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The million dollar question, Conor thought grimly, and he still had no answer.
"I don't know but I'm sure as hell going to find out. Listen to me, Miranda. I want you to sit right where you are while I—"
"No!" She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Don't leave me here!"
There was terror in her eyes and in her voice. Hell, he couldn't leave her, not when she was so frightened, and anyway, that might be just what Moratelli wanted, to lure him off and leave Miranda unprotected.
He held out his hand and drew her to her feet.
"It's okay, baby," he said softly, "it's okay."
She shuddered and burrowed into his enfolding arms.
"Conor," she whispered, "please, let's go home."
* * *
He phoned Thurston on his cell phone from the taxi that took them back to her apartment.
"Moratelli's in town, Harry."
"How do you know that?"
"Miranda saw him, that's how." He could hear the barely controlled rage in his own voice, feel it in the tightness of his muscles. "I want to know when he arrived. I want everything you can dig up on this guy, and never mind telling me that he's just a small-time hood."
"I can't help it if that's what he is."
"Don't hand me that crap, dammit! Go deeper. I want to know everything he's ever done, starting in the sandbox. You understand me?"
"Are you all right, Conor? You don't sound well."
"Just get me the information, and fast."
"Conor? Where are you calling from?"
Conor looked at Miranda. Her face was still pale; she was huddled in the corner of the taxi, her eyes glued to his face.
"I'm in a taxi," he said coldly, "just turning onto Fifth Avenue. Miranda Beckman is with me."
"Are you insane?" Harry's voice turned sharp. "You're going to blow the whole thing, O'Neil. Have you forgotten who you are?"
"I'm only just starting to remember," Conor said, and flipped the phone shut.
"Who was that?" Miranda asked. "Somebody who works for you?"
Conor reached for her. Trembling, she went into his arms.
"A business acquaintance." He drew her closer still, until his face was buried in her hair. "But I don't think we're going to be working together, not for much longer."
* * *
Thurston rang at six.
"Call me back on a landline," he said, and hung up.
Conor flipped his phone shut. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, with Miranda's head in his lap. She was sleeping after he'd finally convinced her to let him pour her a double brandy. He'd been watching the news on TV, but with the sound turned off.
Gently, he eased her head onto a throw pillow. He pressed his lips to her forehead, drew the light afghan further over her shoulder, and made his way to the bedroom.
