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doing me a big favor. There’s
no one I’d rather have around at this Smithsonian thing than you,” urged Quinn.
“And who knows…some of our old friends might show up. Maybe we’ll finally put
the Ghost to rest.”
    The whole idea gave
John a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he did need to make some
money. He couldn’t put it off any longer.
    “How much did you say
this pays?”
    “Twenty thousand. I’d
do it myself, if I weren’t so slammed.”
    “Twenty thousand dollars !” John was certain
he had heard wrong.
    “That’s right.”
    John was instantly
suspicious. “Why so much?”
    “They want the best.
With people like this, the more money they spend, the better quality they think
they’re getting,” explained Quinn, like he knew the rich.
    “Just tell me what I
have to do to get this job.”
    “You just need to
call her old man. Buzzy Rossmore, I think the name is.” John could hear his old
partner routing around looking for the information. “I’ve got to get a better
filing system,” Quinn complained.
    “Why don’t you just
call me in the morning with the information?” suggested John, picturing the
usual mess of files, photos, old coffee cups, and whatever else had found its
way onto Quinn’s desk.
    “Yeah, I’ll do that.
My wife’s going to kill me if I don’t get home soon.”
    “Say hello to Diane
for me.”
    “Okay, talk to you
tomorrow.”
    “Okay, and thanks. I
appreciate your help.” John could hear Simon lecturing him in his head about
gratitude and remembering to be thankful for the help we receive.
    “Sure thing.”
    ****
    Dornal set sail at
dawn, taking the boat down the Hudson River to New York harbor. Not wanting to
answer a lot of questions at the various marinas in town, he anchored offshore
and jumped into the yellow rubber dinghy he found tied to the back of the
sailboat. The launch sped along the polluted water until he reached the small
private dock that serviced The Water Club. The swanky restaurant was located
aboard a barge that could be accessed from the highway or the little dock off the
East River.
    Dornal threw a line
to the white-jacketed boat hand, who quickly secured the dinghy and welcomed
him to the club. He slipped his sunglasses on as he entered the elegant dining
room with its plush booths and magnificent view of the river.
    The maitre d’ approached. “Are you here for brunch,
sir?”
    Dornal nodded.
    “Will it just be
you?” inquired the maitre d’ politely.
    “Yes.” Dornal scanned
the room for the most secluded table. “May I have that one?” he asked in his
clipped, nearly perfect English, indicating a corner booth.
    The maitre d’ smiled.
“Right this way.” He led Dornal to a table with crisp white linen and a small
crystal vase filled with black lilies. Dornal couldn’t remember the last time
he’d eaten a decent meal as he took the menu and began to review its offerings.
That pathetic alcoholic from the FBI had made sure of it.
    Dornal flashed back
to that cold night in Chicago. He could still see the snow floating down
outside the posh little jewelry shop, the diamonds glittering like ice in the
moonlight. He could smell the scent of pine from the Christmas wreath that hung
over the shop door and feel the end of John Monroe’s pistol pressed up against
his kidney. In that moment, his fifteen-year crime spree had come to an end.
That scene was seared into his memory banks more than any other.
    The waiter
approached. “Good morning, sir. Would you like to start off with something to
drink?”
    “Black coffee,”
responded Dornal, “and I’ll take the scrambled eggs with crab cakes, too.”
    “Very good,” replied
the waiter, with a slight bow before heading into the kitchen.
    Dornal pulled the
dead man’s cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. The call
connected and his employer answered.
    “It’s Dornal.”
    “Where are you?”
    “I’m in Manhattan and
I need money.”
    “Didn’t you get