Montaro hoped that she had not tried to make any contact with Nick Corcell, but he knew better than to ask.
During the late nights and the early mornings, Montaro and Cecilia made love with uncharacteristic frequency and fervor, and Cecilia noted that her husband seemed calmer than he had in months, more so even than he had seemed in Carmel, and certainly more than before the whole fiasco with Fitzer and the Utah mining disaster.
“Then everything must be all right and there’s nothing to worry about,” Cecilia said hopefully late Saturday night as she rested in the arms of her husband.
“There never was,” Montaro said, knowing full well that the one thing his wife always sought was reassurance. He was happy to provide her with it, even though he didn’t seek it for himself. He simply knew that neither Gabler nor any of the others would attempt to contact him until their Chappaqua weekend was over, and that even Richard Davis would not make any move until that time. For the weekend, he could wait, be patient, and enjoy his life, knowing that events would unfold at their proper pace in the due course of time.
But when the weekend was over, everything changed as he had understood it would. The moment he arrived back at his office at Fitzer, his email inbox was flooded with messages, and before he even sat down at his desk, the phone began ringing. Montaro assumed that the person calling would be Gabler to ask about his coin or Julius Hargrove demanding a response to the proposal and asking if Montaro would join them, but he was surprised to learn that Kritzman Fritzbrauner was on the phone.
“Montaro, the mountain has finally come to Muhammad,” Fritzbrauner said in his usual lofty tone. “What do you say to that?”
“I am nearly speechless, Mr. Mountain, and welcome is what say I,” responded Caine, who felt a good deal more fondness for Fritzbrauner than for any of the others plotting against him. Though every bit a competitor, Fritzbrauner was an exceedingly cultured and well-mannered one. “I hope you’re here for a while. I owe you a dinner, as I recall,” said Montaro.
“I am on my way to Argentina for a few days, with my daughter, to visit her mother. But our plan has called for us to pass through New York, so I think that a dinner might be in order on our return. All’s well with you?”
“Depends on the day, Kritzman; but so far so good.”
“Glad to hear it. I am looking forward to picking up our last conversation, which was so suddenly interrupted.”
“So ‘rudely’ interrupted would be more to the point,” Caine said by way of an apology. “I hope that you have forgiven me for hanging up on you. I humbly ask that you chalk it up to a holdover from my socially impoverished youth. Now, about that dinner.”
Caine made tentative plans to meet with Fritzbrauner but knew that he would have to postpone them the moment after Lawrence Aikens dropped by the Fitzer offices out of breath and unable to conceal his enthusiasm. By the look on his face, Caine understood that his chief investigator had important news to relate.
“You got something?” Caine asked.
“Think so.” Aikens laid an unsealed envelope on Caine’s desk before taking a seat across from him.
“What’s in it?” Caine asked, gingerly fingering the envelope.
“A letter.”
The letter was addressed to Frederick Carson, Whitney’s uncle, but the return address was what caught Montaro’s eye. It was a postal box in Alcala de Henarés, Spain. The name above the box number was Whitney C. Walker.
Montaro paused before taking the letter out of the envelope.
“Tampering with the mail is a felony,” Caine told Aikens, who blanched, then smiled slightly.
“You’re gonna turn Curly in?” asked Aikens. “I thought you told me I should be nicer to him.”
Caine smiled slightly, then opened the envelope and took out a letter that Whitney had written to her uncle Fred. The letter, neatly handwritten in black ink, chastised her uncle for failing to respond to her previous letters. Whitney inquired after the health of various friends and family members, and she detailed the weariness she was feeling now that she was in the third trimester of her pregnancy. The letter contained little information of interest to Montaro until the last line: “And please, once again, don’t tell anyone where we are. The work we’re doing here is supposed to be top secret. Love to all, Whitney.”
Caine looked up at Aikens.
“Where