He took a Sominex, counted sheep, even read boring bank newsletters. Nothing worked.

“Mr. Corsel?” his intercom shrieked.

“Yes, Eleanor.”

“There’s a call for you on line four.”

“I’m not taking any calls.”

“It’s a Mr. Phillipe Gaillaird from the Bank of Geneva. He said it’s urgent.”

“Tell him I’m not here.”

“But—”

“Just tell him I’ll call him back,” he said firmly.

There was a moment of silence. “Yes, Mr. Corsel.”

Richard leaned forward and lowered his face into his hands. He stood and crossed the room. He moved down the hallway and into the executive lavatory. The door swung into an empty and silent bathroom. He walked over to the mirror and splashed cold water onto his face.

Richard realized that he would have to call Phillipe back. If not, Phillipe would keep calling the bank and that was no good. The psycho with the knife would not like that. No, Richard would have to reach Phillipe and tell him to forget the whole thing, to forget about tracing the Baskin account. The question was how. The psycho with the knife was clearly a pro with powerful connections. If he had learned all those things about Richard’s family and his conversation with Laura Baskin, he might also have placed a bug on Richard’s phone. The psycho might even have someone tailing him. And if the psycho got the wrong idea and thought that Richard was still trying to trace David Baskin’s account . . .

He let the thought hang in the air.

Richard had considered the possibility of calling the police or going to his superiors, but what could he say? His superiors would want to know why he had passed confidential information to Laura in the first place; the police would be powerless in protecting his family from the well-connected psychopath, who knew all about Naomi’s new job and about Roger and Peter’s school. But Richard also knew that as long as that guy was out there, the danger to his family would continue to exist. And what about Laura Baskin? Could he just turn his back on her without even giving her a hint about what kind of people she was up against? True, he had only met her twice, but he was convinced she would not give up easily on all this. Laura Baskin would push and push until . . .

He decided to let that thought hang in the air, too.

What the hell should he do?

He went back to his office, grabbed his briefcase, and went up to one of the bank clerks. He handed the young girl a twenty-dollar bill.

“I need change. All quarters.”

“All quarters?” the clerk repeated. “Why?”

“I’m taking a long drive on a toll-infested road,” he said wearily. “Just let me have them, please.”

With a shrug, the clerk counted out the quarters. “There you go. Eighty quarters.”

He put them in his briefcase and headed outside. He grabbed a taxi, took a subway, changed trains and lines three times, and ended up near the Bunker Hill Monument. He found a telephone booth. No way he could have been followed and no way the call could be traced—not when you used quarters from a telephone booth.

He placed the first group of quarters in the slot. Then he dialed Phillipe Gaillaird’s private line at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland.

“Gaillaird,” Phillipe answered.

“Phillipe? It’s Richard.”

“How are you, my friend?” the accented voice asked. Gaillaird had been born in Paris but had lived in Geneva since he was seven. Two years ago, Phillipe Gaillaird had made a mistake transferring funds to the wrong bank in the United States. A big multimillion dollar mistake. The kind of mistake that could ruin a Swiss bank. Richard had tracked the money down and gotten it back for him. Phillipe Gaillaird owed Richard Corsel for that favor and he was anxious to repay. Gaillaird did not fancy being in someone’s debt. “I tried to reach you earlier.”

“I got the message.”

“Where are you calling from, Richard? The connection is very poor.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Usually your bank lines are so clear.”

“I’m not calling from the bank.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I have some information for you.”

Richard closed his eyes. “Just forget it, Phillipe.”

“Pardon?”

“Forget I ever asked you about that account. I don’t need to know anymore.”

“Are you sure, Richard?” Gaillaird asked. “I have the name right here.”

“Positive.”

Phillipe paused. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just leave it alone.”

The Swiss banker’s voice grew serious. “You’re calling from a pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Richard, I’ve been working for Swiss banks all my life. I don’t know what’s going on over there, but I have my suspicions. Someone has got to you. That’s okay. Don’t confirm or deny it. It’s none of my business and I don’t want to know. But let me give you a piece of advice. You’re at a phone booth. No one is going to know what is being said. You might as well find out who has the money from the Baskin account. If you never use the information, no one will be the wiser. If the tables turn, knowing the truth may save your hide.”

Richard’s hand gripped the receiver tightly. His eyes darted madly. What Phillipe said made sense. “Okay. Give me the name. But after this call, I don’t think we should talk again.”

“I understand,” Phillipe said.

LAURA handed the Australian official her quarantine form, located her luggage, and made her way through customs. She started to drag her suitcase toward the taxi stand when a large hand reached out and picked it up.

“Sheriff Rowe,” Laura exclaimed, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

Graham smiled through his beard. He lifted the suitcase as if it were a candy bar. “You called me, didn’t ya?”

“Yes, of course, but I didn’t expect you to pick me up.”

The mammoth sheriff shrugged and began to lead her toward his squad car. Laura noticed that everyone around her was wearing shorts. The heat was oppressive, even by the normal standards of tropical Cairns. But then Laura saw the beauty of the place: the bright sun, the trees that looked as if they had been freshly painted green, the pure blue ocean, the golden-sanded beach. Memories rolled over her heavily.

“Slow day,” Graham explained. “I had a choice of picking up a lovely young lady or issuing fishing licenses to a bunch of hicks with no teeth. It wasn’t an easy choice, mind you. The missus preferred I stay with the hicks.” He smiled again. “She’s seen your picture in the magazines.”