"And look at this. Advertising revenues up three and a half."

Another pause so that Harriman might absorb and glorify in the stupendous news.

Ritts lit a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaled. "Harriman, don't ever say I don't give credit where credit is due. This was your story from beginning to end. You did it. Sure, I helped with some ideas here and there, gave you the benefit of my experience, nudged you in the right direction once or twice-but this was your story."

Ritts paused, as if waiting. For what? Effusive, genuflecting thanks? Harriman leaned back and listened, still smiling.

"Anyway, as I was saying, you did this. You've been noticed, and I mean noticed , by the powers on high."

Who was that? Harriman wondered. The big cheese himself? That would be a joke. The guy probably couldn't even get into his father's club.

Now Ritts dropped his bomb. "Next week, I want you to be my guest at the annual News Corporation dinner at Tavern on the Green. This wasn't just my idea-although I heartily approved. It was"-and now his eyes flashed upward as if a heavenly host had issued the invitation-"his idea. He wants to meet you, shake your hand."

Meet me, shake my hand. This was beautiful. God, this was beautiful. He couldn't wait to tell his friends about this.

"It's black tie-you got one of those? If not, I rent mine at a place opposite Bloomingdale's. Discount Tux, best deal in the city."

Harriman could hardly believe his ears. What a bozo. Not even ashamed to admit he rented his tuxes. "I have one or two, thanks," he said coolly.

Ritts looked at him a little strangely. "You all right? You do know about the annual dinner, right? I mean, I've been in this business thirty years and let me tell you, this is something special . It's Thursday evening, drinks at six in the Crystal Room, dinner at seven. You and a guest. Bring your squeeze, if you have one."

Harriman sat forward. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"Come alone, then. No problem."

"You don't understand. I can't come at all. I'm otherwise engaged."

"What?"

"I’m busy ."

There was a shocked silence. And then Ritts was off his perch. "You’re busy ? Aren't you listening? I'm talking about dinner with the man himself ! I'm talking about the News Corp. annual fucking dinner !"

Harriman rose and dusted his sleeve, on which Ritts's ashes had fallen as he'd waved his cigarette around in excitement.

"I've accepted an appointment as a reporter at a newspaper called the New York Times. Perhaps you know of it." Harriman slipped an envelope out of his pocket. "My letter of resignation." He laid it on the desk, right on the shiny place where Ritts usually perched his ass.

There it was. Said and done. He'd drawn it out about as long as he could. There was no point in wasting any more time: he had a new office to fix up, a lot to do. After all, Bill Smithback would be returning from his extended honeymoon on Monday to find the surprise of his life: Bryce Harriman, associate reporter, fellow colleague, occupying the office next door.

Now, that would be something.

God, life was good.

He turned and walked to the door, turning just once to get a final look at Ritts, standing there, mouth open, for once with nothing to say.

"See you around, old chap," Harriman said.

{ 88 }

 

The big jet hit the tarmac with a jolt; tipped back into the air at an angle; then settled once more onto the ground, thrust reversers screaming.

As the plane decelerated, a lazy voice came over the P.A. system. "This is your captain speaking. We've landed at Kennedy Airport, and as soon as we get clearance, we'll taxi to the gate. Meanwhile, y'all please keep your seats. Sorry about that bit of turbulence back there. Welcome to New York City."

Faint applause arose here and there from a sea of ashen faces, then died quickly away.

"Bit of turbulence," muttered the man in the aisle seat. "Is that what he calls it? Shit on a stick . You couldn't pay me enough to get back in a plane after this."

He turned to his seatmate, nudged him with his elbow. "Glad to be back on the ground, pal?"

The nudge brought D'Agosta back to the present. He turned slowly away from the window, through which he'd been staring without really seeing, and glanced at the man. "What's that?"

The man snorted in disbelief. "Come on, stop playing it cool. Me, my own life passed before my eyes at least twice the last half hour."

"Sorry." And D'Agosta turned back to the window. "Wasn't really paying attention."

D'Agosta walked woodenly through Terminal 8 on his way out of customs, suitcase in one hand. All around him, people were talking excitedly, hugging, laughing. He passed by them all, barely noticing, eyes straight ahead.

"Vinnie!" came a voice. "Hey, Vinnie. Over here!"

D'Agosta turned to see Hayward, waving, walking toward him through the crowds. Laura Hayward, beautiful in a dark suit, her black hair shining, her eyes as deep and blue as the water off Capraia. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach quite as far as those perfect eyes.

"Vinnie," she said, embracing him. "Oh, Vinnie."

Automatically, his arms went around her. He could feel the welcoming tightness of her clasp; the warmth of her breath on his neck; the crush of her breasts against him. It was like a galvanic shock. Had it really been only ten days since they last embraced? A shudder passed through him: he felt strange, like a swimmer struggling upward from a very great depth.

"Vinnie," she murmured. "What can I say?"

"Don't say anything. Not now. Later, maybe."

Slowly, she released him.

"My God. What happened to your finger?"

"Locke Bullard happened."

They began to move through the baggage area. A silence grew between them, just long enough to become awkward.

"How's it been here?" he asked at last, lamely.

"Not much has happened since you called last night. We've still got ten detectives working the Cutforth murder. Technically. And from what I hear, that Southampton chief of police is catching holy hell for lack of progress on Grove."

D'Agosta gritted his teeth, started to speak, but Hayward put a finger to his lips.

"I know. I know. But that's the nature of the job sometimes. Now that Buck's out of the picture and the Post has moved on to other things, Cutforth's finally off the front page. Eventually it'll become just another unsolved murder. Along with Grove's, of course."

D'Agosta nodded.

"Amazing that it was Fosco. I'm floored."

D'Agosta shook his head.

"It's a hell of a thing, knowing who the perp is but being able to do nothing."

There was the ring of a claxon; an amber alarm flashed overhead; and a carousel nearby began to move.

"I was able to do something," he said in a low voice.

Hayward looked at him sharply.

"I'll explain in the car."

Ten minutes later they were on the Van Wyck Expressway, halfway back to Manhattan, Hayward at the wheel. D'Agosta sat beside her, idly looking out the window.

"So it was all about a violin," Hayward said. "The whole damn thing. A lousy violin."

"Not just any violin."

"I don't care. It wasn't worth all those deaths. And it especially wasn't worth-" But here she stopped, as if hesitant to break some unspoken code between them. "Where is it now?"