by staring up at the descending flashing numbers as though awaiting a UFO landing. In the lobby he joined the stream of suits and flowed out onto Park Avenue, salmons fighting upstream against the tide until, well, they died. Many of the suits walked with heads high, their expressions kick-ass-runway-model; others walked with backs bent, flesh versions of the statue on Fifth Avenue of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders, but for them the world was simply too heavy.

Whoa, again with the deep.

Perfectly situated on the corner of Forty-sixth and Park, standing reading a newspaper but positioned in such way as to watch all entering or leaving the Lock-Home building, was the same man Myron had noticed standing there when he entered.

Hmm.

Myron took out his cell phone and hit the programmed button.

"Articulate," Win said.

"I think I got a tail."

"Hold please." Maybe ten seconds passed. Then: "The newspaper on the corner."

Win keeps a variety of telescopes and binoculars in his office. Don't ask.

"Yep."

"Good Lord," Win said. "Could he be any more obvious?"

"Doubt it."

"Where's the pride in his work? Where's the professionalism?"

"Sad."

"That, my friend, is the whole problem with this country."

"Bad tails?"

"It's an example. Look at him. Does anybody really stand on a street corner and read a newspaper like that? He might as well cut out two eyeholes."

"Uh-huh," Myron said. "You got some free time?"

"But of course. How would you like to play it?"

"Back me up," Myron said.

"Give me five."

Myron waited five minutes. He stood there and studiously avoided looking at the tail. He checked his watch and huffed a bit as though he expected someone and was getting impatient. When the five minutes passed, Myron walked straight over to the tail.

The tail spotted his approach and ducked into the newspaper.

Myron kept walking until he stood directly next to the tail. The tail kept his face in the newspaper. Myron gave him Smile 8. Big and toothy. A televangelist being handed a hefty check. Early Wink Martindale. The tail kept his eyes on the newspaper. Myron kept smiling, his eyes wide as a clown's. The tail ignored him. Myron inched closer, leaned his uber-wattage smile within inches of the taiPs face, wriggled his eyebrows.

The tail snapped closed the newspaper and sighed. "Fine, hotshot, you made me. Congratulations."

Still with the Wink Martindale smile: "And thank you for playing our game! But don't worry, we won't let you go home empty-handed! You get the home version of Incompetent Tail and a year's subscription to Modern Doofus"

"Yeah, right, see you around."

"Wait! Final Jeopardy! round. Answer: He or she hired you to follow me."

"Bite me."

"Ooo, sorry, you needed to put that in the form of a question."

The tail started walking away. When he looked back, Myron gave him the smile and a big wave. "This has been a Mark Goodson-Bill Todman production. Good-bye, everybody!" More waving.

The tail shook his head and continued down the street, joining another stream of people. Lots of people in this stream; Win happened to be one of them. The tail would probably find a clearing and then call his boss. Win would listen in and learn all. What a plan.

Myron headed to his rented car. He circled the block once. No more tails. At least none as obvious as the last. No matter. He was driving out to the Mayor estate on Long Island. It didn't much matter if anyone knew.

He spent his time in the car working on the cell phone. He had two arena football players-indoor football on a smaller field, for those who don't know-both of whom were hoping to scratch a bench spot on an NFL roster before the waiver wire closed down. Myron called teams, but nobody was interested. Lots of people asked him about the murder. He brushed them off. He knew his efforts were fairly futile, but he stuck to it. Big of him. He tried concentrating on his work, tried to lose himself in the numb bliss of what he did for a living. But the world kept creeping in. He thought about Esperanza in jail. He thought about Jessica in California. He thought about Bonnie Haid and her fatherless boys at home. He thought about Clu in formaldehyde. He thought about his father's phone call. And strangely, he kept thinking about Terese alone on that island. He blocked out the rest.

When he reached Muttontown, a section of Long Island that had somehow escaped him in the past, he turned right onto a heavily wooded road. He drove about two miles,