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  “Dennis Stratton, you’re under arrest for the murders of Tess McAuliffe and Liz Stratton.”

  Stratton stood there, lips quivering at Sollie, totally aghast.

  Then everything started to come apart. Ponytail took the gun off my ribs and, grabbing me as cover, thrust it toward the Palm Beach cop. Champ dove out of the crowd and barreled into him, sending the punk reeling across the room. They wrestled for a second, Geoff rolling him onto his back.

  “Hate to do this to you, mate, but you owe me a chrome side grille for my Ducati.” Champ head-butted Ponytail in the forehead. With a loud crack, the thug’s head went back.

  That was when his gun went off.

  At first there were screams, people pushing frantically toward the entrance. “Someone’s shooting!”

  I looked at Stratton, Lawson, Sollie. . . . As a last resort, my eyes drifted to Champ. He hung there, straddled over Ponytail. A disbelieving smile slowly crept onto his lips. At first I thought he was saying, See, I told you I had your back, mate. But then I could see it was more like shock. Blood began to seep through his white shirt.

  “Geoff!” I yelled. He had started to reel. I lunged and caught him, bringing him gently down to the floor.

  “Shit, Neddie,” he said, looking at me, “bastard owes me a whole new bike for this one.”

  Another crack rang out, and then mayhem. Stratton’s other bodyguard was shooting. I saw Lawson go down. Everyone else hit the floor.

  A slug ripped into the bodyguard’s chest and he fell back through a window, dragging embroidered curtains off giant rods and onto the floor. Then I caught sight of Stratton, free of Lawson’s grasp. He was backing away, slinking toward the kitchen door.

  I was shouting into the mike for Ellie. “Champ’s down. He’s hit!” But she wasn’t answering. I had changed the plan on everyone. Now what?

  “Jesus, mate, go,” Champ said. He wet his lips. “For God’s sake, I’ve got everything under control down here.”

  “You hold on.” I squeezed his hand. “Cops’ll be here soon. Pretend you’re waiting for a goddamn beer.”

  “Yeah, I could use one of those about now.”

  I reached for Ponytail’s gun. Then I headed after the man who had ordered my brother killed.

  Chapter 106

  THE SHOOTING WAS OVER when Ellie and the two other FBI agents got down to the ballroom. Shell-shocked people in tuxes and gowns were milling about outside. Seeing the FBI jackets, everyone pointed inside. “There’s been a shooting. Someone’s been hit.”

  Ellie ran into the ballroom, gun drawn. Hotel security personnel were already on the scene. The room was mostly cleared of people. Chairs and tables were overturned, flowers on the floor.

  This was bad.

  She saw Lawson propped against a wall, a red stain on his shoulder. Carl Breen was kneeling next to him, shouting into a radio. Three other bodies were down. Two looked like Stratton’s men. One was wrapped in a curtain, and looked dead. The other was Ponytail, the pig who had chased Ned. He was out cold and wasn’t going anywhere.

  The third Ellie recognized by his orange hair.

  Champ!

  “My God,” Ellie said, and rushed over. Geoff was lying on his back, with a knee raised. His left side was matted with blood; his face was white, his eyes a little glassy.

  “Oh, Jesus, Champ . . .” Ellie knelt down.

  A security man was barking into a radio, calling for EMS. Ellie leaned over and looked Geoff in the eye. “Hang on. You’re gonna be all right.” She put her hand on the side of his face. It was sweaty and cold. She felt her eyes glisten with tears.

  “I know, there’s gonna be hell to pay,” Geoff said, managing a smile, “me impersonating a waiter and all.”

  Ellie smiled back. She gently squeezed his hand. Then she looked around the ballroom.

  “He went after him, Ellie,” Geoff whispered. He shifted his eyes in the direction of the kitchen. “Ned took Ponytail’s gun.”

  “Oh, shit,” Ellie said.

  “He had to, Ellie.” The Kiwi wet his lips.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Ellie said. She checked her weapon, then squeezed Champ’s hand one more time. “I’ve seen Ned with a gun.”

  Chapter 107

  I BOLTED THROUGH the ballroom’s kitchen doors. The frightened kitchen staff, hearing gunshots outside, were just about hugging the walls, staring at me, unsure who was chasing whom.

  I looked at a black guy in a chef’s hat. “A man went through here in a tuxedo. Which way did he go?”

  “There’s a door in back,” the chef finally said, pointing. “It leads into the lobby. And upstairs. The main hotel.”

  Room 601, I remembered.

  I found the stairs and started up. It was worth a chance. Two teenagers appeared, coming down.

  “You see a man in a tuxedo, running?” I asked.

  They both pointed up the stairs. “Guy has a fricking gun!”

  Six flights up, I pushed open a heavy door and came out in a red plush-carpeted hallway. I listened for Stratton’s footsteps. Nothing. Room 601 was to the left, toward the elevators. I headed in that direction.

  I turned the corner and saw Stratton myself. He was down at the end of the hall, struggling to jam a plastic key into a door. I didn’t know what was inside. Maybe more help.

  “Stratton!” I yelled, pointing the gun at him. He turned and faced me.

  One thing almost made me smile, his cool, always-in-control demeanor twisted into a frantic glare. Stratton’s arm jerked upward and he fired his gun. Flashes careened off the wall near my head. I pointed my gun but didn’t fire. As much as I hated him, I didn’t want to kill him.

  But Stratton saw my gun—and he ran down another corridor.

  I went after him.

  Like a cornered prey, Stratton started trying doors around the elevator landing. They were locked. There was a balcony there, but it led nowhere but outside.

  Then a door finally opened—and he disappeared.

  Chapter 108

  THE STRANGEST THOUGHT flashed through my mind as, gun in hand, I made my way up a darkened concrete staircase, following Dennis Stratton.

  Years ago. Back in Brockton. I was wrestling with Dave.

  I think I was fifteen; he must’ve been ten. He and one of his goofy buddies had been making idiotic chimp noises while I was trying to make out with this girl, Roxanne Petrocelli, in Buckley Park, just down from our house. I chased him down by the jungle gyms, and had him pretty good, maybe the last time I could ever take Dave. I had his arms and neck pinned back in a kind of full nelson. I kept saying, “Uncle? Uncle?” hoping he’d give up. But the tough guy wouldn’t budge. I kept pushing harder, watching him grow redder in the face. I thought if I pushed any more, I would kill him. Finally Dave cried out, “Okay, Uncle,” and I let him go.

  For a second he just sat there, breathing heavily, the color coming back to his cheeks; then he charged at me with all his might and knocked me on my back. As he rolled on top of me, Dave was smirking. “Uncle Al thinks you’re a dumb sonuvabitch.”

  I don’t know why that popped into my head as I climbed after Stratton. But it did. One of those weird connections in the brain when you feel in danger.

  The stairs rose right up into one of the Breakers’ enormous towers. The stairwell was dark, but outside, huge floods sent chasms of brilliant light shooting into the night. I didn’t see Stratton anywhere—but I knew he was up there.

  I kept hearing, like a distant drumming in my head, Uncle Al thinks you’re a dumb sonuvabitch.

  I pushed open a metal door and came out onto the concrete floor of the hotel roof. The scene was almost surreal. Palm Beach laid out all around. The lights of the Biltmore, the Flagler Bridge, apartment buildings over in West Palm. Huge floods, arranged like howitzers, channeled massive beams of blinding light at the towers and the hotel’s facade.

  I looked around for Stratton. Where the hell was he? Tarps and storage sheds and TV dishes, all in shadow
. I felt a chill shoot through me, as though I were exposed.

  Suddenly a gunshot rang out, a bullet ricocheting off the wall just over my head. It had missed me by inches.

  “So what is it, Mr. Kelly? Have you come for revenge? Is it sweet?”

  Another shot cracked into the tower wall. I squinted into the beams of light. I couldn’t find him anywhere.

  “You should’ve done what you promised. We’d both be in a better spot. But it’s that thing about your brother, isn’t it? That’s what you Kellys seem to have in spades. Your stupid pride.”

  I crouched low and tried to find him. Another shot rang out, clipping the tarp above my head.

  “Getting closer to the end,” Stratton cackled, almost laughing. “Seems we did have one thing in common, though, right, Ned? Funny how our conversation just never got around to her.”

  My blood started to boil. Tess.

  “She was one sweet piece of ass. Now, those friends of yours and your brother—that was just business. But Tess . . . That one I regret. You, too, I bet. Ahhh, she was just another whore.”

  If he was trying to get me mad, it was working. I jumped out from behind the cover and fired two angry rounds in the direction of Stratton’s voice. A floodlight shattered.

  A shot rang back. I felt a searing pain lance my shoulder. My hand shot to the wound. The gun slid out of my hand.

  “Oh, jeez, Ned”—Stratton showed himself from behind a light trestle—“careful there, buddy.”

  I stared at the bastard. He had that supercilious grin I’d grown to detest, along with his shiny bald brow.

  And that was when I heard it. The faintest thwack-thwak-thwak beating in the distance. Coming closer, getting louder.

  Then off in the sky, a set of flashing lights was approaching, pretty fast. A chopper.

  “Wrong again, Mr. Kelly.” Stratton smiled. “Here comes my ride.”

  Chapter 109

  ELLIE CLIMBED the stairwell leading from the kitchen doors.

  She ran into a waiter hurrying down, babbling about this guy who was chasing some lunatic, headed up to the sixth floor. Ned. Ellie told him to grab the first cops or FBI agents he could find and send them after her. Exiting on six, she encountered a freaked-out concierge, shouting into a phone for security. She said that two men, with guns, were up on the roof!

  Ellie checked her weapon one more time and stepped into the stairwell tower.

  What the hell are you doing, Ned?

  Ellie brushed beads of sweat off her cheek. She heard voices on the roof. She clutched her Glock with both hands.

  Ellie quickly made her way to the top of the stairs. She looked out. Floodlights illuminated the tower ceiling. The lights of Palm Beach stretched out below. She leaned against the heavy door. Now what? She knew Stratton and Ned were outside. Stay calm, Ellie, she exhorted herself. It’s like training. You stay out of the line of fire. You size up the situation. You wait for backup.

  Except in training, you didn’t have some guy you probably loved screwing up the situation.

  She told herself she knew how to do this. She twisted the handle on the door and took a deep breath.

  Then she heard two sharp bangs echoing on the rooftop. That changed everything.

  Shots were being fired.

  Chapter 110

  I HAD SCREWED UP things like the complete amateur I was. The thought that Stratton would get away after murdering Mickey, Dave, his own wife, was killing me more than anything else.

  “Don’t be so glum, Ned,” Stratton said expansively. “We’re both going on a trip. Unfortunately, yours will be a little shorter.”

  He shot a glance at the chopper’s progress and motioned me along the roof with a wave of his gun. I didn’t want to give in to him, to give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid—but I knew my only chance was to go along. The FBI was in the building. Someone had to be up there soon. Just wait him out somehow.

  There was a narrow stone ledge in front of me, all that separated us from a six-story drop.

  “Come on, Mr. Kelly,” Stratton said with derision in his voice. “Time to take your big bow. This is how you’ll be remembered.”

  The wind kicked up and now I was starting to get really scared. Stratton’s helicopter was executing a narrowing circle, angling in toward the roof. The lights of Palm Beach stretched out before me.

  Stratton stood five feet behind me. His gun was pointed at my back. “How does it feel, Ned—knowing you’ll be dead while I’ll be sipping mai-tais in Costa Rica, reading over that fancy nonextradition treaty? Almost doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “Go to hell, Stratton.”

  I heard the chilling click of his gun.

  I clenched my fists. No way. No way you’re going over for him. If he wanted to kill me he’d have to pull the trigger. If he could.

  “Come on, Neddie-boy, be a man.” Stratton moved in closer. The deafening thwack-thwak of the chopper echoed against the hotel walls. I heard Stratton’s voice, mocking me; “If it makes you feel any better, Ned, with the kind of clout I have, I would’ve beaten it in court, anyway.”

  He took a step closer. Don’t make it easy on him, Ned.

  Now . . . !

  I clenched my fists and was about to spin, when I heard a voice shouted above the copter’s roar.

  Ellie’s voice.

  “Stratton!”

  Chapter 111

  WE BOTH TURNED. Ellie was about twenty feet away, partly hidden by the glare of lights on the roof. She had her arms extended in a firing stance.

  “You’re going to put the gun down, Stratton. Now. Then I want you to move away from Ned. Otherwise, I’ll put a bullet in your head. So help me God.”

  Stratton paused. He still had the gun pointed at me. A stream of sweat started to trickle down my temples.

  Man, I stood perfectly still. I knew he wanted to kill me. All he had to do was nudge me and I’d go over the edge.

  He glanced sideways at the ’copter. It was hovering about thirty feet above. A side door opened and someone threw down a rope ladder.

  “I don’t think so,” he shouted to Ellie. He grabbed me by the back of the collar and jammed the gun against my head. “I don’t think you want your boyfriend to take a bad spill. Anyway, Ellie, you’re an art investigator. I doubt you could put a bullet in The Last Supper if they stretched it out on the side of a barn.”

  “I said put the gun down, Stratton.”

  “I’m afraid I’m the one giving the orders,” Stratton said, shaking his head. “And what we’re going to do now is make our way over to that ladder. You’re going to let us, because it’s the only chance you have of keeping him alive. And while all this is happening, I want you to be very careful, Ellie, very careful, that no one in the ’copter up there takes a shot at you.”

  “Ellie, get back!” I shouted.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Ellie said. “The second you move a foot away from him—for any reason—I’m going to blow his head off. And, Stratton, just so you know—MFA and all—I could put a bullet through a disciple’s eye on The Last Supper from this distance.”

  For the first time I felt Stratton become nervous. He glanced around, evaluating how he was going to pull this off.

  “This way, Ned,” he barked in my ear, the gun pressed into my skull, “and don’t do anything foolish. Your best chance is to let me get to that rope.”

  We took two steps back, skirting along the ledge. The chopper was veering in closer, the roar deafening, dangling the ladder about ten feet above our heads.

  I was looking at Ellie, trying to read in her eyes what she wanted me to do. I could try to barrel into him. Give Ellie some firing room. But we were really close to the ledge.

  Stratton had his gaze fixed on the swaying ladder. It was only a few feet out of his grasp.

  “Ellie,” I said, looking at her, thinking, God, I hope you get what I’m doing now.

  I edged a step to the left, and Stratton had to move, too. Suddenly h
e was in the beam of one of the powerful floods. He grabbed for the ladder, now only inches away.

  “Ellie, now!”

  I pushed him, and Stratton spun, gun extended, blinded in the full glare of the floodlight. He screamed, “Aagh . . . !”

  Ellie fired! An orange spark in the night. A thud in Stratton’s chest. Ya! Stratton staggered back, the impact jerking him close to the ledge. He teetered for a second, looking down. Then somehow he caught himself and reached. The ladder seemed to find him, his fingers desperately wrapping around the lowest rung.

  The chopper lifted away.

  Stratton swayed there for a second. Then miraculously, he began to hold on. There was a smirking grin on his face, like, See, Ned, I told you, didn’t I? He raised his free arm. I was so mesmerized by what had happened, I almost didn’t see what was happening.

  He was leveling his gun at me. The bastard was going to kill me after all.

  A shot rang out. Stratton’s white tuxedo shirt exploded into bright red. His gun fell away. Then his fingers slipped, grasping frantically for rope, clutching only darkness.

  Stratton fell. His garbled, frantic scream faded into the night. I hate to admit it, but I liked that scream a lot.

  I ran to the ledge. Stratton had come to rest on his back in the parking circle at the hotel’s front entrance. A crowd of people in tuxedos and hotel uniforms rushed over to him.

  I looked back at Ellie. I couldn’t tell if she was all right. She was sort of frozen there, her arms extended. “Ellie, you okay?”

  She nodded blankly. “I never killed anyone before.”

  I wrapped my good arm around her and felt her gently sink into my chest. For a second we just stayed motionless on the Breakers’ roof. We didn’t say a word. We just swayed there, like, oh, I don’t know like what, like nothing most people ever get to experience, I guess.

  “You changed the deal on me, Ned. You son of a bitch.”

  “I know.” I held her close. “I’m sorry.”