So Richard turned on the television and settled back in his old recliner. Roger and Peter were on the carpet in front of him, alternating between watching the game and imitating the action. The Bruins were leading the Oilers by a score of 7-5. It should have been a moment of pure diversion for Richard—a moment when his mind was completely at ease. Instead he was plagued by a small blurb he had read in the newspaper. He tried to clear his mind, tried to think of his wife and children.

His thoughts came drifting back to Laura—Laura and that fire at Colgate University.

Of course there was no evidence in the newspaper that the fire had anything to do with the missing money. There was nothing in the article to suggest that the psychopath who had placed a knife against Richard’s throat had decided to torch Laura and her aunt. None whatsoever. The article merely stated that fire was being “investigated.” That was hardly reason to start jumping to conclusions and pointing fingers.

“Goal!” the announcer yelled.

“Goal!” Peter and Roger mimicked in unison.

The Bruins had increased their lead to 8-5. Pete and Rog stood up and celebrated. “Wasn’t that an incredible shot, Dad?”

“Great shot, Pete.”

“Are you going to take us to a game again this year? How about when they play the Rangers?”

“I’ll try my best.”

The children went back to their hooting and howling while Richard’s mind remained anchored on Laura Baskin. Suppose for a second that the fire was not an accident. Suppose it was connected with the David Baskin’s missing money. The voice of Laura’s father who had visited him yesterday floated across his mind: “I suspect that there might be something more to this money transfer than meets the eye. There could be something else at stake here—something very dangerous, something that could hurt my daughter.”

He wished he could just turn his back on the whole thing, but that was no longer an option his conscience would allow. Why had he let Phillipe Gaillaird at the Bank of Geneva tell him who had the money? And why had he listened to him?

Curiosity not only killed the cat, Richie—it kept him awake nights.

If Richard had never heard the damn name, then he would be free to sleep, eat, and even watch the Bruins with a clear conscience. Now a decision had to be made. Should he keep his mouth quiet? Or should he tell Laura the name? When Phillipe had first told Richard who had the money, the name meant nothing to him. A few weeks later, that changed. Boy, did that change. Now he knew the name too well. It had become a household word in Boston. And frankly, the whole situation had become more than just dangerous. It had become downright eerie.

Richard felt a frosty breeze slide through the room, as if he were standing on the ice rather than the hockey players. What to do? What the hell to do? Should he keep his mouth shut, or should he tell Laura the shocking truth—a truth even Richard had trouble believing? Should he just mind his own business, or should he tell her that the man who had stolen David’s money had also stolen his position, his scoring average, and his nickname, that the man who had stolen David’s money was none other than the Celtics’ newest scoring sensation?

Mark Seidman.

SERITA steered Laura into the elevator. Neither spoke. For that matter, Laura had barely opened her mouth since Serita had picked her up at the airport. Serita had seen Laura in every kind of mood—joyous, sad, wacky, conservative, serious, goofy, love-struck, angry—but never had she seen her friend like this. Laura’s pupils were dilated, her eyes glassy and dull. She stared out dumbstruck at a world that had suddenly decided to ravage her mind, only asking one question the whole ride home: “Has Estelle called you?”

“Your secretary?” Serita had replied. “Why would she call me?”

“Before Judy died,” Laura explained with no emotion in her voice, “she handed me that photograph I showed you and four keys. I know what three of them open. Estelle is up at Colgate right now trying to learn something about the fourth. I told her to call you if she hears anything.”

“Sorry. She didn’t call.”

For the remainder of the ride, the only sound came from the car radio.

The elevator stopped at the eighteenth floor, depositing its two beautiful passengers in the corridor. Serita took Laura’s key and guided her into the darkened apartment. The only illumination came from a small flashing red light indicating that a message had been left on Laura’s answering machine. Serita flicked on a light switch while Laura collapsed onto the couch.

“Are you feeling okay?” Serita asked. “You sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

“I feel fine.”

“Yeah, I can see that. You grimaced the whole ride home. Every time I hit a bump, I thought you were going to scream.”

“Never felt better.”

“Uh-huh. So do you want to stop bullshitting me and tell me what happened in Chicago?”

“It’s too fantastic. You won’t believe it.”

“I’m all ears. What did you learn? Did your aunt and David’s father have the hots for each other?”

“Seems so.”

“While he was still married?”

“Yep.”

“Tsk, tsk.” Serita rubbed her hands. “Go on, girl. You know I love good gossip.”

While Laura was well aware of Serita’s love for gossip, she was also well aware that Serita would give up her life before she would ever betray Laura’s trust. “It gets worse,” Laura continued. “They were serious—so serious that Sinclair Baskin considered divorcing his wife.”

“Juicy with a capital J,” Serita shot back. “Do tell, Laura. What happened to this happy couple?”

“He dumped her for another woman.”

“Ah, damn him,” Serita said with a disappointed shake of her head. “Men are such shits sometimes.”

“The other woman,” Laura continued, “was my mother.”

Serita’s mouth dropped to her knees. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“Your mother stole a guy from her sister?”

“And cheated on my father at the same time. Nice, huh?”

“Holy shit,” Serita said. “But what does it all mean, Laura? What does it have to do with the fire?”

Laura stood, her shoulders shrugging in helpless wonder. She walked over to her answering machine and pressed the rewind button. The tape sped backward with a scratching noise that sounded like a Cuisinart. “I still have no idea. The more I learn about the past, the less I see the connection to the present.”