Fury

16

"Stop it! The waitress is coming," Murrow whispered, pushing Stupenagel's hand away from where it was groping at him beneath the table in a dark corner of Mr. Brown's Pub at the Sagamore Hotel.

"She's not the only one, lover," said Stupenagel, who for the moment stopped her assault but left her hand within striking distance.

Stupenagel had suggested a romantic weekend at the grand old hotel set on Lake George in the eastern Adirondacks. When he protested that he couldn't possibly get away, she mentioned certain physically challenging sexual positions that she'd been fantasizing about and he'd quickly wilted under the pressure.

Ariadne was a woman of her word. They'd no sooner checked in, tipped the bellhop, and closed the door than she proceeded to make good on her promises. Sometime after the fourth or fifth round-he'd lost count and was feeling somewhat like a dazed boxer just before the knockout punch-she suggested they disengage and go grab a drink and dinner. "And give my tiger a chance to recover his claws," she purred.

"Mmmph," Murrow said into the pillow before turning his head to the side so he could be understood. "Couldn't we just order room service. I don't think I can stand up… Ow!"

Ariadne had slapped him hard on the butt. "Nonsense. That last effort was nice but hardly up to your peak performances. We need to get the blood flowing, and there's nothing like a Last of the Mohicans Martini to bring the color back to your cheeks and get you primed for the main event."

"Main event?" he asked, half in terror and half out of curiosity. "I thought we just did the main event."

"Oh, my, no, that was just to limber up," she said. "Next we're going to…" She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"Really?" he said, his face a picture of concern. "Are you sure that's possible?"

"Absolutely," Stupenagel purred, "I saw a picture of it in the Illustrated Guide to the Kama Sutra, volume 10, with foreword by the Maharishi Bhagwan Yodi."

"Bhagwan Yodi? You're pulling my leg."

"If this is your leg, I hope you have another one just like it. Anyway, his real name is Mark Cook and he used to jockey a cab in Boston until he had this transformation and decided to go to India to become a holy man."

"They have schools for that?"

"Apparently, and he knows what he's talking about with the Kama Sutra. Legend has it he's deflowered more than three hundred vestal virgins-I guess they don't count nonvirgins-and set them on the path of enlightenment."

"Sounds like a sexual predator to me."

"Probably, but you're missing the point."

"No, I'm getting the point. I'm just trying to catch my breath."

"Exactly, my little big man. Which is why you're going to get that cute little tush up and escort me down to Mr. Brown's Pub, or I'll go on my own and maybe be abducted by a gang of bikers."

"Those poor bikers, if they only knew that they'll be spent and worthless men before you get done with them," Murrow teased. "Ow!"

She'd slapped his butt again. "Just my luck there aren't any gangs of outlaw bikers at the Sagamore. A bit highbrow for their tastes. But if you don't come along, I'll find someone who's willing to explore the Kama Sutra volumes 1 through 100 with me."

"All right, all right," he said. "Man, the things I do for science."

Stupenagel kissed him on the back. "Art, dear boy, it's an art, and you are my Picasso."

Ten minutes later they left their room, which had been tastefully decorated in Georgian Colonial, and headed for the lobby. As they passed, other people turned to stare and sometimes giggle at the odd couple. To start with, Ariadne was a good six inches taller, and she added to the difference with her affection for stiletto heels, the higher the better. She also dressed as if she'd bought her wardrobe off an avant-garde runway in Paris, preferring bright, splashy colors regardless of the season or time of day and had a lipstick to match every variance of color.

As for Gilbert Murrow, she'd made no attempt to change his de rigueur business attire of bow ties, vests, and cardigan sweaters. "I fell for the geek in you and wouldn't change a thing," she'd told him. "At least, not at work." She did, however, have "suggestions" on how she wanted him to dress when they went out as a couple-a lot of Land's End khakis and polo shirts for casual, and knockoff Armani suits that she got from some mysterious connection in the Garment District. He only hoped it wasn't a couple of wiseguys knocking off trucks.

Murrow rarely complained about her treating him like her own life-size Ken doll. Ariadne always made it seem as if he'd made the selections, and she believed in rewards for good behavior. Nor had she ever insulted him by suggesting that he wear lifts or even a bigger heel. "In fact, I like the idea that every time you face me your mouth is so close to these babies," she said, waving the babies in his face.

Yet, their relationship wasn't all about sex. For all of her tough-girl bluster and locker-room talk, Ariadne was well read and could intelligently discuss a wide variety of philosophers and writers from Plato to Dan Brown. She'd traveled the world as a working journalist and had interviewed many of the most famous people of her day, as well as covered the usual assortment of wars, scandals, and disasters. Although mostly a reader of nonfiction, she confessed to the "occasional romance novel." She told him they made her hot and so he had not teased her when he came to bed one night and found her reading a paperback titled Heathen Sins with a picture of a bare-chested Indian warrior who looked amazingly like Fabio with dark hair, holding a helpless, buxom white woman. A half hour later, she turned out the lights and rolled over on top of him. "Come here, my noble savage. I need to be ravished with lots of heavy panting and a few threats if I don't comply with your wishes fast enough."

She loved to talk about serious matters, too, and loved that he was a good listener. But she knew when to be quiet and let him hold forth on the topics that mattered to him. He'd a real affection for political strategies and running Butch's race, and she encouraged him to try out his ideas and some of Butch's speeches on her. "No one has a better bullshit detector than Big Mama," she told him. "If they sound good to me, the public will eat 'em up."

No one had ever listened to him as she did, not even Karp, whom he worshipped. Once when he'd been belaboring the value of public-opinion polling, he looked over at the couch where Ariadne was lying down and saw that her eyes were closed. He stopped talking, hurt that she'd been so bored that she fell asleep. But then she opened her eyes and asked him why he quit.

"I thought I'd put you to sleep," he said, pouting.

"I wasn't sleeping, baby," she said. "I was just concentrating on what you were saying. I love listening to you talk, Gilbert. I love the way your mind works."

That might have been the day, even the moment, when he realized he was in love with this big brash woman. It terrified him. He knew she was much more worldly than he was and, until he'd finally objected, due to the seeming endlessness of the list, she'd had no compunctions about discussing former lovers. It was usually in some fun anecdotal sense, but still it made him wonder if he was just the next former lover. The thought broke his heart, and he sometimes cried when alone in the shower, thinking about how dull life would be if she ever left him. But they'd been lovers for four months and she showed no signs of wanting to split, so he did his best to go with the flow.

When they got to the lobby of the hotel, Murrow wanted to go straight to the Trillium, a five-star restaurant that he'd been salivating about since they got on the road. But she'd insisted that they start with a drink in Mr. Brown's Pub. Once inside, she chose a booth in the darkest corner. He figured it was to try out another one of her kinky ideas when she almost immediately began toying with the zipper of his Dockers.

Then the hand that had been temporarily at ease started inching its way up his leg again. "Don't you ever stop thinking about sex?" he asked, though for the moment he let her hand wander.

"Not when I'm near you," she replied and gave him a squeeze.

Murrow yelped, which at least served the purpose of getting the waitress's attention. She hurried over to the table. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you two," said the girl, obviously a local kid home from college for Christmas break and trying to make a little money. "What can I get you?"

"The lady and I will each try one of your Last of the Mohicans Mar-TEEN-ies," Murrow said, squeaking out the last word when Ariadne gave him another squeeze.

"Shaken not stirred," Ariadne added innocently. "Just like Bond…James Bond."

The waitress gave them an amused look and left for the bar to put in their order. Stupenagel turned to watch her go but suddenly tensed and turned back around to face Murrow. "Look who just walked in," she said in a low voice. "But don't be obvious."

Murrow stole a peek around her head. "Hey, Hugh Louis! I didn't think he wandered this far from the 'hood."

"Do you think he'd recognize you?"

"Nah. I've seen him at a couple of functions that Butch has attended. But I was in the background both times and never even got introduced. Will he recognize you?"

"Maybe," she said. "I interviewed him about fifteen years ago when he was representing that girl who claimed she'd been abducted by white supremacists. I was the one who broke the story that it was all a big hoax. He wasn't real happy with me, so he might have my face memorized. What's he doing?"

"He's bellying up to the bar. Now he's ordering…a beer. He's drinking the beer and…uh-oh…"

Stupenagel started to look but he whispered urgently, "Don't turn around. Olav Radinskaya and Shakira Zulu just walked in."

Forty feet away, Zulu looked around the dark bar and sniffed. Honkytown, she thought, only people of color in this hotel are the bellboys and the waitstaff. She didn't like being this far from her constituency, nor did she like the amused looks she got from the local crackers for her Angela Davis afro. Maybe I'll just come up here during the revolution and burn this bastion of whiteness to the ground. Burn, baby, burn.

Unfortunately, revolutions cost money, so sometimes she had to make compromises with her ideals-such as the stock portfolio and real estate investments that she mothered like the children she'd never had. Zulu meant to continue amassing her personal fortune, even if it meant dealing with white devils like Olav Radinskaya, a repulsive man with an egg-shaped head and thinning blond hair. He favored blousy silk shirts from which tufts of wiry, gray chest hair poked out, and thick gold chains. He apparently didn't believe in bathing and reeked of acrid nervous sweat and onions. Radinskaya looked dumb as a stick, but she knew he was clever and ruthless, a middleman for the Russian mob but with his fingers in his own dirty pies as well.

Radinskaya noticed Zulu looking at him and smiled. Ugh, he thought. He didn't like women in the first place. But this is a particularly ugly one, dark as a piece of coal, almost makes that pig, Louis, look white. Ugh, hardly more than animals, these niggers, but necessary that I deal with them as if friends for now.

He lifted his Stoli on the rocks and clinked glasses with Louis. "To our new venture," he said. Although neither man could stand the other, and both detested Zulu, who hated them in return, they'd all managed at various times in the past to forget their personal distaste and cooperate for their mutual benefit. A favor done here. A string pulled there. They were all richer for it. "I'll drink to that," Zulu chuckled as she sipped her black (naturally) Russian.

Meanwhile, back in a corner of the pub, Murrow had been excitedly giving the color commentary of the meeting when his eyes got big and he slumped down in his seat so that he was hidden by his girlfriend's large head of hair. "What's the matter?" she whispered, trying to look over her shoulder without having to completely turn around.

"Christ!" he exclaimed. "You'll never guess who just walked in. No! Don't turn!…I just met one of them, PBA union boss Ed Ewen. There's some other middle-aged guy with him…dude's a cop if I've ever seen one but in a suit…wait a second, that's Tim Carney, the captain in charge of Internal Affairs!"

"I know Ewen and Carney, but odd that the head of the union and the guy whose job it is to bust dirty members of the union are hanging together at a swanky hotel in the Adirondacks," Stupenagel said. "Hmmm…as Alice once said, 'This gets curiouser and curiouser.' Have the other three seen them?"

"Had to but you'd never know it. They're standing maybe six feet apart and acting like they're complete strangers, but you and I know that Ewen and Carney know who every member of the city council is-not to mention that Louis and Shakira made a career out of suing the police department. Something doesn't smell right."

"Now what are they doing?" Stupenagel asked.

"Nothing much." Murrow noticed the glint in his girlfriend's eyes. "Hey, wait a minute. This is why you wanted to come up here. You knew these guys were going to be here."

"Nonsense," Stupenagel lied.

The truth was, she'd received a telephone tip that there was going to be a meeting "between some folks you'll find very interesting bedfellows…and once you figure out who they are, you might want to check into some of the real estate transactions in Bolton Landing, which should lead you-if you're as good as they say-to the story of the year." The caller then hung up before she could ask any questions or get a good handle on the voice, which seemed familiar but she couldn't quite place it. Whoever he was, the tipster certainly had the goods. In the morning, she'd have to head over to Bolton Landing, the town on the other end of the bridge that crossed Lake George to Green Island, on which the Sagamore was built, and find someone who could tell her about real estate in town. Maybe the tax assessor's office, if there was one way up here.

"No way," Murrow hissed. "I can see the 'hot scoop' look in your eyes. You used me."

Stupenagel was prepared to launch into a rehearsed spiel that would at least give her plausible deniability when she noticed the hurt look in his eyes. She didn't know what it was about this funny little man-she'd been the confidante and lover of pro athletes, world leaders, artists, and movie stars-but she'd found love in an intelligent, gentle bureaucrat (though she would never have called him one to his face). She resolved that she would never lie to him again…unless she had to.

"Okay, you're right, but only partly," she said. "I got a tip that there was going to be a meeting of some kind up here and that when I saw who was involved, I'd know what to do. But I could have come up alone and done my job. I just thought that this way, I'd get some time with you away from work and the city. And if this tip didn't pan out, we'd have even more time to ourselves."

Murrow allowed himself to look a little mollified. He had to admit that life with this woman was a hell of a lot more exciting than his usual fare. "Wait a second," he said, throwing himself into the spy game and stealing a glimpse over her shoulder. "Something just happened…some sort of signal between Louis and Ewen. Everybody's finishing their drinks and leaving…mmmph!"

Ariadne had stopped him from finishing his sentence by putting a hand behind his head and pulling him to her. Then she kissed him ferociously. When she let him go, he blushed. "What was that for?"

"Because I think I'm in love," Ariadne said. She wasn't surprised that she'd said it-she'd said a lot of things to a lot of men to get what she wanted-she was only surprised that she meant it.

Murrow was surprised to see the tears in her eyes. While very much a woman in most respects, she wasn't given to girlish emotions. "I love you, too, Ariadne. What do you say we skip dinner and go back to the room for the main event."

Instantly, the tears in her eyes were gone and she looked shocked. "Are you kidding me? We've got to find out what the hell's going on here." She slapped a twenty on the table, stood up, and practically yanked him out of the booth by the hand. They ran to the pub entrance and peered carefully around the corner. They got a glimpse of the backsides of Ewen and Carney just before the men reached the end of a hall and turned right.

Tugging Murrow along, Stupenagel crept down the hall. He wondered if someone might cue the music for Mission Impossible. They went around the corner where the others had disappeared just in time to see a large man closing the door of the Algonquin meeting room and positioning himself in front of it. He looked up and saw them.

At the same time, Ariadne pinned Murrow against the wall and began kissing him passionately as she fumbled at his trousers.

"Hey, hey, you two, go find a room why don't ya," said the man, who looked as if he were made of rectangular parts-a rectangular, crew cut head sat on top of a rectangular torso that was supported by two rectangular legs.

"Up yours," Stupenagel snarled. "It's a free country."

Rectangle Man reached inside his coat and pulled out a wallet, which he flipped open to reveal the gold shield of a New York City police detective. "Beat it," he ordered.

"All right, all right," Stupenagel said. "Aren't you a little out of your jurisdiction? I swear, you can't get away from the pigs anymore."

"Oink. Oink," the detective said. "Take your midget boyfriend and go for a hike."

"He's more man than you'll ever be," Ariadne replied. "Especially now that the steroids have shrunk your balls into peanuts."

Rectangle Man furrowed his Cro-Magnon brow. How'd she know I'm juicing, he wondered. But before he could think of a snappy comeback, the couple beat a hasty retreat.

Stupenagel and Murrow scampered to the front desk, where they summoned a bored clerk. "Hi, we're trying to find out if some friends of ours have checked in yet," Stupenagel said. "Hugh Louis and Olav Radinskaya and Shakira Zulu?"

The clerk looked at them, wondering if they were teasing her with the odd names. But when they didn't crack up, she looked at the guest registry. "No, no one with those names is registered, and they'd be pretty hard to miss." She flipped forward in the book. "I don't see any reservations under those names in the next few days either. You sure they're supposed to be here?"

"How about Tim Carney or Ed Ewen?" Murrow asked.

The clerk brightened. "I just saw Mr. Ewen and he was with another man. Mr. Ewen doesn't stay here-he's got that nice house over in Bolton Landing at The Landings-but he and his…I think she's his wife, although she looks more like his daughter…sometimes come in for a drink or dinner. He's with another man tonight." The clerk picked up the telephone. "Shall I try to page him for you?"

"No!" Stupenagel and Murrow said at the same time.

"They don't know that we decided to make the drive from Manhattan," Stupenagel explained. "And we'd just as soon spend the night together, alone, if you catch my drift." She winked at the clerk, who giggled and nodded. "We'll surprise him at his home tomorrow, so just keep it a secret, okay?"

"My lips are sealed," the clerk said, making the appropriate motion across her mouth. "You two lovebirds go enjoy yourselves."

Murrow was perfectly willing to do as the clerk suggested, but Ariadne led him through the hotel to a back exit and was soon tugging him across the snowy landscape in the direction of the Algonquin Room.

"I didn't wear the right shoes for this," Murrow complained.

"Don't be such a baby, baby," she replied. "This is an adventure. And you know how hot I am after a good adventure."

With that for encouragement, Murrow stopped complaining and even took the lead, creeping through the shadows just outside the reach of the light thrown from the hotel windows, until they were opposite the large bay window of the Algonquin Room. They could see clearly the people in the room, all except one who was sitting with his back to the window, engaged in conversation with Louis.

A moment later, they both stood stunned, their mouths hanging open in disbelief, when the man Louis had been talking to stood and approached the window. He peered out into the dark, obviously saw nothing of interest, and closed the drapes.

"You see who I saw?" Stupenagel whispered.

"Corporation Counsel Sam Lindahl!"

"In the flesh. Come on, we need to figure out a plan."

"A plan?" Murrow said, trotting after her on his tiptoes, trying unsuccessfully to keep more snow out of his loafers. "A plan for what? Ariadne? Hey, wait up!"

They hurried to their room, where Stupenagel began to dress in more appropriate clothes for traipsing about in the woods on a winter night. As he followed suit, she told him more about the anonymous call. "Somebody wanted me to see these folks together and look into local real estate dealings. The clerk told us that Ewen has a house over in Bolton Landing. The Landings sounds pretty upscale to me, especially for a union boss. Something's going on here and it ain't a fishing trip. I'm going to follow Ewen and Carney and see for myself."

"I'm coming with you," Murrow said.

Stupenagel patted his cheek. "I don't want to tell you what to do, but if this group splits up, I'm going to need you to stay with whoever remains at the hotel."

"You going to take the car?"

"No, the hotel has a twenty-four-hour taxi over to Bolton Landing. I'll leave the car with you in case you need to ride to my rescue." She slipped into her parka and turned to look at Murrow. She laughed. He was dressed entirely in plaid from his waist up-a black-and-green plaid deerstalker complete with earflaps, a plaid scarf, a plaid shirt, and over it, a plaid coat. He rustled when he walked, due to the bulky ski pants he'd pulled on-the only piece of apparel that wasn't plaid as, looking down, she saw that he was even wearing plaid wool socks.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing; you look prepared for a meeting of the wild Scots tribes from the Highlands," she said. "I didn't buy all that for you, did I?"

"No," he grinned. "I ordered it from the Land's End catalog. Cool, huh?"

"Cool," she said, making a note to herself to burn it all when he wasn't looking.

A half hour later, they were sitting in their rental car in the hotel lot when Lindahl, Ewen, and Carney emerged from the hotel and walked briskly to a car, got in, and left. Stupenagel kissed Murrow, then jumped out and trotted to a taxi she'd asked to wait for her "until our friends get done yakking inside."

Murrow walked back inside the hotel as if he'd been out for an evening stroll. He continued to the back of the hotel and exited, making his way to the spot where he could see inside the Algonquin Room. The drapes were pulled apart again and he could see that Louis, Radinskaya, and Zulu were still there, engaged in conversation with a lot of smiles and laughter. Unsure of what else to do, he stationed himself in the woods, jumping when some bird suddenly screeched as it flew above him. Probably an owl, he thought. Then there was a loud crackling in the bushes off to his right. Raccoon, he guessed. Bears would be hibernating this time of year…I think.

The crackling noise got louder. Murrow decided he'd seen enough and could go in now. He made for the door, sure that he was being followed by a man-eater who'd awakened from his nap in a grumpy mood. He sighed with relief when he got inside the door and looked out. He couldn't see anything but felt sure he was being watched by a pair of beady, ravenous eyes.

Actually, the eyes were large and brown. Having hoped for a handout, which hotel guests sometimes gave in the form of crackers and carrots, the doe gave her tail a disappointed flick and disappeared back into the trees.

Murrow arrived in the lobby and nearly panicked. The three targets were standing near the elevators talking. He pulled his hat down until he could barely see out from under the bill. They hardly gave him a second glance as he wandered off to the pub. He peeked out a minute later in time to see them get in the elevator and the door shut.

Flipping open his cell phone, Murrow was suddenly aware that he was sweating profusely beneath all those layers of plaid, which included plaid long underwear that Ariadne had not seen. He hit the preset number for her cell.

"Hi, Honey Buns," Stupenagel answered.

"Hi, Big Mama," he replied in his best secret agent voice. "The chickens have gone to bed. I repeat, the chickens have gone to bed."

"Oooh, you sound so clandestine and sexy," Stupenagel purred. "If I was there I might be tempted to forget this whole thing and let you have your way with me."

"I'll take the rain check, sweetheart," he said, using his best Humphrey Bogart voice. "This is kind of fun." He was feeling quite bold and dashing. "Where are you, doll? I want to come pick you up."

"That'll work, Agent Murrow," she replied. "Here, I'm going to let you talk to Jimy Murphy. He's my handsome young taxi driver; he'll give you directions."

"What? How cute?" Murrow asked, trotting out the front door to the car. "Agent Murrow? Where in the hell did that come from?"

"Just listen to Jimy for now, Agent Murrow, I'll explain the scenario when I see you," she said. "These lines are not secure. I repeat, these lines are not secure."

After leaving Murrow, Stupenagel had jumped in the waiting taxi and shouted, "Follow that car."

The teenage driver-whose taxi driver photograph hanging from the rearview mirror identified him as James D. Murphy-turned around and said, "Really? I've always wanted to have someone say that. 'Course, this won't be too hard as everybody around these parts knows Mr. Ewen. Heck, his nephew works as a mechanic down at the taxi barn. They're probably going to his house in The Landings."

"Well, then, James," Stupenagel said, "this will be easy. Just hang back a little."

"Jimy, just call me Jimy…with only one m…I used to use two m's but I wanted to do something different."

"Well, then," Stupenagel said, "pleased to meet you Jimy with one m; it's good to be different."

They drove in silence over the bridge and had almost reached Bolton Landing when Jimy cleared his throat. "Uh, I was just thinkin'," he said. "You're not a private detective or something, maybe working for his wife in New York City? I don't want to get him in trouble. He sometimes calls me for a ride, and he's a good tipper."

Uh-oh, Stupenagel thought, kid's worried about losing his date money. Interesting about "Mrs. Ewen in New York City." The hotel clerk seemed to think that Mrs. Ewen lived at The Landings. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Okay, Jimy, I'm going to have to trust you here. But actually, I'm working undercover to protect Mr. Ewen. As you know, he's an important man, the head of the police union, right?"

"Yeah," he said cautiously.

"Well, then, you can understand that he's the sort of high-profile target terrorists are looking for, right?"

Jimy nodded and swallowed hard, his jutting Adam's apple bobbing rapidly.

"So you know about his wife?" she asked.

He started to turn around to answer but she stopped him.

"Don't turn around; better that you can't identify me if the enemies of this country try to connect you to me. Now I need you to answer me truthfully, so that I know you're on the up-and-up. What do you know about his wife here in Bolton Landing?"

"Well, not much…but everybody knows that Inge isn't the real Mrs. Ewen," he said, then got a sly smile on his face. "Not unless his kids-he's got two sons who come up here to fish sometimes-are older than their mother."

"Yes," Stupenagel said, trying to keep the glee out of her voice. Curiouser and curiouser. "This Inge talks with a foreign accent, right?"

Jimy looked at her in the rearview mirror as if she'd divulged a state secret. He nodded. "Yeah, I think she told me she's from Sweden."

Stupenagel snorted. "Sweden? That's what she's telling people? I'm sure you recognized the accent, and it wasn't Swedish."

"Sure," Jimy said, stealing another glance.

"Any idiot would peg it for at least Russian."

"She's Russian?"

"Chechen."

"A terrorist?"

"We think so," Stupenagel said. "Let's just say we're watching her. Mr. Ewen's going along for the ride, if you get what I mean?" She looked in the mirror and winked.

"Oh, yeah." Jimy grinned. "Nice work if you can get it. She's hot."

"She may also be a killer known in agency circles as the Lioness."

Jimy gulped audibly. "The Lioness?"

"Yes, sort of like the Jackal, who I'm sure you've heard of."

"Oh sure, I saw the movie."

"Then Mr. Ewen, the agency, and I can count on your discretion until the moment we're ready to move? At some point, you'll be free to tell anyone you want about tonight. Might even be a book in it, who knows? But right now, we don't even want Mr. Ewen to know when we're watching and when we're not so that he doesn't accidentally give it away that we're watching her. I'm sorry, Jimy…"

"Sorry? What for?"

Stupenagel bowed her head to hide a smile and let her voice become choked up. "Sorry that I may have put your life in danger. These people we're watching don't play nice."

The Adam's apple was working double time and the voice quavered, but Jimy managed to reply bravely, "That's okay. I was an Eagle Scout. I know how to keep a secret. And don't you worry about me. I've been taking tae kwon do with Master Kim Soo. I'll be a brown belt this summer."

"I'm so relieved," Stupenagel said. God, are you milking this one, Ari, but where are you going to find an audience like this guy again. "You looked like someone who could take care of himself. I just…well, never mind."

Jimy nodded. Some things are understood between a man and a woman. He maintained his silence manfully for the rest of the drive. On the wooded outskirts of Bolton Landing, he slowed the car down.

Looking ahead, Stupenagel saw the headlights of Ewen's car as it turned and began to wind its way back toward the lake and a huge log house. "Pull over and turn the lights off, I want to make sure we're not followed," Stupenagel ordered.

About the same time, her cell phone buzzed its special code for Murrow. "Hi, Honey Buns," she answered. She looked up and saw a quizzical look on Jimy's face. "Code name for Agent Murrow," she whispered.

She covered the telephone and said to Jimy, "Our cover is that we're a married couple, so a little of the mushy stuff is necessary just in case someone's listening. If you saw Agent Murrow, you'd understand we're not exactly a match made in heaven." Jimy gave a small tilt of his head to indicate he understood and slumped down in his seat to keep watch on the house. She spoke into the telephone again, "That'll work, Agent Murrow. Here, I'm going to let you talk to Jimy Murphy. He's my handsome young taxi driver; he'll give you directions."

She paused, then spoke again. "Just listen to Jimy for now, Agent Murrow, I'll explain the scenario when I see you. These lines are not secure. I repeat, these lines are not secure."

Stupenagel passed her telephone forward. "Would you please tell Agent Murrow how to find us?"

When Jimy finished giving instructions, he handed the telephone back without looking. "What next?"

"I'm going to get out and stand guard until Agent Murrow can back me up," she said.

"You want me to wait?" Jimy asked. He could tell she liked him, and despite the code names, he doubted two agents who worked together would also be shacking up.

"Only until Agent Murrow arrives, so you can tell him the direction I went," she said. She saw the disappointed look and knew what it meant. "Please, don't try to follow me. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you, Jimy. Murrow, well, he's not much to look at, but he's a trained assassin."

Jimy nodded but said nothing. She heard him sniffle and wondered if he was crying.

"There is one last thing you can do for me," she said. "But I can't order you to do this, it's too dangerous…"

"No, please, ask."

"After I get out, I need you to get somewhere public…like a bar or a restaurant, as far away as you can get, but you have to get there quickly-ten minutes max. And make sure you're seen by people and that they know the time."

Jimy looked confused. "Why?"

"Your alibi, silly," she said, getting out. She leaned in the window and gave Jimy a quick kiss on the cheek. "And thank you…for everything."

There were definitely tears in his eyes now. "I'll never forget you," he croaked. "No matter what happens to me."

"Au revoir, mon ami," Stupenagel said, stepping back from the taxi.

"Goo…good-bye. But wait…I don't even know your name."

"Lauren," she said. Sheesh, straight out of Casablanca. "Now wait until Agent Murrow arrives, point him in the right direction, then drive like the wind. But keep your lights off until you're out of sight of the house."

Stupenagel ran across the street, hopped the rail fence, and, sticking to the tree line on the outside of the property, made her way to the back of the house. She ran the last few yards from the trees until she was standing in the shadows beneath a back deck that overlooked the lake. Nice pad, she thought, looking out at the dock in the backyard to which a brand-new thirty-five-foot sailboat was tied. Cool million at least. Not bad for a union boss; wonder what the rank and file would think.

The deck lights came on, nearly giving Stupenagel, who thought she'd been discovered, a heart attack. But it was just Ewen, Lindahl, and Carney stepping out for a cigar.

"Sorry to make you fellas light up out here but the little woman insists."

"I sure wouldn't want to piss her off on a cold night," Carney said. "That's some little doxie you got stashed up here away from the missus."

"Yeah, she ain't half bad." Ewen chuckled. "Met her on a flight to Stockholm. She was a stewardess…wouldn't have nothin' to do with my ugly mug until I started flashing hundreds. That's when there was a definite attitude adjustment and it's been 'Harry, hold your horses' ever since. Dumb as a stick and barely speaks the language but she likes the bump and grind as long as I keep the presents coming. Don't bother me. I got money, she's got what I want; it's a nice arrangement."

The men puffed on their cigars for a minute, sending a blue cloud into the starry night. Carney again broke the silence. "Nice little fishing lodge."

"I like it. I hear your place in the Keys ain't half bad either," Ewen replied.

The two laughed and turned to Lindahl. "Hey, Sam, what are you doing with your share? Got yourself a little young thing stashed away in a 'fishing lodge'?"

Lindahl ignored the chuckles. "I don't like this. I don't trust those two niggers or that Russian faggot. If somebody saw us all together we'd be dancing pretty damn quick to explain it."

Ewen rolled his froggy eyes. "Nobody likes working with them three," he said. "But we're hundreds of miles away from the city. We needed to sit them down and make sure we're all on the same page with that fucker in the DA's office, Newbury, and his little Goody Two-shoe investigators poking their nose in old business where they don't belong. Then that bitch Marlene Ciampi calls you and that fat fuck Louis and says she's been 'retained' as a private investigator by Repass and Russell and wants to see the files. Couldn't you have told her 'thanks, but no thanks'?"

"And what?" Lindahl said. "My clients went to her on their own and now say they want her to help with the case, and I'm supposed to say, 'No thanks. I have no intention of even looking like I'm trying to protect the city's interests'? If you think Newbury's breathing down our necks on some of this 'old business' now, just let him get wind of that. At least if she's working, ostensibly, for me, I'll know what she knows."

"If she tells you," Carney said. "But I'm more worried about what she tells that fuckin' husband of hers. We don't want him taking an interest."

"I'm not worried about him," Lindahl said. "His jurisdiction begins and ends on the island of Manhattan. This is a Brooklyn case as far as the assistant district attorneys go, and a city matter with the police department. He's not in the picture."

Stupenagel couldn't hear the muffled replies as the men put out their cigars and moved inside. The lights went out but she waited to make sure anyone looking out the window wouldn't see her. She was ready to go when a large hand came down hard on her shoulder and turned her around. She found herself face-to-face with the big police detective who'd guarded the meeting room at the Sagamore.

"Hey, you're the bitch from the hotel, what the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled.

Obviously wasn't at the top of his class at the academy, Stupenagel thought. She smiled sweetly. "I was driving by when my car ran out of gas. I saw the light was on and came to ask for help. But I can go ask someone else if this is a bad time." She tried to walk past the cop but he grabbed her by the arm. "Yeah, well I think you need to come in and talk to the boss."

"Hey, asshole," said a voice behind him.

The cop whirled and got a face full of pepper spray. "Goddamn mother fucking gaaaaaah," the man bellowed and began groping inside his coat for his gun.

Stupenagel saw her opportunity and kicked up as hard as she could between his legs. "Oh fuck," the cop groaned and passed out face-first in the snow.

"Big baby," Stupenagel said. She looked up and saw her frightened boyfriend still holding the pepper spray. "Hey, you better put that away before you hurt someone, Honey Buns."

Murrow dropped his arm. "You okay, Sugar Lips?"

"Great, thanks to my hero, Agent Murrow."

"Please, call me Bond…James Bond."

The cop groaned and appeared to be coming to. Stupenagel leaned over and took his gun out of his coat. "Come on, Bob, Mrs. Ewen is going to love hearing about this place."

They ran back along the tree line, where Stupenagel tossed the gun into the woods. Driving back to the hotel as fast as they could, they hurried to their room, packed their bags, and were back in the lobby in ten minutes. "We're going to check out now," Stupenagel told the sleepy clerk. "And I'd like to pay with cash. Would you please give me any credit card imprints you have. Sorry, a little paranoid about identity theft."

"I understand," the clerk said. "It's a big problem these days."

"Oh, and would you be a sweetie and get me the manager's business card," Stupenagel said. "I'd like to write and congratulate him on the service."

When the clerk trotted to the back office to get the card, Stupenagel reached over the desk, flipped to the page in the hotel registry where they'd signed in, and tore the sheet out. The clerk returned but there was no one to give the business card to.

A big sedan came barreling toward them as they crossed the bridge. "Duck," Murrow said, slapping his deerstalker onto his head. He looked away when the car bearing an angry New York police detective, as well as Ewen and Carney, passed.

"Drive like the wind, baby," Stupenagel said, sitting back up.

"What was that 'Mrs. Ewen is going to love this' comment?" Murrow asked.

"Just something to throw them off our tail, maybe panic them a bit. I want them to think that we're private investigators working for the real Mrs. Ewen."

"Wow, nice work," Murrow said with genuine admiration.

"Experience, lover. I've been talking my way in and out of trouble for more years than I care to admit," she said.

On the way back to Manhattan, they argued about what to do next. Murrow wanted to go to Karp with what they'd seen and heard.

"Not yet, baby, not until I've had a chance to get to the bottom of this," Stupenagel pleaded. "I want to figure out how this all adds up. I mean, what do we really have? A bunch of people who normally wouldn't be caught within a mile of each other have a secret meeting. Ewen has a house he can't afford, but I'll bet you he's not stupid enough to have it in his name. Not to mention we just committed trespass and then aggravated assault on a New York City police detective."

Stupenagel leaned over and nibbled on his ear. "Please, baby? Just a few days, then I promise we tell Butch everything."

"Well, a few days, but that's it," Murrow agreed.

"Cross my heart, hope to die. Oh my! Look what I found."

"Stop it. I'm driving."

"That's okay, baby, just don't take your hands off the wheel or your eyes off the road."