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one of the airport’s wings, passing the gates and coffee stands. They got to the gate in question, and Hastings could see the apprehension on the ticket attendant’s face. She saw the uniforms, and Hastings made eye contact with her.
    The woman nodded in the direction of a man of about sixty, bald on top with gray hair on the sides. He was wearing a blue blazer and pressed white shirt.
    Hastings made a signal to the uniforms and they stopped walking. Klosterman began a wide arc that would ultimately bring him behind the old man.
    Then Hastings walked up to him.
    The man held his raincoat over his lap. He was looking out the window, perhaps to see if the weather would prevent him from leaving town.
    Hastings said, “Mr. Harris?”
    The man looked up.
    Hastings had his identification out. “My name is George Hastings. St. Louis police.”
    â€œYes.” Harris’s voice was one of authority. Regal and British. He addressed the policeman as he would address a bank clerk.
    Hastings said, “You were with a young lady last night who goes by the name of Ashley.” He didn’t make it a question.
    Harris said, “What business is that of yours?”
    â€œIt’s police business. Where is she now?”
    â€œHow should I know? What is this, some sort of attempt to extort me? If that’s your game, Officer, you’ve picked the wrong man.”
    â€œMr. Harris, you’re mistaken.” Hastings glanced over the man and saw that Klosterman was close behind him now, his pistol at his side, pointed down. No scenes, please, Hastings thought.
    Hastings said, “Sir, do you know where she is now?”
    â€œNo. See here, I’ve done nothing improper. You want to arrest me for—Well, you’ve got no proof.”
    â€œNo proof of what?”
    â€œOf—well, you know. Really, this is ridiculous.”
    â€œMr. Harris, I’m afraid we can’t let you board that flight. The girl is dead and we need to question you about it. I can read you your Miranda rights here in front of all these people or we can go someplace private.”
    â€œOh, Christ,” Harris said, his regal expression crumbling.

SEVEN
    Ten minutes later, they were seated in a small room at airport security. They read him his rights but did not put him in handcuffs. They told him that he could have a lawyer appointed for him if he couldn’t afford one, and he shook his head during that part. And after that was out of the way, he talked to them quite freely, not so much as a man wanting to confess but as one wanting to get things straightened out.
    Geoffrey Harris told them that he was an investment banker with a large house in New York. That he had started working in finance in London after graduating from the London School of Economics and had been sent to the New York office in 1991. He told them that he was married with four children and six grandchildren. He said he was in St. Louis on business.
    He said, “The gentleman I worked with is named Robert Alan Gray. He is what we call in this industry a wholesaler.”
    Hastings said, “Selling what?”
    â€œFinancial products. They want old men like myself to buy those products. As part of the wining and dining, they basically give us a girl. He is the one who provided me with Ashley. I shall be glad to give you his telephone number. In fact, I can give you his card.”
    Hastings said, “Mr. Harris, you’re not being honest with us.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe’ve been informed that
you
requested to see Ashley. That’s what the records at the escort service indicate. Your name, not Mr. Gray’s.”
    â€œOh . . . well.”
    Hastings said, “You want to try again? And let me advise you of something before you go on: you’ve just been informed that you have the right to remain silent. Now you can exercise that right and we can make this thing a whole lot more complicated than