"She's fine. Breverman's been keeping tabs on her—when he can."
"What do you mean, when he can?"
Harry sighed. "I mean just that. The Beckman girl manages to disappear on him whenever it suits her fancy."
"She..." Conor laughed and sat down again. "Are you telling me that a babe who knows more about shadowing her eyelids than shadowing someone has figured out a way to lose Breverman?"
"That's what I said. She's completely uncooperative. He wants to talk to her, you know, ask some questions, she won't let him. He wants to go inside, check out her apartment, she won't permit it. It's as if she's playing a game where she gets points for being stupid."
"She isn't stupid," Conor said sharply.
"I didn't say she was stupid, I said she was being stupid. There's a difference."
Conor thought of how he'd let himself get carried away that last night he'd spent with Miranda. Tell me about being stupid, he thought, and he kicked back his chair, picked up his plate and carried it to the trash can.
"I still fail to see what any of this has to do with me," he said, scraping his meal into the garbage.
Thurston rose, too. "Did you have a relationship with her?"
Conor's fork clattered to the floor. He bent down and picked it up.
"If you mean, did she show as much contempt for me as she's showing for Breverman—"
"I mean just what I said." There was nothing friendly or casual in Thurston's voice or face. "Did you have a relationship with Miranda Beckman?"
Conor turned and faced him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You slept with her. Or you wanted to sleep with her. I don't know which, O'Neil, but sure as God grows little green apples, something happened between the two of you, in Paris."
Conor's smile seemed pasted to his face as he strode to the cabin door.
"Good-bye, Harry," he said, reaching for the denim jacket he'd left hanging on a wall peg. "Thanks for the fishing and the recipe."
"I'm right," Thurston said, his voice rising, "something did happen, something you can use to work your way into her life again and get you close enough to her to keep her alive."
"Shove it, Harry." Conor reached for the door. "You and I both know you're full of—"
"Breverman intercepted a package sent to her yesterday. It was a carton. A small one. Came sealed, delivered by messenger."
Conor stopped, his hand on the doorknob. Don't ask any questions, he told himself fiercely, for God's sake, don't!
"You want to know what was in that box, O'Neil?"
Conor turned slowly, his eyes meeting Thurston's.
"A pair of very dead cats," the older man said softly. "One was a Siamese, like the girl's. The other had coal-black fur and green eyes." His mouth twisted. "You'll forgive me if I leave the details until after I've digested my lunch."
Conor nodded. It was bad, but it wasn't over yet; he could see it in Thurston's eyes.
"And?"
"And, there was a note." Thurston reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. "Perhaps you should read it for yourself."
Conor stared at his boss's outstretched hand. Slowly, he reached for the note. His brain registered that it was different from the others. This wasn't handwritten. The words were made up of letters that had been clipped from newspapers, then pasted on a sheet of plain white paper so that they looked lopsided and seemed, at first, to make no sense... and then, all at once, they did.
Miranda, darling Miranda, the note said. Soon you'll agree that a dead pussy is the only kind that's worth fucking.
Conor heard a roaring in his ears. He forced himself to take a deep, deep breath. Then he read the note again.