Transgressions

doing better things with his time.

'Why,' he asked Peter, 'do otherwise bright young people treat inherited fortunes the way rednecks treat junk cars?' He shrugged. 'Mr. O'Neill! Delighted to see you again. How can I help you?'

'Have you heard anything from Mr. Ransome lately?'

'We had dinner two nights ago at the Four Seasons.'

'Oh, he was in town?' Cy waited for a more sensible question. 'His new paintings sell okay?'

'We did very, very well. And how is Echo?'

'I don't know. I'm not allowed to see her, I might be a distraction. I thought Ransome was supposed to be slaving away at his art up there in Maine.'

Cy looked at his watch, looked at Peter again uncomprehendingly.

'I was hoping you could give me some information, Mr. Mellichamp.'

'In regard to?'

'The other women Ransome has painted. I know where one of them lives. Anne Van Lier.' The casual admission was calculated to provoke a reaction; Peter didn't miss the slight tightening of Cy Mellichamp's baby blue eyes. 'Do you know how I can get in touch with the others?'

Cy said after a few moments, 'Why should you want to?' with a muted suggestion in his gaze that Peter was up to no good.

'Do you know who and where those women are?'

An associate said to Cy, 'Princess Steph on three.'

Distracted, Cy looked over his shoulder. 'Find out if she's on St. Barts. I'll get right back to her.'

While Cy wasn't watching him Peter glanced at a computer on a nearby desk where nobody was working. But the person whose desk it was had carelessly left his user ID on the screen.

Cy looked around at Peter again. 'I could not help you if I did know,' he said curtly. 'Their whereabouts are none of my business.'

'Why is Ransome so secretive about those women?'

'That, of course, is John's prerogative. Now if you wouldn't mind—it has been one of those days—' He summoned a moment of the old charm. 'I'm sorry.'

'Thanks for taking the time to see me, Mr. Mellichamp.'

'If there should be a next time, unless it happens to be official, you would do well to leave that gold shield in your pocket.'

EIGHT

Peter got home from his watch at twenty past midnight. He fixed himself a sardine sandwich on sourdough with a smelly slice of gouda and some salsa dip he found in the fridge. He carried the sandwich and a bottle of Sam Adams up the creaky back stairs to the third floor he shared with his brother Casey. The rest of the house was quiet except for his father's distant whistling snore. But with no school for two days Case was still up with his iMac. Graphics were Casey's passion: his ambition was to design the cars of the future.

Peter changed into sweats. The third floor was drafty; a wind laced with the first fitful snow of the season was belting them.

There was an e-mail on the screen of his laptop that said only missyoumissyoumissyou. He smiled bleakly, took a couple of twenties from his wallet and walked through the bathroom he shared with Casey, pausing to kick a wadded towel off the floor in the direction of the hamper.

'Hi, Case.'

Casey, mildly annoyed at the intrusion, didn't look around.

'That looks like the Batmobile,' Peter said of the sleek racing machine Casey was refining with the help of some Mac software.

'It is the Batmobile.'

Peter laid a twenty on the desk where Casey would see it out of the corner of his eye.

'What's that for?'

'For helping me out.'

'Doing what?'

'See, I've got this user ID, but there's probably gonna be a log-on code too—'

'Hack a system?'

'I'm not stealing anything. Just want to look at some names, addresses.'

'It's against the law.'

Peter laid the second twenty on top of the first.

'Way I see it, it's kind of a gray area. There's something going on, maybe involves Echo, I need to know about. Right away.'

Casey folded the twenties with his left hand and slid them under his mouse pad.

'If I get in any trouble,' he said, 'I'm givin' your ass up first.'