Laura had already tossed money on the bar and was walking out of the bar when Graham thanked the girl and joined her.

“BILLY?”

The tall, gangly youngster spun toward Graham’s voice. He was as skinny as a poster child, and Laura wondered where he found the strength to lug suitcases. He was an average-looking boy, red-faced from the sun and covered with the last remnants of what must have been bad acne. “Yes?”

“Billy, my name is Sheriff Rowe. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The boy’s eyes darted about the lobby. “Have I done something wrong, Sheriff?”

“No, son. I just need to ask you a few questions about David Baskin.”

“David Baskin? What can I ...? Wait a minute. You’re Laura Ayars, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re even prettier in person than on the telly. I know all about you. I was your husband’s biggest fan—well, his biggest fan in Australia anyway.”

“Billy,” Graham said, “did you see Mr. Baskin in this hotel?”

“Sure did.”

“When?”

“On the day he died. He came right through these doors.”

“You’re sure?”

Billy nodded. “I got his autograph to prove it. He was a very nice fellow. I saw him come in and head straight for the elevator. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, the David Baskin right here in this hotel. I play a little basketball myself but there was no one like White Lightning. Nobody. He was the greatest. So I sprinted over to the reception desk and grabbed a pen and piece of paper and asked him for his autograph. He said, ‘Sure, kid. What’s your name?’ I told him and then he signed it for me. He even scribbled the date.”

Laura’s heart sank deep into her stomach. Whenever David had the time, he liked to put the date with his autograph because he read somewhere that it made it worth more to true collectors.

“Then what happened?” Graham asked.

“Like I said, he got in the elevator and went up. Didn’t say a word to anybody else. He was nice and everything, but I could tell he was distracted.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. He just looked like he was in a trance or something.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

Behind Billy, a group of tourists charged in noisily after a full-day boat trip to Green Island. “While Mr. Baskin was upstairs, I was working up the courage to talk to him when he came back down. I wanted to tell him that I thought he was the greatest basketball player in the world and that I loved watching him play. When he came down about an hour later, I was all psyched up to talk to him—until I saw his face.”

“What was wrong with his face?” Graham asked.

Billy shrugged. “Can’t say exactly. He was awful pale. That distracted face I was telling you about now looked pained—like somebody had danced on his guts with spiked heels. Or like he had just been told he had two months to live or something. I never seen such a change. He could barely walk when he got out of the elevator. I have to tell you, Sheriff, it was kind of scary.”

Laura felt her pulse quicken. What had happened to David when he went upstairs? Had the bastards drugged him or beaten him or threatened him or . . . or what? What could they have done to make her David react like this?

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I walked up to him and I said, ‘Are you okay, Mr. Baskin?’ but he didn’t answer me. He just kept walking in a daze like a two-by-four had connected with the side of his head or something. I figured it was none of my business and I didn’t want to get in trouble for bothering him, so I just left him alone.”

“Did he leave the hotel?”

Billy scratched his head. “That’s the odd part. He wandered out and stumbled around the block a few times. He walked that way down the Esplanade. I watched him until he disappeared past that office building.”

Laura swallowed. “What office building?”

“The one on the next block.”

“The Peterson Building?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Billy confirmed. “Anyway, a while later—I don’t know, maybe a half hour—he came staggering back into the hotel.”

“Did he go back up the elevator?” Graham asked.

Billy shook his head. “He just wandered around some more. Then he asked me where the nearest phone was. I showed him.”

“A pay phone?”

“No. He said he needed to call the States. I brought him to one of the hotel operators to place the call.”

“Who was the operator?”

“Old Maggie. She died last month. She must have been two hundred years old.”

“What time was it by now?”

“Let’s see. It must have been close to ten at night, I guess.”

“Then what?”

Billy took a deep breath. “He finished his calls—”

“Calls?” Laura interrupted.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t listening in, but I know he made at least two calls. I don’t know if both connected or not. Anyway, he finished his calls and then he started doing his zombie bit in the lobby again. I was beginning to think this was all a little strange by now, but like I said, it was none of my business. He took off around ten thirty.”

Graham remembered that the call to the bank had been placed before midnight. “Did he come back?”

“Can’t say for sure, but maybe. When I got off at eleven thirty, I spotted him standing all by himself on the Marlin Jetty. He just stood there and stared out at the water. No one else was around. I know the newspapers said he drowned accidentally, and I don’t want to ruin a man’s good name, but he wasn’t looking at that water like a man who wanted to take a casual swim, if you get my meaning.”

Graham and Laura exchanged glances. They got his meaning.

JUDY Simmons entered her apartment, dumped her luggage on the floor, and collapsed into a nearby chair. A silly smile remained frozen on her face. All right, maybe goofy smile was a better description. No, Judy told herself, let’s be honest about this. It’s been so long since you’ve had this particular smile (or any smile for that matter) that you’re forgetting what kind of smile this really is.

Judy thought about it a moment before remembering the correct terminology. It was hardly the vernacular an English professor should use to describe a facial expression, but then again, it was succinct and appropriate for the occasion. Yes, the students of Colgate University would call it a “JustF---ed” smile—the sort of look that comes over one’s face after a particularly arousing session of sexual contact. To be more precise, a weekend’s worth. Three times a day. Who would have thought that Professor Bealy would have such stamina?