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soaked it all in.
    Now back inside the cottage, Kate heard the Chevy pulling into the carport below. Moments later James came through the door.
    “Kate, I’m back.”
    At first, he didn’t see her.
    “Where are you?”
    “In here.”
    He came closer to the bedroom door.
    “Kate, we need to kill some time before tonight. I was wondering if you had any ideas.”
    When he reached the doorway he found her standing beside the bed, wearing one of his shirts.
    Only his shirt.
    It’s unbuttoned to her waist.
    In the half-light, she slipped it off her shoulders as he followed it to the floor.
    He smiled widely.
    “I guess you do.”

CHAPTER 11
    T he disaster James had left in his wake on the Merritt Parkway in Greenwich was now the responsibility of a police officer, and not one from the Greenwich Police Department, they were preoccupied with the “hostage” crisis at First Fidelity Bank. This was an officer from the nearby Westchester County Police Department.
    A cowering Alec Specter had finally opened his car door for him.
    “Are you alright, sir?” the policeman asked.
    “I’ll live. Just get me the hell out of here.”
    Visibly shaken, he quickly found the officer’s squad car and jumped inside. Specter was then driven to a hospital where he was examined thoroughly, the physician concluding it was anxiety, not bullet holes, the patient suffered from. He received medication to help calm his nerves and the facility released him.
    Riding home in a police car, he arrived to find three police officers, already at their stations. His son had been pulled from a private school. Along with his mother, he huddled at the estate, which now resembled a fortress.
    In downtown Greenwich, at First Fidelity Bank, efforts to persuade the phantom robbers to surrender had failed. The Swat Team fired tear gas canisters inside the building and stormed in. Having found no bandits on the premises, it was quickly determined that the “robbery” had been a ruse—a diversion to draw police officers away from the location of the ambush of Alec Specter. The Merritt Parkway was combed in search of evidence by a team including Greenwich police detectives, though none turned up—except for the rifle. By now, it had no evidentiary value owing to the sustained, searing heat of the coals.
    By late morning, the Greenwich Chief of Police was ready to have a conversation with Alec Specter. A half-hour later, an unmarked police car turned off the road and drove through the gate at the Specter estate. Inside, the Chief was accompanied by the lead detective assigned to the case. They climbed the front steps and the detective was about to ring the doorbell when a woman, dressed neatly in a maid’s uniform, opened the door.
    “Hello,” she said, “I assume you’re here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Specter.”
    “Yes ma’am, we are,” replied the detective.
    They followed her through a large foyer. As they approached the drawing room, a heated argument ceased as the two men entered. The couple turned and noticed the lawmen, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
    Clearing his throat, the Chief finally said, “Good morning. I’m George Brennan, Chief of the Greenwich Police Department.”
    He pointed to the man beside him.
    “This is detective Moody. He’s in charge of the investigation.”
    The couple stood near a leather sofa opposite two chairs. Alec Specter waved a hand toward the chairs, offering no handshake.
    “Have a seat.”
    Mrs. Specter had shuffled out of the room before he could introduce her. Beyond the doorway, she leaned against a staircase wall, remaining close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.
    “I’d hoped we would be meeting under better circumstances,” the Chief began. “This must be difficult for you and your family.”
    “That’s an understatement.” Specter was clearly agitated. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead, his tone accusatory. “You’re supposed to protect me. It’s your job, damn