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Eva's eyes met Conor's. "Yes?"
"Have you any idea what the note means?"
Her gaze was clear and steady. "No."
Conor nodded again. "Santayana," he said.
Both Winthrops looked at him as if he'd just announced that he'd had a vision.
"The quote's from Santayana. The Spanish philosopher."
"Oh. Of course."
Hoyt Winthrop smiled. He had a face like an open book, easy to read and to understand. He was puzzled, and obviously so. Eva Winthrop's face bore the same expression, but Conor thought there was something else in the way she looked at him.
What was it? Animosity? Probably, and he couldn't much blame her. Her husband had endured the rigors of a government investigation and now a man from some nameless agency was sitting in her library, holding in his hands the power to start the process all over again. When you came down to it, why shouldn't she dislike him?
Conor smiled, trying to put the Winthrops at ease. He folded the note and tucked it into its envelope.
"You don't mind if I keep it, do you?" he said, as if they really had a choice in the matter.
"Certainly not," Hoyt Winthrop said.
"If you feel you must," Eva Winthrop said. Her tone was sharp, and both men looked at her. She cleared her throat. "I just think my husband's worrying about nothing. This is New York, after all. People make threats every day."
"Is that what you think this is, Mrs. Winthrop? A threat?"
Eva's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. "It's what my husband thinks. That's why he called Mr. Thurston."
"But you don't agree."
"Central Park is just across the street. I walk through it often. There are homeless people there. Have you ever seen them?"
"Eva, my dear," Hoyt said, "Mr. O'Neil's just trying to help."
"I'm not sure I get your point, Mrs. Winthrop."
Eva rose to her feet and the men did, too.
"If you walk past people like that often enough, you're bound to hear them muttering things. Threatening things, one might say. But I never take any of it personally. New York is full of deranged souls, Mr. O'Neil. Do you see what I mean?"
Conor smiled. She had a point, a valid one. He told her so, and she smiled back at him.
"I'm glad we agree." Eva linked her arm through her husband's and looked past him, at an antique clock on the fireplace mantel. "My goodness, I had no idea it was getting so late. May I pour you more coffee?"
It was a very polite, very proper dismissal but a dismissal, nonetheless. Conor bit back the desire to tell Eva Winthrop that he was as eager to leave as she was to get rid of him. A glance at the same clock confirmed his worst suspicions, that Mary Alice had by now been sitting outside in a cab, waiting for him for at least twenty minutes.
"Thank you," he said, "but I have an appointment."
Eva offered her hand and he shook it. Hoyt led him from the library and into the foyer, chatting casually about this and that. Conor listened, but with only half an ear. He'd been this route before, engaging in the polite conversation that went with people trying to pretend that he might not somehow muck up their lives by uncovering secrets they'd thought were buried deep enough never to be found. He'd only spent half an hour with Hoyt Winthrop but the man seemed likeable enough. Conor wanted to tell him not to worry, that the odds were a hundred to one this note was going to end up in the shredder Monday morning.
But life, and his training, had taught him not to trust the odds. And anyway, his mind was on other things.
The portrait, for one. There it was again. There she was again, the girl with the smile that held a million questions and eyes that seemed to look into a man's soul.
"Mr. O'Neil?"
Conor turned around. Hoyt Winthrop was holding out his coat. Conor flushed, took the coat and shrugged it on.
