"Specifically."

"He said my client's a fake."

"Do you think she is?"

"I'm trying to be compa.s.sionate," he said, "as well as a realist."

"Evasive answer, counselor," she chided.

"So far, I believe her." He thought for a moment.

"She has those doc.u.ments. They look strong. d.a.m.ned strong. If I went to England, say, and got more corroborating evidence for her . . .

Well, she'd be in an even stronger position."

"Before you take any trips there's more you ought to know."

"Go ahead " "With the help of some of our financial editors at the paper we've put together quite a bit on our favorite family.

Interlocking corporations. Phantom ownerships. Trusts. Holding companies and such."

"In chemicals?"

"Chemicals and real estate. But that's not the point. It's mostly an odd a.s.sortment of smaller companies owned by slightly larger companies, equally strange. A merry-go-round of ownership, and no one can find where it started to spin."

"In other words," he said, 'no one can find out where the money came from to start with. Sounds familiar."

"Right" she said.

"And none of the companies do anything except hold wealth that seems to acc.u.mulate ' She paused for a moment. Thomas tried to conjure up an image of Arthur Sandler, the enigma at the center of the case.

Sandler's finances were like the master himself, invisible but very much alive.

"What do you think it's all worth?" she asked.

"Zenger guessed twelve million. Tops."

"Try again."

"More?"

"We're figuring it conservatively and we've got it up to fifty million.

That's five zero. And it's still growing. The more you trace, the more you find. It simply doesn't end' "Jesus " he said with a low whistle and now, suddenly, an uneasy fearful feeling.

"You could finance a small country with money like that."

"You said it, I didn't There was a pause on both ends of the line.

When she spoke again there was uncharacteristic concern in her voice.

"Tom?"

"What?"

"You know you might consider dropping it. The whole thing's starting to look a lot kinkier than anyone realized."

"I should just drop it?" he scoffed.

"Maybe a different approach would be better. A newspaper expose which then tosses it at the feet of the justice Department. it's just a suggestion."

He could feel a headache begin.

"It's not quite that easy after someone has fried your office," he said.

He pondered it. She, too, was thoughtful on the other end.

"You have no idea whom you're dealing with," she said.

"None at all. If only you could take some sort of precaution . . ."

"Do you have any police contacts through the paper?"

"What sort of police contacts?"

"Someone on the force who could check fingerprints. On the sly."

She thought.

"I don't know anyone. Wait! I know someone who does "Who?"

Another reporter, she explained, a man named Augie Reid. He was an older journalist who now worked Albany for the paper but who over the years had developed friends within the New York State Police. It was worth a shot, she suggested, to try him.

"The girl gave me a photograph," Thomas said, 'of her father. If I give it to you first thing tomorrow morning will Reid see what he can do with it?"

"He'll do anything," she said, seeming confident.

"He loves me."

He changed the subject.

"What's happened about that mugging murder in front of my building?"

"What normally happens about muggings?" she answered.

"Nothing. Why?"

"I got a note from some detective today. They're talking to everyone in the building. They want to see me." He shrugged.

"The guy didn't even live in our building."

He could hear distant traffic in the background, and Mrs. Ryan's discordant piano was playing upstairs. Andrea continued to speak.