the seat next to the driver. He glanced back at the plane to see the blur of images silhouetted against the light spilling out of the G-II’s interior. The passengers were about to board.
It was nearly eleven-thirty now. Takeoff was probably only five or six minutes away.
Caine’s thoughts leaped back to the limousine that was still parked in front of the terminal. If it’s waiting for Dr. Chasman, he thought, then the doctor is only seeing Beekman and Freich off. Do I approach him when he returns to the limo, and if so, what do I say? Was Chasman at Hargrove’s estate in Chappaqua? Was he in Chappaqua because he knew Beekman and Freich were coming to see me, or doesn’t he know that they came to see me? Was Chasman somehow involved in the disappearance of the original coin?
Caine heard the thundering whine of the jet engines; then the plane moved slowly forward, and the limousine pulled away into the darkness, heading back to the city. Caine’s attention settled on the baggage cart, which was returning to the terminal. Two figures got out of the cart and entered the building—the baggage handler and the dispatcher. So, Chasman’s leaving for Switzerland, Caine thought. I’ll be damned.
Larry stood ready with pen and notepad in hand, expecting to see the numbers on the G-II’s tail pass right by where he and Caine were standing. But the plane was too far away to make out the numbers, and now it was turning and moving farther away.
“Damn it,” Caine said.
Larry looked at Caine, confused. “I didn’t see a thing. I thought it was coming this way,” he said.
“Wind conditions,” said Caine. “They’re heading over to runway two. We’re screwed.”
“No, we’re not, buddy,” said Larry, and before Montaro could ask what his friend meant, Larry was running along the length of the fence, shouting something at some of the uniformed men who were standing near the terminal building.
Montaro let Larry go about his business while he watched the jet roll toward its takeoff position. This place was no stranger to Caine, who had taken off dozens of times from here in the Fitzer Corporation jet. He knew exactly where the taxiing jet was heading. He kept looking at its running lights flashing through the misty night before the jet swiveled around its front landing gear until its nose faced east.
When Larry returned ten minutes later, he was grinning. “You owe me two now, buddy,” he said. He flashed a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled the plane’s registration number.
“How’d you get it?” Montaro asked.
“Couple of the line guys,” said Larry. “They don’t get paid much more than minimum wage. Fifty bucks got ’em talking real quick.”
Montaro began to reach for his wallet, but Larry shook his head. “I’ll put it on your tab,” he said.
Once the men were back in Montaro’s car and headed for the Grand Central Parkway, Larry said that by the time they got back to the city, it would be past midnight—too late for him to catch the last train home.
“Got a spare bedroom at The Carlyle, buddy,” Montaro said, knowing full well that Larry could get home if that’s what he really wanted to do. “I can put you up there for the night. It’ll be like college all over again.”
Larry smiled, but then he shook his head.
“Take me to the Wyndham,” he said.
“You sure about that?”
Larry nodded.
When they pulled to a stop in front of the Wyndham Hotel on West 58th Street, Caine stabbed his hand at Larry, who slapped his palm against Caine’s. They held a firm handshake before Larry stepped out onto the curb, slammed the door, and leaned back through the open window smiling at Caine.
“This has been one hell of an evening, buddy. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Caine countered with genuine appreciation. “Sure you don’t want to try the extra bedroom?”
Larry shook his head and Montaro knew why—no doubt Larry would be prowling the bars of the nearby deluxe hotels looking for action. Whenever Larry spent a night alone in the city, the Larry of old, temporarily smothered into submission underneath a three-piece suit, came bursting out. As he looked at his friend, Montaro paused to wonder how his life would be different if he lived according to Larry’s code of ethics. His mind drifted quickly to the face and figure of Colette Beekman, but then, just as quickly, it drifted back to his wife, his daughter, his home, and his room at The