Cut And Run. Carla Neggers

had been a prominent Hollywood agent; she had recently retired to Palm Beach. A quote from Ryder’s office said she had become a prominent supporter of the senator’s and he was deeply grieved by her death.

      “This guy Weasel—he a friend of Ryder’s, too? Is that why you were at Lincoln Center, because Ryder was there? They say Stein’s death was accidental. You have any other ideas?”

      Stark let Feldie rant. The world’s largest uncut diamond, Ryder’s troubles, Weasel’s dumb urge to help him. Now this.

      “Look, Stark, goddamnit, I don’t feel sorry for you. You could quit this job and still make more money on royalties and interest than I do putting in a sixty-hour week. I could fire you, you’d make out fine, which is probably the biggest reason I don’t.” She pushed her glasses up on top of her head. “People used to say you gave a damn.”

      No one talked to him like that except Alice Feldon. No one else dared. Matthew liked it that he didn’t scare her. “Maybe I never did.”

      “I don’t believe that.” Her voice had softened, and she let out a heavy sigh. “Was this Otis Raymond character in Vietnam with you and Ryder?”

      “Weaze is a burned-out Vietnam vet. Country’s bored with them, Feldie. About all I get from him is bullshit. If there’s a story in this, you’ll get it. I promise.”

      “All right, Stark. You’re a journalist. Follow up.”

      Muttering that she ought to give up on the lazy shit, Alice stalked back to her desk. Matthew drank some more coffee and read the piece on Rachel Stein’s death. She could easily have slipped. He remembered how tiny she was, how wrinkled and old-looking, even if the article said she was only sixty-five. She wasn’t used to snow and ice. So maybe she slipped and maybe she didn’t—did it make any difference? He went back to the beginning and reread the piece.

      And there it was. Rachel Stein had emigrated from Amsterdam in 1945, having spent the last months of the war in a Nazi concentration camp. She was a Dutch Jew.

      A Dutch Jew.

      And the man Ryder was supposed to have met, Hendrik de Geer, was also Dutch.

      Stark looked up at the LZ poster, not seeing it. Something else was stirring around in his head, but he couldn’t pin it down. He pulled out the program he’d saved from the concert, just in case Feldie wanted proof he’d attended, just in case he felt like cutting out the picture of Juliana Fall and sticking it on his partition.