"Of course," Conor said, waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop.
"And while you're there," Thurston said smoothly, "ask him to give you the note."
"What note?"
"The one he got yesterday."
"Dammit, Harry—"
"Actually, it was addressed to his wife. Eva Beckman Winthrop. She owns that cosmetics firm, what's the name? Papillon, I think."
Conor closed his eyes. Harry Thurston had come into government the old-fashioned way, because of his name, his connections, and an idealized commitment to serving his fellow man, but he'd stayed there because he was clever and competent. He never forgot details, never did anything without having planned it carefully—and never managed to scam anyone without making it obvious that he was doing just that.
"Harry." Conor's voice was sharp. "Maybe I need to spell this out for you. I am not going to get involved in any more political games."
"So you've told me."
"I hate that crap and you know it."
"You're good at it, though."
Conor laughed. "Right. That's why that congressman wanted my ass served on a silver platter a couple of months ago."
"That's just the point. You don't give a damn, Conor. You're not interested in becoming the D.C. Poster Boy of the Month."
"That doesn't mean I'm interested in getting dragged into your pal Winthrop's situation, either."
"There isn't any situation. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Go see Hoyt, congratulate him for me, and eyeball this note his wife received."
"And that's it?"
"That's it. Cross my heart and hope to die."
"What heart?" Conor leaned back against the wall. "I don't suppose you know what this note says?"
"I've no idea. Hoyt left a message with my secretary, then on my cell—but we never managed to connect."
"So, what do I do with the note after I see it?"
"Make nice-nice to Hoyt and his wife, tell them the note is nothing—which I'm certain it is—and bring it to the office with you on Monday."
"And you'll either put it in the round file or hand it over to the FBI."
"Certainly."
Conor sighed. "I can almost see your nose growing, Harry."
He could still hear his boss laughing as he jammed his finger against the off button and put an end to their conversation.
* * *
A couple of hours later, Conor was standing at the iron-banded door to a grey stone mansion on Fifth Avenue.
It was a cold, sunless morning with the promise of rain in the air. He'd already identified himself to a blurred face hidden behind an eye-level grill. Now, as he waite
d to be admitted to the Winthrop inner sanctum, he warmed himself by thinking about Mary Alice, who'd promised to take a taxi uptown and meet him on the corner in an hour.
"We can go downtown to Balthazar for brunch," she'd said.