"Matthew, darling, how about your doing me a favor?"
"Name it."
"Simple. Don't ever call me here again. And while you're at it, tell that asshole friend of yours, Bill Henderson, I think he's the biggest—"
"Look, I'm genuinely contrite about the scene he caused at your place. If—"
"Good." Click, then the hum of a New York Tel dial tone.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was seeing things. In any case, that aborted Monday's attempted guerrilla war against Matsuo Noda. Now to man my barricades.
Which moment coincided with the sound of Emma Epstein's key in the front-door lock. The time, obviously, was exactly one-thirty P.M. Exactly. I waited till she'd settled in before taking the fatal step.
"Emma, how about bringing me that file in your left-hand desk drawer. The one marked 'Trust Account.'"
"The blue one?"
"Right. Amy's. You know it. You updated the thing about a month ago when I switched all her money out of stocks and into money-market funds." That move had been my one small attempt to ride Noda's horse in the direction I suspected it was headed.