"I'm not sure I follow." I was sure I didn't.
"Bishop might have a billion in assets, but he's got that and maybe fifty, sixty million in debts. This guy's further over the edge financially than I am. And that's saying something."
Mario brought Rossetti's espresso, Limone, and cannoli, and set them down in front of him.
"How would Viktor know that?" I asked.
Rossetti bit off half the cannoli, keeping his eyes closed as he chewed it. "Oh, baby," he purred.
"You doing all right there?" I said.
He held up a finger, sipped his espresso. "Heaven," he called out to Mario, then focused on me again. "These guys all hear about it when someone's hemorrhaging," he said finally. "According to Viktor, it's common knowledge that Bishop's scrambling. He invested most of the cash he netted from Consolidated Minerals and Metals in four Internet plays: Priceline.com, MicroStrategy, Inc., CMGI, and Divine InterVentures. They all plunged about ninety-five percent after he bought in. Priceline dropped from $136-a-share to a buck. Okay? Bishop's looking to liquidate some of his art, a property he owns in Cannes and another at Turnberry Isle in North Miami."
"That may explain why he's trading stocks every time I see him," I said.
"And you know what that means. More trouble. It's like grabbing at waves when you're drowning."
"Especially if he's been reaching for more technology plays," I said. "Tide's been going out a long time."
"One question to ask is whether he insured the kids," Rossetti said.
"Brooke and Tess? Life insurance on infants?"
"You can write a policy on anyone."
"We'll look into it," I said.
"Are they getting any closer to finding Billy?" Rossetti asked.
"I haven't heard anything. But if he's still on the island, they'll track him down. They've got dogs, helicopters, and a small army of state troopers."
"Let's hope he doesn't resist and doesn't have a weapon."
I hadn't thought of the possibility of Billy being harmed by the police, let alone killed. "If he were to take a bullet to the chest," I said, thinking aloud, "everyone would assume the case was closed and go home happy."
"Like I told you before," Rossetti said, "you're in the ring with heavyweights now. A man like Bishop can decide to make things happen-especially if he's on the ropes himself."
I finally made it home at 10:55 p.m. There were no distressing messages or strings of hangups on my machine, for a change. I called North Anderson 's mobile phone to bring him up to speed on the information I had gotten from Carl Rossetti. "A lawyer friend of mine named Carl Rossetti has a high-level, corporate connection in Russia. The word on the streets-or in the boardrooms-is that Bishop is in financial trouble," I told him. "Bad stocks, lots of debt. He's got a bunch of art and real estate up for sale."
"You never know whether people are what they seem to be," he said.
"No argument there." I paused. "Rossetti thought we should check whether Brooke and Tess had life insurance."
"Will do. I already sent that detective by to speak with Julia at MGH," Anderson said. "Terry McCarthy. I'll get a report on the interview soon. And I had someone on the force down in Duxbury check in with Kristen Collier, the baby nurse Julia fired."
"Come up with anything?"
"Nothing earth-shattering. She told me she was enraged with Julia when she was let go. Now she feels bad about the whole thing, like she was partly to blame. I guess Claire Buckley had given her a whole song and dance about how Julia's depression could get worse and worse, how she might not be able to think clearly, might end up not being able to care for the twins at all."
"Nice borderline move there," I said. "Splitting off the baby nurse from the mother. Claire keeps control of the household that way."
"And this Collier kind of lost sight of who she was really working for," Anderson said. "She started double-checking Julia's plans for the twins with Claire-even things that sound pretty routine, like which baby formula to order up, when to schedule doctors' appointments."
"Those things may seem routine to us, but not to a woman who's expecting," I said.
"Tell me about it," Anderson said. "Tina's rereading every baby and parenting book she can lay her hands on. There are no small details."
"And when you have a woman like Julia suffering with postpartum depression, she's going to want to appear strong, not ill," I said. "She could be hypersensitive to people treating her like a basket case."
"Apparently so. She axed Collier with no notice."
"What does Kristen Collier look like, anyhow?" I asked.
"Young and pretty, just like Claire," he said. "And if you're headed where I think you are, I did get the feeling that her relationship with Win didn't help things any."
"Tell me more."
"I guess working as a baby nurse was her way of biding time. She's got her R.N., but she's back in school for an MBA. During the week or so she lived with the Bishops, she took the opportunity to ask Darwin for his thoughts on her career, the economy, what-have-you. They spent some time together."
"Julia might not have liked that," I said. "Claire would have hated it."
"Claire has called her from time to time over the past few months, saying she was checking in, wanted to make sure she'd landed well. But Collier had the feeling she was checking her out, making sure she hadn't had any more contact with the man of the house."
"Had she?" I asked.
"She says no."
"And is she carrying a grudge?"
"I don't think so," he said. "Not the kind that leads to murder, anyway. She seemed pretty straight up."
"At least someone does," I said.
"Will I see you tomorrow on the island?" Anderson asked.
"Definitely. We'll talk then."
He hung up.
I walked around my loft, putting things in order. I stopped in front of the Bradford Johnson canvas that Justine Franza had taken a liking to-the one with a rope tied between two ships' masts, as a storm threatens not only the distressed vessel but the rescuing craft as well. The painting had always spoken to me, but I wasn't sure any longer that the only reason was the bravery of men putting their lives on the line to help others. This time I read another message in it-something about being bound to trouble, treating it almost as ballast, as if I would feel unstable on calm waters. Did that mean I was forever destined to have pained and broken people as my constituency? Or would I gravitate toward safety once I had healed more of the broken parts inside me?
I looked up toward the liquor cabinet, then forced myself to look away. I turned on the television, hoping for distraction, but caught the last thirty seconds of a report by David Robichaud on WBZ that took viewers live to the manhunt for Billy. Huge spotlights swept over dunes as state troopers with dogs combed the dense foliage of the Nantucket moors. State Police Captain Brian O'Donnell, the man North Anderson had told me was pressing to run the entire investigation, promised: "Wherever he is, we'll find him. I've assured Mr. Bishop, the mayor's office, and the Governor that an arrest will be made in this case-and soon."
I noted the order in which O'Donnell had ticked off his allegiances. Bishop first.
I was about to surf for something mindless when the buzzer sounded, signaling someone at my front door. I walked to the intercom. "Yes?" I said.
"Frank, it's Julia. I'm sorry I didn't call first. I…"
I hit the speak button. "No reason to be sorry," I said. "Please come up." I hit the buzzer to let her in. Then I stood there, feeling anxious and excited and, strangely, exposed. Having someone you care for visit the place you live is like stripping naked. My place was a loft in gritty Chelsea, after all, not an estate in Nantucket or a two-story penthouse in Manhattan. I was a lot more comfortable assessing the lives of others than laying mine bare. I listened to Julia's footsteps as she took the nights of stairs. When she knocked on my door, I opened it slowly, as if I could better control things if I could make them unfold gradually.