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because Howard is allergic to fish—Caitlin could almost hear Anne’s nose crinkle up at the idea of going to a cheap place—and Anne makes a counteroffer that we meet at Gramercy Tavern on East 42 nd and 20 th between Park Avenue and Broadway and will accept no argument about them paying. That is a good thing, because the tavern is one of the most pricey in all of New York—a four-$$$$ rating costing like eighty bucks a plate.
    Mrs. Marcus suggests that we meet at eleven thirty to avoid the lunchtime rush, and because we would have to make a reservation for noon. Reservations involve a month’s wait and no exceptions, even for Gramercy’s elite. Caitlin readily agrees, and Ed drives us there in the limo.
    The place is beautiful, light, and airy. We are greeted with a heavenly spicy smell as soon as we walk in. The Marcuses had gotten there just before we do and already have seats centered around a wood-burning grill. The unspoken rule among the gentry is no business until dessert and coffee; so, we all enjoy great food and even better service. Caitlin whispers at one point that she could get used to going out to where the elite meet to eat. I nod my enthusiastic agreement. The cuisine is American Nouveau—a learning experience for Caitlin. She starts with barely warmed vegetables covered with olives, pine nuts, herbed ricotta, and anchovy garlic paste, and fills the leftover space in her stomach with grilled monkfish—which is a hearty solid white fish that tastes like lobster. The fish is covered with small lightly browned flowerets of cauliflower, raisins, and curry. I choose fish croquette and mixed green salad with smoked oyster sauce for my appetizer, and butternut squash lasagna topped with hen-of-the-woods mushrooms and kale on the side as my entree. We are all too full for dessert or even for one of their specialty gourmet coffees. The Marcuses—slim, patrician, and fit—have only appetizers: he has roasted beets with kohlrabi, sherry vinaigrette, and sunflower seeds, while she has baked Long Island clams. No dessert, of course. They do have large steaming cups of black civet coffee—the most expensive in the world—and a true gourmet treat, since one has to get over the knowledge that it is made with the excreta of coffee berry-fed Asian cats.
    The host opens the business. “All right, McGee and Caitlin, what have you got?”
    I leave out the meeting with the DCIA but otherwise tell Howard and Anne pretty much everything. I also avoid telling them about the scrutiny we are in the process of putting on their lives.
    “This Russian mafia figure means several things, Howard and Anne,” I say by way of conclusion, “not the least of which is danger. I don’t know for sure that you are in danger, but I suggest that you review your home security system and hire security guards around the clock even at the bank. Eat at home—only fresh food that you buy yourself or eat at restaurants chosen at random and without making reservations. Avoid public transportation and crowds. Don’t allow anyone—even your secretaries or security people—to know what meetings you elect to attend. There’s a saying out west, ‘Trust everyone, but brand your cattle.’ That’s a good motto for you guys while our investigation is ongoing.
    “One last thing: it is obvious that we are getting in over our heads what with Homeland Security taking a serious interest and ordering us to back off. So we have arranged to share the investigation with two detectives from the Manhattan Homicide Unit. The chief of D’s is okay with that; so, we are staying kosher. You will eventually meet Detectives MacLeese and Redworth. They are going to need full access to your financial and telephone records—okay with you?”
    Howard had been expressionless until my last sentence, but then he flinches and turns pale. He quickly recovers his composure—an excellent trait for a serious negotiator.
    “I cannot allow bank business to be