Dominic's POV
The van smells of cold coffee and electrical tape.
It's parked on East Sixty-Second, forty yards from the Cormorant Club, a plain white Ford with Brightway Linen Service on the side. There are five of us in the back. Torres, with a headset. Marcus, with a laptop and the grim, set jaw of a man who's been told to wait. Two federal agents I don't know, in dark windbreakers.
And Serena.
She sits on the bench beside me with her knees drawn up and her arms round them, absolutely silent, staring at the small black phone on the console between us.
It's her burner.
At six minutes past noon, ten seconds after Tessa walked into the club, it began to ring.
Serena answered.
She didn't speak. She just held the phone against her ear, white-faced, and then she put it on speaker, and laid it down.
We've been listening ever since.
Tessa.
It's not a wire. It's not a clean signal. It's a phone in the pocket of a coat, muffled by wool, with the clink of cutlery and the low drone of a restaurant behind it. But the voices come through.
Edmund.
My dear girl. How very brave of you.
You said it was urgent.
So it is. Do sit. You look terrible. Waiter? A brandy for the lady.
Torres has her eyes shut. Her lips move silently, as though she's counting.
"She's recording," says Marcus, very low. "I'm getting it on the laptop. Clean enough."
"Good," says Torres.
"She called us herself."
"She what?"
"She had it in her pocket the whole time. Dialled Serena's number before she went in." A flicker of something like pride crosses Marcus's heavy face. "Clever girl."
I look at Serena.
She's crying.
She's crying without a sound, tears running down her face and dripping off her chin, and she isn't wiping them.
I put my arm round her.
She leans into me.
I've spoken to a number of people, says Vance's voice, civil and quiet and slightly strained. I've had a rather difficult week. Judge Whitlock, as you may have gathered, was unhelpful.
I heard.
And I confess I've begun to wonder whether our arrangement has... run its course.
A pause.
What arrangement?
Oh, Tessa. A long, patient sigh. There's no one else here. The recording isn't running. I've had the waiter sweep the table. You can be quite honest with me.
I don't understand.
Let me put it plainly. A chink of china. Augustus is going to do what he's done before. He is going to clean up. Mercer. That poor woman, Pettigrew. Drummond, in due course. I find, rather unpleasantly, that I'm next.
Torres opens her eyes.
"Come on," she breathes. "Come on, you old snake."
You think he'd hurt you? says Tessa.
I think he's stopped needing me. And I think, my dear, that if I'm going to hang, I should rather do it in company.
What do you mean?
I mean, says Vance, that I should like to make a statement.
The van is very quiet.
I realise I'm holding my breath. Serena's fingers have closed round my wrist so hard they hurt.
I'd need immunity, Vance goes on. Full, written, from your sister's friend. The woman with the glasses. And I'd need it today.
Why would I help you?
Because it's the only way you'll see Caleb out of prison. A soft, dry cough. You think I put that money in his account? Oh, no. That was Augustus's idea. I merely implemented it. I'm only the lawyer.
You're the one who gave him the champagne.
A silence.
It's long, and strange, and horribly quiet.
Yes, says Edmund Vance.
My blood stops.
Yes. I did. He says it flatly, with a sort of weary precision. Augustus asked me, on the morning of the fourteenth, to deliver a gift. A cooler, silver, with a card. I assumed it was champagne. I didn't ask.
You didn't ask.
I never ask. A small dry sound. That's rather the point of me.
And Mercer?
Mercer I found. At Augustus's request. He had a taste for explosives and a very modest taste for conscience. Forty thousand dollars up front. Sixty on completion. A pause. It was Augustus who said the grace.
Say it.
I beg your pardon?
Say who.
A very long pause.
I look at Torres.
She's gone absolutely rigid, with one hand pressed against her headphones.
Augustus Brandt, says Vance, quite quietly, ordered the death of Serena Hale. On the thirteenth of October, in his study in Camden. I was present. So was Rourke Mercer. So, I believe, was God, though Augustus does like to keep Him in the dark.
Marcus mutters a very short word.
Serena makes a sound like a cut thread.
"Got it," says Torres, to the van at large, in a flat shaking whisper. "Got it. That's a recorded confession to conspiracy to murder. Get the team ready. Get both teams. We go in when he finishes."
The agents move.
Doors open. Radios crackle. Somebody slides a vest across the floor toward Marcus.
I don't move.
I'm listening to the phone.
Thank you, says Tessa's voice, very thin and very clear. Thank you, Edmund.
Not at all. Chink. A small satisfied sigh. Now. If I might trouble you for the immunity...
Edmund.
It's a third voice.
I know it before it finishes the word.
It comes out of the phone, warm and rich and unhurried, from just beside the table, from somewhere very close to the pocket of the coat.
Edmund. You were always so dramatic.
The whole van freezes.
Augustus, says Vance.
It's the first time I've ever heard him afraid.
My dear fellow. The old man's voice is gentle, almost fond. I do so hate to interrupt. But I'd arranged to take lunch in the next room, as I always do on a Thursday, and I thought I heard raised voices.
Augustus, I can explain...
I'm sure you can.
It isn't what...
Hush. A soft, dry rustle. A chair moving. Miss Quinn. How good of you to come. And such a pretty coat.
Mr Brandt. Tessa's voice shakes. I...
No, no. Don't be frightened. I'd not hurt you for the world. A pause. It's Edmund I'm cross with. He's been talking.
"Go," says Torres.
The side door of the van crashes open.
The agents are out. Marcus, with the vest half on, is running. I'm on my feet, and I'm pulling Serena after me, and the street comes up in a blast of cold light, horns and exhaust and pigeons.
Forty yards.
I run.
I've never run so fast in my life. My ribs are on fire. My bandaged hand is a club. I go up the steps of the Cormorant Club three at a time, past a doorman who yells, through a revolving door, across a marble foyer full of astonished diners and potted palms.
Third room on the left, Torres is shouting into her radio. Private dining. Move, move, move!
The door's already open.
I get there first.
I stand in the doorway, gasping, with Serena at my shoulder and a dozen federal agents behind me.
It's a small, elegant, panelled room, with a round table laid for three. White linen. Silver. A bottle of Montrachet in a bucket. A brandy glass, half full.
And nobody.
Nobody at all.
A swinging door to the kitchens is still moving, back and forth, back and forth. A waiter is crouched under the sideboard with his hands over his head.
"Where did they go?" shouts Torres.
"The service elevator!" the waiter squeaks. "The garage! They had a, a, they had a man with a gun..."
Serena walks to the table.
She walks very slowly, as if she were underwater.
She picks up something that lies on the white cloth, between a knife and a napkin.
It's a phone.
A cheap black phone, with a cracked screen and a coat-pocket's worth of lint. Tessa's. It's still dialling, the little timer ticking at the top of the screen. 14:52. 14:53. 14:54.
Beside it lies a single white lily.
And propped against the brandy glass, in a firm, round, courteous hand, is a card.
Serena turns it over.
I watch the blood leave her face.
"What does it say?" I whisper.
She doesn't answer.
She holds it out.
The boathouse at Windward. Tomorrow at midnight. Alone, Mrs Hale, and bring the drive. Or I'm afraid your sister and my old friend Edmund will be keeping Walter company.
And underneath, smaller, as if an afterthought:
Do wear something warm. It's always so cold on the water.