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"—and now I'm off the clock."
"I told you, this is a favor. A simple one. I need you to deliver a message to an old friend in New York. It'll take you five minutes. Ten at the most."
"A message?"
"That's right."
"Whatever happened to the telephone? Or e-mail? Or Federal Express?"
Mary Ellen kicked off the blanket and sat up. "I'll be right back," she purred. Naked hips swinging gently, she headed for the bathroom.
"I'm only asking you to say a few words to him, Conor. We went to school together."
"And?"
"What a suspicious mind you have." Thurston sounded pained. "What's so unusual about asking somebody to say a few words to a friend?"
"I don't know, Harry. It's just a feeling I'm getting. What's this message, and who am I delivering it to?"
"Hoyt Winthrop. He has a seat on the stock exchange and—"
"I know this is going to shock the hell out of you, but I read the papers. I know who Hoyt Winthrop is."
"Then you know the President's considering him for an ambassadorship."
"So?"
"So, I just want you to tell him he's made the A list."
Conor's eyes narrowed. "As in, the FBI said he's okay?"
"Yes."
"What's the matter? Did the Fibbies get evicted from their New York office? Why don't they pass the message along themselves?"
Harry Thurston sighed. "Why must you always be so distrustful?"
"Because I'm tired of being the guy who's up to his ass in alligators while the boys in the white hats stand around pretending they don't know who the fuck drained the water out of the swamp."
"You have a way with words, Conor. Anybody ever tell you that?"
Conor heard the toilet flush. The bathroom door opened and he got to his feet, walked across the room and out into the hall.
"Listen," he said into the phone, "you want to give this the personal touch, why not call Winthrop yourself, tell him he's been vetted and all he's got to do now is stand by and wait?"
"I told you, he and I go way back together. A visit is much more personal than a phone call." Thurston paused. "And I know he was a little concerned about things. You know how it is."
Alarm bells were sounding in Conor's head. "No. I don't know," he said coldly. "What does he have to be concerned about?"
"His daughter. Well, his stepdaughter. Miranda Beckman." Thurston's voice lowered, and Conor could almost picture him bringing the telephone closer to his lantern-jawed face. "She's a model, lives in Paris. Has for years." He paused delicately. "She leads a pretty wild life, from what I hear."
"And?"
"And," Thurston said, "there's nothing for Hoyt to worry about. Well, I mean the girl's not the Virgin Queen, but she's not into heavy drugs or underage Martians of either sex. In today's world, that makes her Snow White."
"Is that what I'm supposed to tell Winthrop? That his stepdaughter's a candidate for Miss America?"
"Just tell Hoyt things are fine. And give him my best, of course."
