“They can’t know nothing, it’s not an hour yet. Well, almost an hour.”

“Yeah, creepy, ain’t it?”

“It must be some other beef.”

Frank thought about it. “What if Gino’s place was wired?”

“Oh, shit,” Charlie said. “You think?”

“We can go to the apartment,” Frank said. He had a little studio apartment for occasions just like this.

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

“You got any cash stashed?”

“Yeah, at home.”

“At home. Swell.”

“I see your point.”

“Does your wife know where it is?”

“Are you kidding? She’d be at Bloomingdale’s right now.”

“I can let you have a thousand,” Frank said. “So you won’t have to go back.”

“What’ve you got in mind, Frank?”

“I think we should be on a plane. Right now. Separate planes.”

“Where?”

“It’s better we don’t know each other’s plans. You got a place you can hole up?” He raised a hand. “Don’t tell me where.”

“Yeah, I got a place.”

Frank pulled up in front of his apartment building. “Ditch this car somewhere and take a cab back here,” he said. He got out, and Charlie drove off.

Frank went into the building and to his apartment, which was at the rear of the building, next to a fire exit. He let himself in, went into the kitchen, knelt down and opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink. He removed half a dozen bottles of cleaners and some sponges, then he took out a Swiss Army knife he always carried and pried up a couple of floorboards. He reached into the hole and withdrew a plastic briefcase, then replaced the floorboards and the cleaning supplies and went into the living room.

He opened the briefcase and took out four stacks of money, a new driver’s license, and a passport and burned his old ones in the kitchen sink and ran the ashes through the disposal. Then he went back to the living room and counted out a thousand—no, he thought, make it two thousand. He measured the height of the stack with his fingers and compared it to the rest. He reckoned he had close to a hundred grand. He put all but the two thousand back into the briefcase and packed some clothes into a large bag. The doorbell rang.

Frank let Charlie in and gave him the two thousand. “I can spare two, until you can get your hands on your stash. You got some extra ID?”

“Yeah, I’m covered. I’ve got a credit card in another name, too.”

“Okay, here’s my plan: I’ve got a car downstairs in the garage, and the tank’s full. I’m gonna drive to Philadelphia and take a plane to L.A., then lose myself. You can come with me, or you can make your own plans—up to you.”

“Can I hang out here a few hours?”

“Sure.” Frank gave him a key. “Stay as long as you like.”

“I think I’ll wait until the middle of the night, then sneak into the house and get my stash, then I’ll make tracks somewhere.”

Frank went to a drawer, took out two throwaway cell phones, and gave Charlie one. “Give me your cell.” Charlie handed it over. Frank went into the kitchen, took a hammer out of a drawer and smashed both phones thoroughly, then scraped the remains into the garbage can. He went back to the living room and they entered each other’s new numbers into their phones. “All right, I’m outa here,” Frank said. He offered his hand, and Charlie took it.

“Thanks for everything,” Charlie said.

Frank grabbed his bag, let himself out of the apartment, and took the stairs down to the building’s garage. He pulled the cover off the car—a ten-year-old Mercedes station wagon. He removed the trickle charger, closed the hood, tossed his bags into the rear seat, and started the car, which ran perfectly.

He drove out of the garage, parked nearby, and made a call to a Florida number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe, it’s me.”

“Frankie!”

“I’m coming to see you.”

“When will you be here?”

“I think I’m going to drive all the way, so maybe three days.”

“I’ll be ready for you. There’s steaks in the freezer, too. How long can you stay?”

“Long time, baby, maybe forever.”

“Forever is good for me.”

Frank hung up, put the car in gear, and aimed it at the Lincoln Tunnel. He paid cash at the booth; no E-Z Pass record. Fifteen minutes later he was headed south on I-95, the cruise control set at sixty-five.

—

That evening, Stone got a call from Dino.

“We screwed up, I think.”

“What happened?”

“Frank and Charlie beat it—they never even went home. My guys played the recordings for me. Gino called his killer Frank at one point, but the recording quality wasn’t that great. Charlie didn’t feature at all, so we haven’t got much of a case against them. The good news is, you won’t be hearing from these two guys again.”

“I didn’t know they would kill him,” Stone said.

“Don’t worry about it, you did the world a favor.”

“If you say so. You free for dinner? I’d like to get out of the house.”

“Sure.”

Jerry Brubeck got to work on time, as usual. Late the evening before he had had a call from his sister, Maria, wanting to know where Gino was—not why he was out late, just where. Jerry figured there was a girl in the picture.

He let himself into the office and stopped at the break room to make himself a cup of coffee, then he walked into his office and spilled coffee everywhere. Gino was lying on the floor in front of the safe, and his head was a mess. Jerry didn’t even try for a pulse, he just sat down at his desk, swiveled his chair away from Gino, and called 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“I want to report a murder.”

—

Not quite ten minutes passed, and he heard the elevator open. He walked into the reception room and found Hilda, the receptionist, hanging up her coat. “Hilda,” he said, “the police are going to be here in a minute. When they come—”

The elevator door opened again, and two young uniforms stepped out. “Where’s the murder?” one of them asked.

“Murder?” Hilda asked.

“Hilda, you just sit down at your desk and I’ll deal with this.”

“Who’s murdered?”

“Hilda!”

“Yes, Mr. Brubeck.” She sat down.

“In here,” Jerry said to the cops, holding the door open for them.

The two cops walked in and gazed at Gino’s body. “This the guy?”

“How’d you guess?” Jerry asked drily.

“You touch anything?” the other cop asked.

“Just my telephone, when I called nine-one-one.”

Two detectives walked into the office. “Okay, you two,” one of them said to the uniforms, jerking a thumb toward the door. “We got this.” The two uniforms left, muttering under their breath.

The younger of the two detectives closed the door. “We’re Detectives Mills and Schwartz,” he said, indicating he was Mills. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jerry Brubeck.”

“And who’s he?” He pointed at the corpse.

“He’s Gino Parisi, my business partner.”

“You two have a little argument over business?” Schwartz asked.

“No, I just arrived at work and found him like that.”

“You touch anything?”

“Just my phone.”

“When did you last see Mr. Parisi alive?”

“He was here when I left work last night, at six-thirty.”

“He was working late?”

“He was about to leave when he got a call. I left him to it.”

“Anything missing?”

“I don’t think so, but he’s lying in front of the safe. You want me to open it?”