to say no. It’s something about the maternal instinct.”

“What, and tell her I’m having a nightmare, so I can crawl into her pants? If I tried to manipulate her like that, she’d shrink-wrap my brain, tell me I’m suffering from an anal-retentive disorder, and spin me around like a compass until my dick was pointing back to my own room.” I shake my head. “Listen, I’m not sure there’s anything real happening between us. I mean, sure I’m attracted to her. I’m a red-blooded male. What’s not to like? She’s beautiful, sexy, cute, smart…”

“Listen to yourself,” says Herman. “You’re not sure there’s anything happening between the two of you, but you’re about to have an orgasm all over Avis’s front seat.”

“It takes two before you have a relationship. I’m not sure she has any deep interest in me.”

“She’s got the hots for you.”

“Says who?”

“Says who? Says me.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She doesn’t have to. I got eyes. I can see and I can hear. And everything I see and hear tells me she’s got a lock on you like a radar beam. Why do you think she’s trailing along with us?”

“Because of her past dealings with Thorn. She wants to see him get nailed,” I tell him.

“Sure, she hates the guy. She’s scared to death of him. But that’s not the reason she’s here. She’s worried about you.”

“You think so?”

“When it comes to women, you’re pretty damn dense,” he says. “No wonder you haven’t gotten married since your wife died.”

“That’s a tender subject,” I tell him.

“And it’s an old one, ancient history. You gotta move on. From what I can see, you got one hell of an opportunity dangling in front of you right now. If I were you, I wouldn’t let it die on the vine, not without tasting the wine, sampling the vintage, to see if you like it.”

“I’m not sure I…”

“Don’t tell me you’re not interested. I’ve seen the way you look at her. And if I die in my sleep tonight, I wouldn’t want the last words I hear from your lips to be a lie. So bite your tongue,” he says.

THIRTY-SIX

After a short but silent ride, Herman dropped me back at the Melia. He told me one more time to knock on Joselyn’s door and at least be friendly. Then he turned around and headed back toward the downtown plaza.

I haul my luggage upstairs, fishing for the room key in my pocket. When I find it, I finally drag my weary body inside the room and dump my bags at the foot of the bed.

Before the spring on the door can close it, I hear her voice behind me. “So what’s going on? Where’s Herman?”

I turn and Joselyn’s standing in the doorway, her left arm dangling at her hip as her right hand holds the door open. She is barefoot, wearing a kind of silky-slinky red chemise that clings to her body and ends midthigh under a longer thin duster, open and unbelted in the front. Her curving hips form a lazy S against the steel frame of the door as she stands there.

“Come on in. Herman took a room at the Belgica.”

“Told you it was a nice place,” she says.

“We think we found Thorn.”

Her gaze suddenly turns serious. She steps inside the room and lets the door close behind her. She has her room key in her hand.

“So he is there?”

I nod. “According to the desk clerk. He ID’d him from one of the photographs. He’s booked under the name Johnston. But he’s not there now. Herman took the room next door. According to the clerk, Thorn’s been at the Belgica for two days. He leaves early in the morning and doesn’t get back until after dark. Herman’s going to try to listen through the walls, pick up his movements when he comes in tonight, and track him when he leaves in the morning. He’ll call us on my cell as soon as he knows what’s going on.”

“You think that’s safe?” she says. “I mean, you don’t think Herman’s in any danger, do you?”

“Herman knows what he’s doing. He’ll take precautions, keep his distance.” I don’t share with Joselyn my concern about the desk clerk. That if he says anything to Thorn about Herman asking questions, there are only two possibilities: one, that Thorn will disappear and we’ll never find him again, and the other, which is more ominous. If Thorn is heavily invested in whatever he’s doing on the island and he thinks Herman is acting alone, he may decide that it’s easier and more profitable to dispose of Herman than to run.

“If I don’t hear from Herman by ten o’clock tonight, I’ll call him. If I think he needs backup, I’ll grab a taxi and go over.”

“And then what are you going to do? You don’t have a gun,” she says. “This is crazy. The two of you are going to end up dead. I’m telling you, he is a dangerous man. You’re worried about Liquida. Thorn is just as deadly. Trust me on this.”

“Yes, but at the moment he’s all we’ve got and we can’t let him go. Tiger by the tail,” I tell her. “Thorn is the only link we have to Liquida. And if I can’t lead the cops to Liquida and get him off my back, I don’t have a life. And neither does my daughter, or, for that matter, Harry or Herman. I don’t have to remind you that Liquida has shown a pathologic willingness to kill people who are even remotely associated with me. You might want to think about that,” I tell her. “In fact, it might be a good idea if you got on a plane and headed home. I’ll keep you posted on what happens. I promise.”

“You look exhausted,” she says.

“Yeah, well, you should be tired too.”

“I got a little rest. Why don’t you sit down?” she says.

I step around my bags and settle down on the side of the bed.

“Take a deep breath,” Joselyn says. She approaches and puts her hands on the shoulders of my polo shirt and starts to massage.

I roll my head back, move my shoulders. “That feels great.” Then she pushes my upper body back until I’m lying flat on the bed with my feet on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Never mind, just relax.” She reaches down, grabs my ankles, and swivels my body until I am lying with my head on one of the pillows, my feet up on the bottom of the bed. Joselyn unties my shoes and pulls them off, tossing them on the floor. The release of tension and stress is palpable as she rubs my feet.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Focus on your mantra.”

“My what?”

“Relax. Don’t tell me you’ve never done any meditation?”

“Sorry,” I tell her.

“Your mantra can be anything, an image, a word. It can be a tone, like this: Aommmmmmmmmmm.”

She does it two or three times, holding the tone until, like a bellows, the air goes from her lungs. The gentle, low tone of her voice is something strange, almost intoxicating. But I’m afraid it’s not meditation that I’m thinking about.

“If you do it repeatedly and focus your consciousness, you can reach a transcendental point where monks believe the mind and the soul meld,” she tells me. “Practiced regularly it can lower blood pressure and reduce stress. And stress kills, in case you haven’t heard.”

“I know.”

“Trial lawyers don’t like it,” she says. “They believe meditation dilutes their aggression. And, of course, they’re right. It’s the fight or flight thing. When you don’t want to do either, resort to your mantra.”

“I will.”

“There’s a time to talk and a time to be quiet.” She puts a finger to her lips. “This is the time for silence. Just lie there and relax.”

She rubs my feet, and then my lower legs, and I begin to drift off.

“There is no restaurant or bar in the hotel, but there are some good restaurants a few doors away. We can order out later if you want. They’ll deliver. I’ve got a menu.”