“Gimme.” Judy held out her hand, and Mary complied.

“Thanks. You’re going straight to heaven, girl.”

“Since what happened to Keisha, I’m all about you getting those animals.”

“Even the Dalai Lama would approve.”

“Bennie wouldn’t.”

“So we’ll keep it a secret,” Mary said, but she was worried. She couldn’t keep a lid on everything forever. Sooner or later, Bennie or Chico was going to blow, and Mary wasn’t sure which was worse. Okay, she was. “How much longer can I keep ducking her phone calls?”

“You can’t. Beat her to the punch.”

“What do you mean?”

“You disappoint me, Mare. Call her cell right now and say hi. Act like everything’s fine. Don’t give her any reason to worry.” Judy made a little skating motion with her hand. “Smooth as glass.”

“Call her now?” Mary checked her watch. 10:30. “She’s on trial. Her cell will be turned off.”

The two girls locked eyes. “Perfect!” they shouted, in happy unison.

And Mary reached for the phone.

By midafternoon, she was sitting in front of the glistening mahogany desk of Richard Matern, a V.P. at Philadelphia National Bank. He looked to be about fifty years old, much younger than Saracone. It probably would have saved time to call the guests on the maid’s list instead of meeting them, but Mary could learn more if she saw them face-to-face. Also they couldn’t hang up on her. She’d gotten in to see Matern only by harrumphing her way past his secretary and dropping Saracone’s name. And right now he was looking at her expectantly, his smile coolly professional.

Showtime. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Matern,” Mary began. “I’m Rikki Broughley, an investigator here on behalf of Melania Saracone. She would have called you to introduce me, but she’s resting today, understandably.”

“Of course she is. It’s awful about Giovanni.”

“Yes, it is. Melania mentioned that you were at the house for the luncheon and also sent her some very nice calla lilies.” Mary had remembered one card, and shot her wad.

“Thank you. It’s the least we could do.”

“Mr. Matern, for my records, could you give me some background about yourself?” Mary pulled a small legal pad from her purse, as a prop. And a security blanket. “How long have you known Mr. Saracone?”

“Ten years or so. He was a client of mine.”

Mary would have to get back to that. “Now, Melania tells me that you often fished with Mr. Saracone, on the Bella Melania.”

“Yes, my wife and I have gone out on the boat, as his guests.” Mr. Matern cocked his head in a critical way. “What did you say this was about?”

“Well, confidentially,” Mary said, lowering her voice, “it’s come to Melania’s attention that certain guests on the boat have had some of their valuables go missing after their fishing trips, and she suspects the culprit may be one of the crew. She’s asked me to look into it, to substantiate terminating him.”

“Oh, I see.” Mr. Matern’s shoulders relaxed, and Mary guessed he bought the story. She had made it up with Judy, who said it was more fun than working.

“As you were saying, you used to go fishing with Mr. Saracone.”

“You’re half right. I didn’t fish, I’m a golfer. All I did was sit on deck and drink margaritas.” Matern chuckled, leaning back in his chair.

“You don’t fish?”

“Nah. Giovanni didn’t fish either, truth be known.”

Huh? “He didn’t?”

“Nah, he loved his boat and he made great margaritas, but he didn’t fish. He thought it was boring. Face it, it is boring.”

“I see.” Mary made a note on her pad, only to hide her surprise. How could that be? It didn’t square with all the fishing pictures in Saracone’s office. “Did you or your wife ever miss any valuables after a trip on the Bella Melania?”

“No.”

“Does the name Amadeo Brandolini mean anything to you?”

“No. He on the crew?”

“Not that I know.” Mary let it drop. It was risky to even go there, but she had to ask it. Her disguise was good enough, and it was a safe bet that Matern didn’t remember the details of the newspaper story from days ago. “Now, also for the record, I understand that Mr. Saracone made certain investments with you. Substantial investments, in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars.” Mary was remembering the financial statement in Saracone’s home office. “Twenty million with you, and slightly more with Merrill Lynch. I probably shouldn’t specify how much, exactly.”

“More with Merrill?”

“I can’t confirm.”

Mr. Matern arched a graying eyebrow. “I’m surprised you know all that.”

I am, too. “Don’t be. Melania trusts me completely, Mr. Matern.”

“She never mentioned you.”

“I’m that confidential, and of course, Melania requests that you keep this visit strictly between us. To do otherwise would not only jeopardize the investigation, but it could also make you vulnerable to a defamation suit, should the culprit decide to sue her.”

“Of course.” Mr. Matern sat suddenly upright. The word lawsuit could do that to anyone, even executive vice presidents. Especially executive vice presidents.

“Now, you were discussing the source of the investment funds.”

“The source?”

“Of course, we were discussing Saracone’s investments, and you were saying how it was amassed.”

“No.” Mr. Matern shook his head, puzzled. “I wasn’t saying how it was amassed.”

“Of course not, and you keep getting me off the point.” Mary tried shooting him a stern glance and may have succeeded. If so, it would be the first time in her life. She rose to go, slipping her legal pad back into her purse. “Well, thank you for your time. I do appreciate it, and your discretion.”

“Of course. Please give my best to Melania.”

Ten minutes later, Mary was sitting in front of another mahogany desk in another ritzy office in Center City. Thomas Richter sold home and car insurance, and was a younger version of Mr. Matern, only with blue eyes. Mary went through her spiel and ended with: “And so, how often did you and your wife Lynnie go fishing with the Saracones on the Bella Melania?”

“At least ten times, I guess.”

“You must be an avid fisherman.”

“No, not at all.” Richter laughed. “I only went along because Giovanni invited us. But we never fished, we just sat around in those little chairs on deck and drank Bloody Marys.”

“Giovanni didn’t fish?”

“Not that I saw.”

Weird. “Thanks for your time,” Mary said, closing her pad to go.

Ten offices later, in a double-checking frenzy, she had met most if not all of Saracone’s guests, all young or middle-aged professionals who had sold him his car, home entertainment system, or stocks; fixed his bridgework, his sundeck, or Porsche Carrera; prepared his taxes, his will, or his pension fund. All of them had been on the Bella Melania with Saracone and had guzzled vodka gimlets, Tanqueray-and-tonics, whisky sours, Manhattans, daiquiris, or Heineken. None of them fished, and all of them confirmed that Saracone didn’t, either. None of them knew him that well. None of them knew the name Brandolini, except for one who swore it was a delicious entrée, with clams and white sauce. None of them went back to the old days. Mary didn’t get it. Somehow, somewhere, somebody had to know Amadeo, or at least fish, or there was no connection to Amadeo at all. And she would be, as they say, dead in the water.

By five-thirty, Mary was standing in front of her last reception desk of the day, facing the final secretary she’d have to barrel through, beg, or sweet-talk.

“Hello, I’m Rikki Broughley,” she began, glancing around the insurance office. “I’m here to see Mr. Jackmann.” It was a one-man law office in an unfashionable part of the city, and the secretary chain-smoked brown Capri cigarettes.

“Mr. Jackmann’s gone for the day.”

“Will he be back? It’s an important matter, on behalf of his friend Melania Saracone.”