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petty cash.
    CMM mined iron and copper from rich reserves in Russia’s Ukraine.  Even with the political instability in that region, the company continued to net massive profits exporting ore to other European nations, Asia, and the United States.  Consolidated had hinted at expansion into oil and natural gas, which would propel profits into the stratosphere.
    "Does he know we’re coming?" I asked Anderson as we took the turn onto Wauwinet.
    "If he didn’t, we wouldn’t make it to the door," Anderson said.  He motioned toward a pristine little cottage by the side of the road, with a slate roof, white shutters, and window boxes overflowing with flowers and vines.  "He calls that his ‘watch house.’"
    I noticed two white Range Rovers with smoked windows parked next to the cottage.  "Why does he need someone to watch over him?" I asked.
    "About a billion reasons, I’d guess," Anderson said.
    The house looked very much like the clubhouse of a country club, with two dozen canopied windows running along its curved façade.  The exterior had weathered to the gray-brown of well-oiled leather.  Off to the right of the driveway stretched a pool of Olympic proportions, surrounded by twenty yards of mahogany decking.  A grove of olive green cloth umbrellas sheltered a half dozen white tables at poolside.  Just beyond them, nearer the ocean, I saw a man and a boy playing tennis on a clay court, running hard and raising clouds of dust.
    I nodded at the court.  "Who are they?" I asked.
    Anderson squinted at the players.  "Garret, the older son," he said.  "I don’t know the other guy."
    "Garret’s not in shock anymore," I said.
    "The games must go on," Anderson quipped.
    We parked and started toward the house.  When we were still several feet from the front door, it opened.  An attractive woman, about twenty-five, with a velvet complexion and long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, stood in the doorway.  She was wearing a pained expression and a short linen dress that hugged her everywhere it should, showing off a Victoria’s Secret figure.  Her chestnut eyes were bloodshot, as if she’d been up all night.
    "Captain Anderson," she said.  Her voice was surprisingly warm.
    "Good afternoon, Claire," North said.  "How are you holding up?"
    She shrugged.
    "This is Dr. Frank Clevenger, from Boston.  I called Mr. Bishop earlier about bringing him by."
    "Of course."  She extended her hand.  "Doctor," she said, summoning an especially cordial tone, "I’m Claire Buckley."
    I reached out and shook her hand.  Her skin was soft as a child’s.  I noticed she wore a channel-set, diamond pinkie ring and a Cartier love bracelet, the bangle style with screw heads around it.  The bracelet alone runs almost four grand.  I knew because I’d bought one for Kathy before she got sick and our lives went bad.  Claire Buckley was very well paid, for a nanny.  "I’m sorry to hear what happened," I said.
    She nodded, stepped aside.  "Come in."
    The interior of the house was impressive, in an intentional way.  The ceilings were twelve feet high, with smooth, whitewashed beams.  The furniture was perfectly arranged, overstuffed and covered in woven fabrics that wouldn’t last a single summer of careless living.  The walls were hung with oil paintings of beaches and ships and whaling scenes, most of them American, a few of them French, all of them very valuable.  Walking through the great room, I noticed one canvas by Robert Salmon and another by Maurice Prendergast, each of them worth millions, and each forever fixing in time a moment of Nature’s magnificence.  What ruined them for me were the showy brass plaques affixed to the frames and engraved with the artists’ names.
    "It’s like a museum," North said under his breath.
    Claire Buckley brought us to the door of Darwin Bishop’s study.  He was seated in a high-back, tufted leather chair, in front of a long, Mission-style desk, staring out French doors that looked