"What do you know?"

"Alvino had gotten us all as far as the Secret Service intercepting Farouk's coin when it was brought back into the U.S. in ninety-six."

"I was with you in her office. I heard that."

"She has tracked down its whereabouts after the ninety-six arrival here, and before the auction in 2002. Wanted to confirm it for us."

"Nice. And?"

"It was actually stored and safeguarded in the Treasury Department vaults during the legal battles about who owned it."

"You mean Fort Knox?"

"Closer to home. For five years, the Double Eagle lived in a vault in the basement of the World Trade Center. Seven World Trade Center, to be exact."

I thought again of how often I had looked out my office window at those towers before September 11. So many lives lost in an instant of evil. The property losses mattered to me not at all.

Mercer went on. "A few months before the attacks, the coin was moved. Just a coincidence."

"To?"

"The bullion depository of the United States Mint."

"Where's that?"

"It's up at West Point, Ms. Cooper. You can't get any more militarily connected than that. The Double Eagle wound up quartered at the Point, in its bullion depository, overlooking the Hudson River."

"You put that upstate tour on the agenda for this week?"

"Mike wants to wait till the Army-Navy game next month to make that trip," he joked. "Anyway, he's going to pick you up in half an hour, if that's okay with you. I'm meeting you both at Peter Robelon's office. I reached him at home just now and told him it was urgent we see him this morning. We'll try to confront him about that encounter you had with Harry Strait."

"See you later."

The phone rang again as soon as I hung up. "Hello, Alex? You make it back all right?"

It was Chip Streeter, the Vineyard cop, checking on me. "Just fine. I appreciate all the time you gave me. Not to mention a dry place to sleep. I've got to run, but thanks for calling."

"I actually need your help for a minute. You know a guy on the island named Logan? Spike Logan?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know who he is." Strange that Streeter should be asking about him.

"Was he up your way the other day?"

"No. But-why?"

"Found his car pulled off the road down by the Stonewall Bridge, coming from the direction of your house to Beetlebung Corner. Looks like it flooded out during the storm. Kinda abandoned."

"Anything in it? Any weapons, any-"

"Just a pair of boots, Alex. Fit the imprints in the mud around your house. Same size, same tread design, same maker logo. State troopers confirmed that for me."

"And Logan? Have you looked for him?" I asked more frantically than I meant to. "Have you been to the house he stays in? Have you asked-?"

"Made a lot of calls and visits last evening and stopped by again this morning. Just wanted to know whether he was an acquaintance of yours," Chip said. "Just wanted you to know that he's out there somewhere. Pretty sure he's gone off-island."

36

I was waiting inside the lobby of my apartment building when Mike's car drove up in front. "Yo, blondie," Mike shouted. "Let's hit the road."

Mercer had called to tell him about my Vineyard experience, and he was furious with me. "You lied to me, Coop. You let me think Jake was going to be there with you."

"It was true when I first told you that."

"He wimped out? Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"No, he didn't. The flights weren't going and I didn't want him to drive up. Adam," I said quietly. "You know."

"So you and Bigfoot played hide-and-seek instead, huh?"

"And now the police just called because they think my visitor might have been Spike Logan." I told Mike what Streeter had said about the washed-out car and the boots that were in it.

"Or his passenger. Coulda had somebody with him. Sounds too obvious to me to leave his car right where it was bound to be found. Maybe it's a setup," Mike said. He looked over at me as we headed uptown. "That won't stop you from scanning the horizon for the Spikester, right?"

I was staring off at the boats churning up water in the East River. "Tell me something good, then. Take my mind off mindless things. How's Val?"

He drew in breath before he answered. "That's a heartbreaker. She doesn't want me to tell anyone, but you gotta know. The docs found some more nodes. More-what do they call it?-involvement."

I looked over at him but he kept his focus straight ahead. "They doing chemo?"

"First surgery and then chemo. She's the toughest fighter I've ever met."

I reached over and put my hand on Mike's wrist, but when he made a left turn onto the Drive, his arm moved and I wasn't holding anything.

He continued to ask questions about the storm most of the way, and to cross-examine me about what had happened at the house. We parked around the corner and met Mercer in the lobby of the large commercial complex that housed Robelon's office.

Robelon was expecting us. "What's the posse here for?" he said, looking at me but pointing to the men on either side of me.

"This time I'm just the witness, not the prosecutor. They've got some questions for you."

"Like what?"

"Like who's your buddy?" Mike asked. "The guy who enjoys pretending he's the late great Strait."

"What?"

"The dude who sat in the back of the courtroom when Paige Vallis testified?"

"How would I know who was sitting behind me? I was looking at the witness."

"Let me-what do you say, Coop?-let me refresh your recollection, Counselor. The uptight guy who looks like he had his hair cut by Sergeant Bilko. The one whose rental car you were tooling around town in last week," Mike said.

Robelon pushed back from his desk and played with a pencil, tapping it against his left thumb. "I've got no idea what you mean. I thought you had something urgent to discuss, Mr. Wallace? Try not to act like you've picked up all your techniques on television, Detective." He raised his right leg and rested it on a desk drawer. His disdain for Chapman was palpable.

"Shit, you're probably right. I woulda been a bartender if it wasn't for Law and Order. Wouldn't have to put up with empty suits like you. There's the lovely Miss Cooper, running down the street last week in those ridiculous high heels she favors, trying to hail a cab, and you didn't even stop for her. Downright rude."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Alex? Cab?"

"Thomas Street," I said, "you were-"

"Keep a lid on it, Coop. Think back to Wednesday, Counselor. A black sedan with rental plates. Parked on Thomas Street. Maybe it was a stranger who screamed at you to open the door and jumped inside holding a gun, is that it?"

Robelon kicked the desk drawer shut and crossed his legs. He yelled to his secretary, "Mrs. Kaye, you want to show these people the way out?"

She hadn't heard him clearly and came to the door of his office to look inside and ask him to repeat what he said.

"Lionel Webster, also known as Harry Strait. You got a second job as his limo driver?" Mike asked.

Mrs. Kaye looked confused. "Did you want me to get Mr. Webster on the phone?"

Robelon was fuming. He held up his hand and spun it around, motioning the secretary to back out of the room. Sorry, no doubt, he had made her come in for the impromptu weekend meeting.

Mike was on his feet, lifting the lid on the humidor and helping himself to a cigar.

"I'm so glad you weren't about to give me that 'I don't know any Lionel what-did-you-say-his-name-is?' Give that broad a raise. She saved your ass just now."

"Yeah, and I'd like to tell you what to stick up yours if there wasn't a lady present."

"Who, her?" Mike said, pointing the cigar at me. "That's no lady. Help yourself. She's just a louche broad masquerading behind a Wellesley degree and a fine pair of pins. Nothing you can say to me she hasn't said herself. So about Lionel Webster, what can you tell us?"