THIRTY-ONE

Seven-ten. He was in the GTO, headed downtown on the interstate. Traffic was light. He made good time.

Seven twenty-nine. He pulled into the parking garage outside the Centurion. Walked two blocks north till he found Livia Saint’s Jaguar, then melted into the shadows to wait.

Seven forty-four. Livia Saint came walking down the street, dressed in her workout clothes, gym bag over her shoulder. She unlocked the Jag and dropped the bag inside it, then headed off toward the Centurion.

He didn’t know which film she’d be seeing, but it didn’t matter. They all started around eight, ended around ten. More than enough time for his purposes.

He waited two minutes.

Seven forty-six. He ventured out of the shadows and pulled the fireplug out of his duffel. He set it down next to the Jag, nodded in satisfaction. Indistinguishable from the real thing.

Next was the shim. Thirty seconds later, he was inside the Jag, ransacking Livia Saint’s bag, taking special note of her perfume—Angel, Thierry Mugler—and the velvet case, Harry Winston inscribed on the outside, some obscenely large diamond earrings within. He put both back as he’d found them, then turned his attention to the ignition. Thirty seconds to hot-wire it, a minute to replace the wires so no damage was visible from outside the car.

Seven fifty-three.

He stopped at Cranston and Kennedy, took out the voice distorter, and attached it to the car phone. He dialed Quentin Glass’s number.

“Glass.”

“Quentin Glass?”

“Who is this?”

“I have certain photographic studies of you and your barber friend. Meet me at the bar in the Wyndham Harbor Island Hotel. Bring five thousand dollars, and I’ll give you the photographs. You wouldn’t want Howard Saint to see them, Mr. Glass.”

Before the man could respond, he hung up.

Glass’s reactions were the only potential stumbling block in his plan. Perhaps he’d been wrong—perhaps Glass didn’t care if Saint found out about his sexual orientation. Though from what he’d observed the last two weeks, Glass was paranoid about anyone finding out.

Castle put the chance of failure at 2 percent, give or take. Which would mean going to plan B. He’d know very soon.

Eight-fifty. He pulled into the parking lot of the Wyndham Hotel, parked the Jag in a clearly marked handicap space, and bled into the shadows.

Nine-thirteen. A Tampa Parking Enforcement vehicle pulled up next to the Jag. A minute later, a uniformed enforcement official climbed out, and plastered a ticket on the Jag’s windshield.

At that exact instant, Quentin Glass pulled up next to the hotel’s valet stand. Looking anything but happy, he tossed his keys to the valet and headed toward the bar.

Castle smiled. In his head, he mentally discarded the notes he’d been gathering for plan B.

Nine-seventeen. He slid back behind the wheel of the Jag, hot-wired the car again, and returned it to the spot the fireplug had held for him by the Centurion.

Nine-thirty. He disconnected the voice distorter, collected the prop fireplug, and melted back into the shadows.

Nine forty-five. Back in the GTO, he made a call on his cell.

“Hello?”

“You’re on.”

Castle hung up. His part for the night was done.

Time for Duka to take center stage.

Okay. Absolutely no reason to be nervous. Nothing to be afraid of. It was bound to come up in conversation, Castle said. If not tonight, then over the next couple days. He just had to stay cool, calm, collected.

“Micky!”

Duka started, and almost dropped the pitcher of margaritas in his hand.

“Pay attention, will you?” John Saint, stretched out on an inflatable raft in the middle of the pool, waved his glass in the air. “I’m empty here.”

Duka nodded. “Sorry, John. I was, ah—” His eyes went to the two blondes floating in the pool alongside John, and he smiled, or tried to anyway. “—distracted. If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. You dog, Micky.” Saint shook his head and smiled. “Ain’t he a dog, girls?”

The girls nodded and giggled.

Micky topped off John’s glass, emptying the pitcher. The third pitcher of the night. The guy had to have a hollow leg—the girls hadn’t even finished their first drinks.

“I’ll mix up a fresh batch,” Micky said, and headed for the bar.

As he worked, he heard footsteps sound on the deck above him. A second later, those footsteps came down the stairs. Howard Saint. He stopped in front of the pool and put his hands on his hips.

“Quentin’s late. Where is he?”

“No idea, Pop,” John said. “You want a drink? Micky’s makin’ margaritas.”

“No, I don’t want a drink. I want Quentin.”

Duka took a deep breath. Here goes nothing, he thought, and coughed.

“Excuse me. Mr. Saint?”

Saint spun around and glared at him. “What?”

“I know where Mr. Glass is, sir. I saw him pulling into the Wyndham Hotel, couple hours ago.”

“Good. The Wyndham Hotel. Fine. What the fuck is he doing at the Wyndham Hotel? He’s supposed to be here.”

Duka blanched. “I, uh—”

“And where’s your mother gone to?” Saint asked, turning around to his son again. “John?”

“It’s Thursday, Pop,” the younger Saint replied.

“Right.” Howard Saint nodded. “Thursday. The movies.”

Right, Micky Duka almost said. The movies. He knew that, too.

Just then, a door slammed upstairs. Duka heard laughter. A woman and a man. Howard Saint heard it, too. Without a word, he went back up the stairs and inside.

Micky exhaled loudly. Thank God that was over with. That was almost as bad as hanging upside down in Castle’s apartment.

“Mick! The drinks?”

John Saint was waving his glass again.

“Right, John. Sorry.”

“And a couple fresh glasses for the girls here, right girls?”

The girls giggled. Duka smiled.

“Right. Fresh glasses, fresh pitcher, coming right at you.”

Only he had trouble getting his hands to work right. They were all sweaty and shaking. Christ, he thought. Get a grip, Duka.

“Hey!” John shouted.

Duka thought it was meant for him for a second, thought the man was going to yell at him again to hurry up. But when he looked, he saw that Saint was yelling at the girls; they had tipped over the raft and dunked him in the pool. The three of them were wrestling in the water now, laughing.

I need this more than they do, Duka thought, and poured himself a margarita.

He drained it in one gulp.

Howard Saint followed the sound of laughter to the foyer, fuming all the way. When he got there, to his surprise he found both people he’d been looking for: Quentin and Livia. They were standing by the front door, heads bent together, talking quietly. Smiling, joking, enjoying themselves . . .

For a second, Saint continued to fume. He’d been looking for Quentin all night; they had important decisions to make, important things to discuss, no time to waste. But not only had Glass wasted time by going to the Wyndham Hotel for some strange reason, but now the man was wasting even more time, more of his time. He was keeping Howard Saint waiting while he enjoyed a nice relaxing chat.

No. Howard Saint hadn’t worked his ass off these last thirty years to be kept waiting by anyone.

Then he remembered who had been right there, at his side, for every step of the way during those thirty years, and he forced himself to calm down.

Okay, Quentin, he thought. You get a free pass. Only you, though. Nobody else.

He stepped forward, into the light.

Livia turned and smiled at him.

“Howard? Is that you? I was telling Quentin about the movie.”

Saint forced himself to smile. The movie. Another one of those girl films she was always talking to her friends about— fabulous, insightful, touching, blah-blah, blah-blah.

“It was good?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It was very good.”

“I’m glad.” Saint turned to Quentin then. “You ready? We got a lot to talk about.”

“I know. I’m sorry I was late.”

“Not a problem.” He smiled at Quentin, and Quentin smiled back. And then something inside—he couldn’t say exactly what—made him press just a little. “Where were you, by the way? I called.”

“Sorry. I dozed off. Out by the pool.”

“Ah.” Saint frowned. “Funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Micky said he saw you at the Wyndham Hotel.”

“Micky should have his eyes checked.”

“That little shit should have his ass kicked,” Livia put in. “I don’t like having him around, Howard.”

Saint nodded. He knew that. But he didn’t respond to Livia. He just kept looking at Quentin.

“So he’s mistaken—Duka?”

Glass nodded. “Yes, Howard. He’s mistaken.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

He and Quentin went upstairs to talk. Johnny Piscatelle wanted his commission on the guy he’d sent to whack Castle paid up front. Richie Constantine wanted a friend of his on the campaign committee. Mike Toro wanted to suggest a few changes in the collection schedule. One thing after another, Howard and Quentin went at it, all the ramifications, all the obstacles, the pluses and the minuses to each little action.

The whole time, Saint wasn’t paying as close attention as he should have been. He couldn’t stop thinking about Micky Duka.

Maybe he would do what his wife wanted—get rid of that little shit. But before he did that . . . Howard Saint wanted to talk to Duka again, about Quentin Glass and the Wyndham Hotel.