INSTALLMENT 1 | INSTALLMENT 2

Desert Pioneer Hotel Kingman, AZ -- 6:55 AM

Hugh Nachtmann’s ego would not allow him to take pleasure from popular literature, lest he be thought common. He read only the classics. Identifying strongly with the dissolute Sidney Carton in Tale of Two Cities, he had plowed through Dickens’ masterpiece no less than eight times. Now, sitting atop the riser as Franklin approached, he was just finishing a monograph by Renaissance philosopher Nicolo Machiavelli entitled “Concerning Cruelty.”

“A leader,” Machiavelli wrote, “so long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not mind being thought cruel. Severe examples are bitter but efficient. Hence, cruel methods can be more humane than those which, through benevolence, allow disorder to arise.”

Nachtmann was no stranger to the use of brutality as a management tool, still the had never seen the technique rationalized quite so elegantly. He was impressed, not only with the writing, but with himself for having anticipated the author’s ideas.

From the corner of his eye, Nachtmann could see his adjutant, Franklin, approaching. He ignored him for as long as possible. After several moments, the man cleared his throat.

Nachtmann looked up. “What is it?” asked.

“It’s the woman, sir. We’ve lost her again.”

Nachtmann had known by Franklin’s expression what he was going to say, but hearing him say it was no less irksome.

The telephone rang. Nachtmann answered. “Nachtmann here,” he said.

“It’s Schmidt, Nachtmann.” Agent Lawrence Schmidt was Nachtmann’s contact at the FBI. “What have you got?” Nachtmann straightened up in his chair.

“We had her in our sights until just a moment ago,” he said. “She dropped off the radar, temporarily, but we’ll get her back.”

“You’d better,” Schmidt snapped. “I’m warning you, Nachtmann. It wasn’t my idea to include you in this operation, but if you screw up, it’ll be my pleasure to jerk you out.” The phone on the other end slammed down.

Nachtmann did not react visibly. This was not his fault, he told himself. It’s this idiot, Franklin. He took a deep breath, calming himself by remembering Machiavelli’s sage wisdom: Severe examples are bitter but efficient. The phrase focused his thoughts.

He glanced down at the taser gun lying on the table in front of him.

“What happened, Franklin?” he said.

“Sir,” Franklin began, “the technology we are using is formidable, but not perfect. In addition, we have limited satellite time at our disposal. Besides…” He went on in this explanatory vein for several moments, evidently unaware that Nachtmann was now holding the taser at the ready. Indeed, by the time he brought his remarks to a close, Franklin was the only person in the room who did not realize what was about to happen.

“In my opinion, Mr. Nachtmann,” said Franklin, “we should again resort to paid informants and ground reconnaissance.”

But for the grinding of a nearby printer, the room had gone quite silent.

“Sir?” Franklin said.

Nachtmann raised the stun gun and closed one eye, aiming for the part of Franklin’s upper chest exposed behind his open collar. A faint smirk danced over Nachtmann’s lips. Finally coming to appreciate the gravity his situation, Franklin’s mouth fell open.

Nachtmann pulled the trigger. The compressed gas cartridge inside the gun broke open, but the firing mechanism malfunctioned. The barbed electrodes shot downward and skidded harmlessly across the floor. For a moment, Nachtmann stared at them in surprise. Then he glanced up. A few of the men watching the drama had recovered from their shock. One man even tittered at their boss’ discomfiture. That was too much.

Clenching the grip of the taser, Nachtmann slammed the weapon into the side of Franklin’s face, first on one side, then the other. Franklin collapsed to the floor.

Nachtmann stared at the inert figure for some time before nodding toward a pair of bodyguards. “Get him out,” he said. Then, at first still gazing at the carpet where the man had fallen, he spoke to the remainder of Franklin’s team.

“All right, people, listen up. Obviously, this group needs a stronger man at the helm.” Envisioning General Patton addressing his troops, Nachtmann lifted his gaze over the heads of the small assembly, formulating his thoughts. “I’d give the job to one of you, but Franklin was one of you and we all saw where that led. I’m taking the position over myself. Now, this is what we’re going to do: we’re going to find this woman and her son and then we’re going to go out and get them. No excuses! Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the men said weakly.

“I can’t HEAR you,” Nachtmann shouted.

“YES SIR!” came the chorused reply. Nachtmann nodded perfunctorily and waved a dismissal. The men went back to their tasks. He stood for a moment, congratulating himself on his handling of a difficult situation.

Nachtmann glanced at the photo of the young blonde woman on his desk. Then, gloom descended. He felt a wave of shame. She would not have approved of hitting Franklin. She would not have agreed with Machiavelli. Nachtmann’s expression darkened for a few moments as he considered these thoughts. Then a reassuring notion crossed his mind. He relaxed.

Deborah and I are destined to be together, he thought. It is our fate. Nothing can change that.

FBI Headquarters Office of SIOC, Washington, DC -- 7:00 AM EST

After two years as Acting Assistant Deputy Director of the Strategic Information and Operations Center, Joseph Tyler “JT” Winslow, had just been handed his boss’ job. Friday, in fact, had been his first day as Deputy Director. It had been a trial by fire. Winslow had not slept since Thursday night.

Since early Friday morning, the SOIC, a 24 hour FBI command post designed to coordinate the handling of simultaneous law enforcement crises, had been dealing with four such emergencies. Of that number, Winslow had been personally managing three: two prison uprisings and a bomb threat.

The fourth emergency, a report of civil unrest in Hawaii, he had put on hold until his three priorities had been resolved. That accomplished, he was exhausted. Nevertheless, before he could sleep, he felt he must at least assess the Hawaiian situation. Then he’d pass it on to an assistant.

“Hawaii, for Christ’s sake,” Winslow muttered under his breath. “Civil unrest in fucking paradise.”

Deputy Director Winslow and his family had often spent vacation weeks with his wife’s family on Oahu. The notion that its laid back population could get sufficiently aroused to foment civil disobedience was difficult to imagine. He looked at the cover of the report. It had been filed by Special Agent in Charge of Pacific Rim Security, Lawrence Schmidt. Winslow rolled his eyes.

“That explains a lot,” he said. Winslow had known Schmidt at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. The man’s politics made Louis XIV look like a communist.

He flipped open the cover and read the synopsis.

---

 

Holy shit, Winslow thought, Schmidt is advocating any means, up to the use of extreme prejudice…assassination. What an idiot.

He turned the page over and scrutinized its clearance level. Thank god, he thought. At least Schmidt had had the presence of mind to encrypt this shit before sending it.

Winslow scribbled a brief note on the report cover and tossed it in his ‘out’ box. Then he went home.

Garrison Residence, San Francisco, CA -- 7:25 AM PST

When Jim Garrison awakened at 6:30, his first thoughts were of Deborah and Noah. He’d been away from them for nearly four days, but he wasn't worried. Any moment now, he felt sure, Deborah would call. He hauled himself out of bed and padded groggily into the master bathroom, carrying a portable phone along with him.

Stripping off his underwear, Garrison started the shower and adjusted the flow, then closed the curtain and backed out to wait for the water to warm. In the interim he stepped on the scale and weighed himself for the first time in several days. One-hundred fifty-two pounds – the ideal weight for his wiry 5’8” frame. He turned and looked at himself in the mirror, running a hand through his unruly, dark brown hair and over the rough stubble covering his face. Should he shave now or later – or, indeed, should he shave at all? His wife loved his rugged complexion, especially, so she said, when his whiskers were bristly.

He glanced toward the telephone, as if wishing alone would make it ring sooner, but it remained silent.

When he’d heard nothing by mid-morning, Garrison grew worried. Unable to relax and feeling as though he should be doing something, he began calling his wife’s friends. The results were troubling.

Deborah had remained in close contact with many of her former colleagues at California State University where, before Noah’s birth, she had lectured on Pacific Island anthropology. She also maintained a wide network of confidants among the young mothers in their affluent North Beach neighborhood. Normally, almost any one of them could be relied upon to provide up-to-the-minute information regarding her whereabouts. Today, however, no one seemed to know anything. A few of the women said that they had neither seen nor heard from their friend in several days.

Garrison’s stomach began to tighten but he did not panic. He continued dialing until he had reached every one of Deborah’s acquaintances. His efforts proved fruitless.

He called their houseman, Lewis Foo. Lewis worked Monday through Friday from 7:00 AM until 4:30 in the afternoon. Possibly he could shed some light on Deborah’s whereabouts.

Foo reported having been out sick since Wednesday. He had, however, spoken to Mrs. Garrison just before five o’clock on Friday, but could not remember her mentioning any plans for Friday night. He was sorry he could not be more helpful and would be sure to call if anything occurred to him.

Next, Garrison telephoned every Bay Area hospital listed in the yellow pages, even those not offering emergency services. Neither Deborah nor Noah had been admitted to any of them.

He paused, thinking over everything he’d tried thus far. Unhappily, Garrison concluded that he had taken every action he could possibly take on his own. It was now almost 12:30 in the afternoon. It was time to do the thing he most dreaded doing: contacting the authorities.

Central Police Station – San Francisco, CA -- 10:15 AM PST

The most difficult part of working missing persons, or so Inspector Frederick believed, was the tedium. If the job entailed one-twentieth as much derring-do and a fiftieth of the intrigue that it sometimes does when portrayed in films and on television, he might still have thought it only marginally appealing. That missing persons occasioned not even a hundredth of that much excitement and that a primary job requirement was a strong familiarity with various databases and computer search engines, made the time Frederick spent there very nearly unbearable.

It was with some considerable interest, then, that he took a call from a certain Walker Evers, a newly appointed assistant district attorney, who had a special request.

“Listen, Inspector,” Evers said, after each had identified himself, “a friend of a friend has called in a political gimme. I’m not sure what it’s all about, exactly, but apparently, this friend of a friend can’t find his wife, and he’s pretty upset.”

“Yes?” said Frederick.

“I know you people have your procedures and so forth, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d call on the fellow and see if you can’t mellow him out a little.”

“Mellow him out?”

“Yeah. You know,” said Evers, “do a little hand holding on behalf of official San Francisco, take his statement and help him along a little.”

“You do realize, Mr. Evers,” said Frederick, “that I’m not ordinarily assigned to this beat?”

“Sure,” said Evers. “I know who you are. All the better.”

“Pardon?” Frederick said.

“I mean it’s better that you turn up than some schmuck flatfoot who might otherwise get this assignment.” Evers had jumped ahead of Frederick’s original question and assumed that the inspector was making reference to his own, well-known reputation as a local muckraker, a thing he, Frederick, would never do.

“I don’t think you understand…” Frederick began.

“If this what’s-his-name, the wife loser, realizes that Hal Frederick is on the job, a guy who doesn’t care whose toes he treads on so long as he gets at the truth, the more likely he is to feel that the city and county of San Francisco is really on his side. See what I mean?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the inspector said, dubiously. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Frederick hung up the phone, his mind now a morass of memory and resentment. It had been nearly a year since one of his cases, the murder of local sex merchant, Blanche Anders, had turned into the smelliest political scandal San Francisco had ever experienced.

One would have thought that his successful investigation, plus the ensuing eradication of a sinkhole of political corruption during its aftermath, would have earned Frederick a modicum of official respect. One would have been wrong.

In the several months since the spectacular conclusion of the Blanche Anders murder inquiry, all Frederick ever got were brutally insensitive, left-handed ‘compliments,’ like the one he’d just received from ADA Walker Evers.

“Still,” Frederick muttered to himself, “I’m at least gonna get out of this office.”

Bayfront Beach Park, Hilo, HI -- 12:15 PM Hawaii Time

Since the untimely death of his brother and sister-in-law sixteen years earlier, Captain Raymond Suzuki of the Hilo Police Department, had made the rearing of his only niece, Janet, the main focus of his bachelor existence. He had done his job well. At just 19 years old, Ms Suzuki, intelligent, poised and attractive, was a rising star in the University of Hawaii’s School of Political Science.

Hands in his pockets, Captain Suzuki strolled along the curving, sun dappled sidewalk along Hilo Bay, his accomplished young niece on his arm, listening as she expounded on her work-study project at the office of state congressman, Moses Pukuli.

“Demographic data is being gathered constantly,” she was saying, “but no one has the time to analyze it all.”

“And you do?”

“I can’t look at everything,” Janet said, “but a particular population segment has caught my attention.”

“Which one?”

“Native Hawaiian males from 13 to 30.”

Suzuki smiled and cocked his head. “Watch it, Janet,” he said. “Thirteen is too young and 30 is too old.”

His niece slapped his arm. “Come on, Uncle Ray. I’m being serious.”

“OK, OK,” he said. “Kanaka boys and young men. What about them?”

“Well, not long ago, I came across a chart in an article funded by the Faber-Brady Trust. It claimed to show that the scholastic and employment achievement of Native Hawaiian males was declining far beyond the statewide norm.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said her uncle. “The executive chairman of the trust is a notorious racist. He probably funded some bad research.”

“That’s what I thought at first,” Janet said. “and since the article accompanying the chart was also biased, I checked the stats.”

“And what did you find?”

“Surprisingly enough, they were accurate.”

“Really? Hmm.” Suzuki himself had long been aware of an increase in Native Hawaiian boys in the juvenile justice system. Thus far, he’d thought the phenomenon a fluke.

“And,” Janet continued, “after having remained constant for over two decades, these new declines are not only statistically significant, they’re increasing steadily.”

“So kanakas are doing worse and worse as time goes by, is that it?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

Suzuki grunted. “Much as I hate to admit it,” he said, “that finding lines up with one of Bill Jacobson’s cockeyed theories.”

“Who? What theory?”

“Sgt. Jacobson, one of the men in Juvenile Justice. He swears that kanaka boys are being targeted.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” said Suzuki. “He thinks it’s drug related. Says kanakas are getting stronger marijuana than anyone else. He calls it Puna Pow.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“It’s not me that doesn’t agree. It’s the numbers. The VC stats don’t square with Jacobson’s theory.”

“Translate, Uncle Ray,” said Janet. “You know I don’t speak cop.”

“When a new street drug grows in demand in a given community,” Suzuki explained, “there’s a corresponding rise in VC...violent crime. New users ramp up criminal activity in order to support their drug use. Happens like clock work.”

“And it’s not happening here?” Janet asked.

“Not in the least,” said Captain Suzuki. “Granted, there are more kanaka boys in the system now, and there have been for at least two years, but not for violent stuff.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know,” Suzuki said. “But if Puna Pow marijuana is driving up Native Hawaiian juvenile delinquency, then someone has been providing it free of charge. I ask you: how likely is that?”

Janet Suzuki was a realist, and proud of her objectivity. “The chances of a dealer giving away free drugs?” she said. “Considering all the variables and allowing for a 2% margin of error: somewhere between zero and none.”

Garrison Residence, San Francisco, CA -- 1:30 PM PST

Jim Garrison knew that missing persons reports were not a police priority, especially in San Francisco. The romantic bayside city’s daily quota of runaways and vagabonds forbad anything but the most routine attention to such inquiries. That’s why Garrison had placed a call to a political insider of his acquaintance, requesting help and assistance. It had been the right move. The insider made a call to one or two of his own acquaintances and, within 45 minutes, Garrison’s doorbell rang.

Answering it, Garrison was confronted by a slightly rumpled, somewhat haggard looking, middle-aged African-American man in a gray fedora hat, holding aloft an open wallet and displaying a gold inspector's badge.

“Mr. Garrison?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Garrison, I’m Inspector Frederick of the San Francisco Police. I believe you called in a missing persons report.”

“Yes, I did, but…”

“But what, sir?” said Frederick.

“I know you. You’re Hal Frederick, aren’t you? You’re a homicide detective. There’s no homicide involved here…” Garrison’s face suddenly went pale. “Do you people know something I don’t?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Garrison,” Frederick replied. “Don’t be alarmed. There’s no reason to think anyone’s been killed.”

“Then what…?”

“What am I doing here?”

“Exactly,” Garrison said.

“I have a reputation as a troublemaker, sir,” the inspector said, “and missing persons cases are not choice assignments. That makes them perfect for people like me.”

Garrison blinked several times before allowing himself to believe what Frederick had just said. Then he took a deep breath and blew it out through very puffed cheeks.

“Besides,” Frederick continued, “I’m going on vacation soon and I need all the overtime I can get. May I come in?”

“Of course, Inspector,” Garrison said, standing aside. “Please.”

The policeman was escorted through a breezy entryway and into a sitting room. Its ceilings were high and airy, and natural light flowed in from three arched windows. Wooden overhead fans circulated the air, softly rustling the fronds of a Victoria palm.

“Nice room,” Frederick said. “Tropical.”

“Ah, yes,” Garrison answered. “I have my wife to thank for that. She was born and raised in Hawaii.”

“Really?” said Frederick. “My wife is from Hawaii, too. We’re trying to get back there for her family reunion, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Not enough overtime, eh?” Garrison said.

Inspector Frederick looked again at Garrison’s craggy, unshaven face, only now noticing the mordant glint in the man’s eye. Frederick, himself had a sardonic streak. He approved of that quality in others.

“Right,” he said. “Not enough overtime. Seems like there never is.” Donning a pair of drugstore reading glasses, the policeman reached into an inside pocket and drew out a spiral notebook and a stubby yellow pencil. “Now,” he said, “suppose you tell me what’s going on.”

Garrison told Inspector Frederick about finding his wife and son unexpectedly not at home and about the calls he’d made to his wife’s friends, to their houseman and to local hospitals. Then he picked up a manila envelope lying on a nearby table and opened it. “I have some pictures of Deborah and our son,” he said, drawing out several photographs. “You might find these useful.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Garrison,” said Frederick, putting the pencil behind his ear. He reached for the pictures and began flipping through them. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First of all, tell me again about your houseman.”

“Mr. Foo?”

“Is that his name, Foo?”

“Yeah. Lewis Foo.”

Frederick slipped the stack of photos under his arm and made a note. “Didn’t you say that Mr. Foo had been out sick for part of the week?”

“Yes,” said Garrison. “Since Wednesday. What are you thinking? That he may have had something to do with Deborah’s disappearance?”

“I’m not thinking anything, Mr. Garrison,” Frederick replied. “I'm just gathering information.”

“I understand, Inspector. It’s just that Mr. Foo has been with us for eight years. He was with my wife’s family before that. Deborah has known him practically all her life. That he might wish her ill is…well, it’s unthinkable.”

“These are just routine questions,” Frederick said. “Your wife and Mr. Foo…they spoke on the phone, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“According to Lewis, around five.”

Frederick made another note. “Do you know who called who?”

“No,” Garrison said. “Is that important?”

“Well, if Mr. Foo called Deborah, then we’d know she was home at that time. That’s assuming he didn’t call her on her cell phone. Does she have a cell phone?”

“No. She hates them,” Garrison replied. “My business has several, and I keep trying to get her to take one for emergencies, but Deborah’s something of a technophobe.”

“No problem,” Frederick said. “I can check the LUDs.”

“The what?”

“Sorry,” said Frederick. “Police jargon. It stands for local usage details…phone company records. How old is your son, Mr. Garrison?”

“Four.”

“Good,” said Frederick. “Then we can get him in the system right away. Missing juveniles can be reported to the National Crime Center within twelve hours.”

“What about my wife?”

“That’s another matter. How long has she been missing?”

“Well,” Garrison said, “she wasn’t home last night.”

“So it’s been less than twenty four hours?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

“That’s a problem,” Frederick said. “Adults can’t be considered legally missing until after twenty-four hours, unless, of course, there’s been foul play. Is there any reason to believe there was?”

“How would I know that?” Garrison asked.

“Have you received a ransom note? Or discovered signs of a struggle? Overturned furniture? Trails of blood? Anything like that?”

“God, no,” said Garrison. “Thank heaven.”

“Is she in good mental condition? Sound of mind?”

“Yes.”

“How about physically?"

“You mean…”

“Does she have any physical impairments? Can she take care of herself?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Taking any life sustaining medications?”

“No.”

“Does she have any enemies, Mr. Garrison?” Frederick asked.

“None I can think of.”

“How about you? Do you have any enemies?”

“Business adversaries, of course,” Garrison said, “but none who would want to hurt my family.”

“Have you checked with Mrs. Garrison’s family?”

“My wife is an orphan…and an only child,” Garrison said. “Her parents were killed in an car crash when she was a kid. Deborah’s mother had a college friend who became her guardian after the accident. They had been close but, sometime after Deborah and I were married, Dr. Stanford moved to Easter Island for her work. She’s been there, pretty much isolated, for four or five years. Deborah has a cousin, but they’re estranged. Except for him, there’s no immediate family.”

“Can you think of anything…anything at all that might account for her disappearance? Any odd behavior? Peculiar statements? Anything like that?”

Garrison hesitated before replying. “Not really,” he said, hesitantly.

“Mr. Garrison,” said Frederick, “something that you might regard as insignificant could provide a vital clue. Don’t hold back. Please tell me everything.” Garrison scratched his head.

“It was the night before my trip,” he said, “Deborah and I were watching a news special about Hawaiian politics. One of the segments got to her.”

“What was that, Mr. Garrison? What was the segment?”

“It was about a Hawaiian holy man who’d burned himself alive on the steps of some bank headquarters or someplace. This was last January.”

“And why was that especially troubling?”

“Deborah knew the man,” Garrison said. “She’s also an anthropologist…”

“Your wife?”

“Yes. She sometimes lectures on Polynesian culture at SF State University.”

“And she knew the man who committed suicide?”

“Yes. He was a shaman and a member of something called the Council of Kahunas. Deborah had interviewed him for an article she’d written.” Frederick made a note.

“How were you and your wife getting along, Mr. Garrison?” he asked.

"Very well. We were talking about having another child.”

Frederick held several photographs of Garrison’s wife in his hand. He looked down at one of them, a shot of Deborah and her young son standing together near a playground swing. Even without makeup and wearing jeans and a t-shirt, she was striking. Her hair was thick, lustrous and blonde, her eyes, large and blue, her body long, shapely, fit and sexy. Definitely a head turner, the inspector thought.

Frederick glanced up at James Garrison. He was not ugly by any means; lean and muscular with dark hair, eyes and skin. But for his rough complexion, habitual frown and deep expression lines, some might have called him handsome. For sheer good looks, however, there was no comparison. At a youthful thirty-two years of age to his tough-looking forty, Garrison’s beautiful wife was in a class all by herself.

“Mr. Garrison,” Frederick said, “Pardon me, but I have to ask this question. Is there any possibility that your wife may have left you, taking your son with her? Might there be another man, perhaps?”

Garrison did not hesitate. “Absolutely not,” he said.

“Have you checked your joint bank accounts, your credit cards and so forth?”

“I don’t have to. I know my wife. She’s the most straightforward woman in the world. There’s no way she would have done anything underhanded.”

“All the same,” Frederick urged, “if your bank is open today, it might be worthwhile to take a few minutes and give them a call.”

Garrison sat quietly for a moment, for the first time considering what was to him, a shocking idea. His eyes darted around the room briefly, then he turned his head and looked at Frederick.

“The bank may not be open,” he said, “but if Deborah moved any money, she’d have to go through our financial advisor, Allen Kertz. He’s a workaholic. I’m pretty sure he’ll be in his office.” Garrison went to the phone, picked it up and sat down in a nearby chair, then dialed and waited.

“Yes, hello,” he said. “This is Jim Garrison. May I speak to Allen, please?…Yes, I’ll hold.”

Looking across the room, Garrison noticed that Frederick was still standing. He motioned, inviting him to sit, smiled fleetingly and then, as his party came on the line, turned his attention back to the phone.

“Hello, Al?” he said. “Hey, it’s me. Yeah, I’m good. You?…Great. Listen, I’m calling to check up on a couple of things…”

Before Garrison could frame his question, Allen Kertz began talking. Garrison fell silent as his advisor went on at some length. Inspector Frederick could not hear his words, of course. He tracked the conversation by watching Garrison’s face.

At first, Garrison listened closely, his brow creased in concentration, his eyes directed at a fixed point near the ceiling. “Yes,” he said. “I see…uh huh…right.” Then, by degrees, as Kertz’s narrative continued, Garrison stopped responding. His eyes gradually lost their focus. The blood drained from his face. A few quick questions and equally brief answers later, the conversation came to a close.

“Well, thank you, Allen,” Garrison said. “No, I understand. That’s perfectly fine. Yes. We’ll talk later. Good-bye.” Replacing the phone in its cradle, Garrison sat, silent and still, for several moments. Frederick waited.

“Well, at least she’s fair-minded,” he said at last.

“What do you mean?” Frederick asked.

“I just can’t believe it,” he said, slapping his thighs and standing. “How could I have been so wrong? I couldn’t have been, that’s all. I just couldn’t. But then…”

“Mr. Garrison,” the inspector said. “What did you find out?”

“She took half of all our personal cash reserves,” Garrison replied. “She told Allen that I was opening up an office in London and that she and Noah were going there to set up house. She even gave him a contact number and an address.”

“That was thoughtful,” Frederick said. “Why didn’t you copy them down?”

“Copy what down?”

“The telephone number…the address. Why didn’t you copy them down?”

“They’re fake,” Garrison said. “According to Allen, the street address doesn’t exist and the contact number is a payphone in Chelsea.”

“Mr. Garrison, how much did she take away…in round numbers?”

Garrison ran a hand through his hair and, once again, blew his cheeks full of air, looking up at the ceiling while thinking through the question. “In round numbers? I’d say, upwards of three-quarters of a million dollars.”