Yegor Tupulov tossed the paper aside. He was indifferent to the reasons behind his employer's request. Meet the subject. Get the information. Report back. Job done. His former days in the Russian mob as an enforcer made him the perfect choice for Creighton's need.

Yegor had left the mob, his enthusiasm for the job had waned and on a whim he chose to open a Coney Island food stand. When patrons were charged extra for any condiments on hot dogs or hamburgers the business failed miserably. His refusal to change ended his enterprise in the first year.

Yegor wasn't particularly moved by the failure, he accepted it for what it was, a dabble in capitalism that proved to him it wasn't his forte, so he returned to enforcement . . . freelance.

"His name is Ralph Garber," Dennis handed the man a slip of paper. "That's his address. I want the names of everyone he is doing business with then I want you to explain to him that he will no longer be doing that business. After that, track down his contacts and find out their game. We'll decide later what to do about them."

Dennis prayed Karl would stay out of it this time until there was something concrete to move on. His boys had already spoken to Betz, the attack on the business was just unnecessary overkill.

"I have time?"

"The sooner the faster. Just don't make it messy. We'll leave the muscle until we know more."

"Is good."

"Huh, what's good?"

"Plan."

"Oh . . . yeah. Okay I'll expect a report quickly."

"Da."

As the auction house was emptying for the day, David's phone rang and he was stunned and surprised to hear Crawford DeLysle asking to speak with him. David listened as Portia's father described a conversation he had with his daughter.

David confirmed all his suspicions and reservations about Roland's deal, leading Crawford to relate his own situation with his client at Cardinal Imports and his unpleasant interview with the police.

"As I'm sure you know, my daughter has a penchant for involving herself in circumstances that would be better left to the proper authorities. My concern is that her involvement with you has generated another of her ill-conceived campaigns."

David felt chagrined at the implied reprimand and replied in kind, that it was Crawford's daughter who brought it up with suspicions she had heard from her bother.

"She mentioned that . . . you're right. I apologize if you think I am blaming you. I- she- since my wife passed-"

"Please, sir, it's not necessary. Portia is a force all her own and frankly, I think she is fortunate to have a father who is as understanding as you."

Crawford gave a helpless chuckle. "If only. As it is, I am pleased she has you as a friend, David. She has spoken highly of you in the past. perhaps some time we could meet . . ."

"That would be a pleasure, sir."

The call ended politely and David sat back, staring thoughtfully out the window. Portia moving the chess pieces again.

"Your father and I had a talk about the money business today." David put his feet up on the hassock in front of his chair and considered Portia's attention to her nails. She had arrived to see what prompted his cancellation of their evening together, and particularly why he didn't ask about her information again.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Mmm . . . do you like this colour? I think it's too dark."

"Dee, the colour is fine and you know it. I asked you a question."

"What did he say?"

"Seems a little birdie tattled in his ear about money laundering at Trevor Auction. Maybe I should ask why, when Ellie came by on her way home to thank me again for lunch, she mentioned she thought she saw you and another woman at the gallery the other day."

The tissue paused over her hand and their eyes met and locked.

"Probably because I was there with Flo."

"I knew it! How come?"

"We like art, David." She held her fingers up and blew softly across the nails.

He dropped his feet and sat up. "Don't be coy, Dee. What were you doing there?"

"I told you–"

"Okay never mind, you don't want to be truthful."

"Oh, David. We met with a Mr. Garber and said we had money and we had heard he was a man to see."

"You what?" He fell back in the chair, holding his head.

"He was interested, David and we left pretending he wasn't suitable for our needs."

"Dee I told you this was not a game to play."

"I don't know what you mean." She looked through her purse for a tissue.

"Portia for heaven's sake. Have you any idea the danger you could put yourself in, not to mention Flo? You did see the news, right?"

"The shooting?"

"Yes the shooting."

"What about it?"

"Your father told me it scared him to know he was there the same night the shooting happened."

"Oh?" Her expression changed.

"Yes, oh, it's a sample of what these gangsters do, Portia. The reason your dad was being questioned for God's sake, it was his client!"

"I already had session with Rodney about that, but daddy doesn't do criminal law, so I doubt we need to worry about that."

"It's why his client's business was attacked, and it's the business end where your father represented him. You think the police didn't ask him questions, and that the mobsters that did it won't learn that as well?"

"Oh pooh, don't be such a worry wart. Garber doesn't even know who we are . . ."

"What? Why the pause?"

"Nothing."

"Portia!"

"We left Flo's number in case he wanted to do business."

"You left . . . oh my God . . ." David stood and paced about at a loss.

Portia loaded her cigarette holder and lit up, waving away the smoke and watching David impassively. The pacing stopped and he stared down at her frustratingly innocent face, his hands bobbing in the air, speechless.

"He never called so I don't see all the drama."

"You want to hope he doesn't because then what would you pretend?"

"I thought you were the one that wanted information on this business."

"Yes, and you were the one with the middle name of subtle if I recall. What you did wasn't subtle."

The telephone rang, interrupting their argument and she reached across to the table without permission, answering abruptly.

"Flo . . .? Flo, slow down I can't understand–" Portia sank lower on her seat, cigarette dangling, forgotten.

Ralph Garber leaned on the sink in the men's room, his reflection one of stunned terror. He rinsed his face and wiped at his jacket with a napkin from the pile on the sink. His contact's business had been shot up. A man killed and now the visit from some thug.

Being physically sick from fright was a first for Ralph. The man hadn't even touched him! He closed his eyes and prayed the young woman whose phone number he revealed wasn't home.

Yegor took all of two minutes to reduce Flo to a shaking flood of tears, all from a distance of five feet. It took twice as long to settle her down, get the information and have her make the phone call.

-"He wants you to tell him what- what we did."

"Put him on."

-"No, not on the phone. He wants to know where you are."

"You didn't tell him?"

-"No. I- he said he wanted you to know he was coming."

"Flo, did he hurt you?"

-"No . . . I'm- I'm fine."

"Tell him I'm at home and give him the address of David's place."

-"But won't–?"

"Just do it , Flo."

The line went dead.

David stood, hands on hips, waiting for her to hang up. "What is that? Give who my address and you are at home? What the hell, Portia!"

"Let me explain."