Until You

* * *

The lab was the first logical stop.

A woman in a white coat looked at the note, sniffed it, looked at it again before putting it under a microscope. She told Conor that the paper was a fine quality linen, a European brand, according to the watermark, but she added that you could buy the stuff in at least a couple of dozen stores on the East Coast and probably almost as many on the West.

The ink was standard, black and waterproof, that could be found virtually anywhere between here and Beijing, unusual only in that it hadn't come from a ball point pen. As for fingerprints... Conor hadn't figured on getting any help there and he didn't. There were his own prints, and Thurston's, though both men had be

en careful to handle both the envelope and the note inside by its edges. And there were Hoyt Winthrop's and others he'd bet were Eva's. The handwriting was right-handed.

"Could be a man's," the tech said in a bored voice, "or a woman's. Could be European or American. Could be by somebody who's anyplace from thirty to, say, sixty."

"That certainly narrows things down," Conor said pleasantly, and he pocketed the note and made his way to the third floor library. He found the volume of Santayana easily enough, found the specific line used in the note, too. Unfortunately, reading it in context made no more sense than reading it out of context.

In midafternoon, he telephoned the Winthrop mansion. To his surprise, Eva answered the phone herself. Conor asked if he could see her for half an hour or so. He had expected her to ask him the reason but she didn't.

"When?"

He glanced at his watch. "How about this evening? I can catch a flight at six and be in Manhattan by eight."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. My husband and I are having dinner with the mayor tonight."

Conor smiled. He suspected he was supposed to be impressed.

"Tomorrow morning, then. You name the time."

"Tomorrow's no good either," Eva said. "I have business meetings all day. Actually, this isn't a very good week, Mr. O'Neil. My schedule is quite full."

"What time is your dinner appointment, Mrs. Winthrop?"

"I'm meeting my husband downtown at quarter of eight. We're due at Gracie Mansion a few minutes later. So you see, unfortunately, I just won't be able to—"

"I'll see you at six, then."

"Six? But I thought you were in Washington."

Conor looked at his watch again. "Six," he said, and hung up the phone. He had to hurry if he wanted to make the airport in time.

* * *

The same butler let him in.

"Mrs. Winthrop is expecting you," he said, in a tone that made it clear he didn't approve.

Conor grinned. "Ah, the things one must tolerate in this life, hmm, Charles?" He took off his Burberry, dropped it into the same chair as yesterday, deliberately avoided even a glance at the painting and followed the man's stiff back to the library.

Eva Winthrop was seated before the fireplace. She was wearing an off-white dress dotted with tiny gold sequins that reflected the flames from the hearth. Her dark hair was drawn back from her face in the kind of severe style only a woman with bones like hers could hope to pull off.

She rose when Conor entered the room and held out her hand.

"Mr. O'Neil," she said politely, "how nice to see you again." She shot a quick but meaningful glance at the clock. He knew she'd done it to remind him that her time was limited. "May I offer you some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I had coffee on the plane." He smiled. "Actually, I think it was more like a straight cup of caffeine."

Eva smiled back at him, though the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "That will be all then, Charles." She waited until the butler had shut the door and then she looked at Conor. "Well, Mr. O'Neil, what can I do for you?"

Did she want to get straight to the point? Or did she hope to get rid of him quickly? Either way, for all her sophisticated aplomb, he could see the tension in her hazel eyes and suddenly he thought of the green eyes of her daughter, of the haunted look in them.

Conor frowned and cleared his throat.