Gold Coast

“Turn to Page 2D Col. 1”

Maguire turned.

“Woman of Intrigue”

And a current shot of Karen in a pale bikini, hands on her hips, white sunhat and sunglasses, a grainy photo that had been blown up or shot from some distance.

Maguire looked out past the lawn to the seawall, where she might have been standing in the photo.

The hands on hips defiant rather than provocative. The soft hat brim straight across her eyes behind round sunglasses. Nice shot. The slim body somewhat slouched, but in control; yes, with a hint of defiance.

A phrase caught his eye. “The mystery lady of Isla Bahía,” and he thought, It’s a good thing she doesn’t live on Northeast Twenty-ninth Street.

It didn’t look as though the reporter, a woman, had learned much about her. There seemed to be more questions than facts. Maguire was still reading the piece when Karen came out.

She said, “Oh,” for a moment off guard.

“I didn’t know I was with a celebrity,” Maguire said. He held the newspaper section aside, looking up at her.

“You didn’t?” Karen said. She took the paper from him and folded it into a small square, hiding something thousands of people had already seen.

“That’s a nice shot of you in the swimsuit.” The same one he was looking at now, the robe hanging open, very thin waist, tight little tummy curving into the tan panties that crossed her loins in a straight line. Maguire moved in the canvas chair, reseating himself.

“It was taken here, wasn’t it?”

“From a boat. I didn’t know it was a news photographer.”

“They’re starting to move in on you.”

She looked at him, but didn’t say anything. Her expression almost the same as the one in the photo.

“The woman that wrote it,” Maguire said, “why didn’t you tell her what’s going on?”

“How could I do that?”

“Why not? Get it out in the open.”

“Don’t you think I’d look a little stupid? The dumb widow involved in some Sicilian oath.”

“Well, you’re not dumb and it is happening, isn’t it? What I’m thinking, you expose Roland and maybe he’ll go away.”

“And expose Karen DiCilia,” Karen said. “Would you like to read about yourself, involved in something like this, in a newspaper?”

“I don’t know,” Maguire said, “if I thought it would do the job.”

“I have to handle Roland,” Karen said, “if Ed Grossi doesn’t.” She folded the newspaper section again and shoved it into the pocket of her robe. “I gave Marta the evening off.”

“Good,” Maguire said.

“She didn’t want to go.” Karen was watching him now from behind her sunglasses. “I told her we wanted to be alone. It doesn’t matter now what she thinks, does it?”

“It never did,” Maguire said.

He located the telephone line coming in from the street, through the mangrove trees, to the house, and pointed to the piece of metal clamped to the line, an infinity transmitter. A second line ran from the terminal point at the house to a corner window and entered Marta’s room between the brick and the window casing.

In the room itself the line led to a voltage-activated recorder beneath Marta’s bed. Maguire explained it-part of an accumulation of knowledge picked up along the way to nowhere; though sometimes bits and pieces came in handy.

“The telephone rings, the voltage on the line automatically turns on the cassette, and the phone conversation is recorded on a cartridge tape. Marta gives the tape to her brother or Roland and they know who you talk to, where you’re going-I guess they learn all they need to know.”

Karen didn’t say anything. She stared at the recorder, her words in there, the sound of her voice contained within the flat cartridge, with its window and two round holes. Telling what?

“You want to give Roland a message?” Maguire flicked a switch on and off.

Still she didn’t say anything.

“Get rid of Marta,” Maguire said.

“Or keep her. Let them listen,” Karen said. “Which is better, if Roland finds out we know about it or if he doesn’t?”

“That went through my mind,” Maguire said. “I let it go.”

Karen looked up from the recorder. “It might be to our advantage.”

“We talk,” Maguire said. “I phoned-that’s how they knew we were meeting the other night.”

“But what do they learn, really? We could use some kind of code.”

She was serious, taking off her sunglasses now, her eyes quietly alive.

“The question is, what did Roland hear before,” Maguire said. “Something he might’ve learned that turned him on, you might say, to go independent.”

“What do you mean, turned him on?”

“Like money,” Maguire said. He hesitated, then took a chance. “Maybe he heard you tell somebody you keep money in the house.” She was staring at him now, and he looked down at the recorder again, fingering the different switches. “It’s just a thought. Or he heard you talking to your accountant, your banker, somebody like that. It’d be a way of finding out what you’re worth.”

“Maybe he’s not the only one who’s interested,” Karen said.

“No, your maid, her brother-”

“What do you think I’m worth?” Karen said.

“I don’t know, three million, thirty million,” Maguire said. “You get into those figures, I don’t see much difference. But how does he get his hands on it unless it’s sitting there. You’re not go

“He hasn’t asked for anything.”

“No, but he’s leading up to something. We’re pretty sure of that.”

“You haven’t asked for anything either,” Karen said.

“What am I, the help? You hiring me?”

“That’s not an answer,” Karen said.

“Why don’t I go home and get dressed,” Maguire said. “We’ll go out, have di

“I’ll tell you right now what I want,” Karen said.

Maguire picked up a pizza on the way home (Were they ever going to go out and have di

There were three rattling knocks on the front-door jalousie. Lesley came in still wearing her white shorts, no shoes, and a striped tanktop. She said, “I just got in, too; I was out all evening. Hey, can I have a piece?”

“Help yourself.”

“What kind is it?”

“Pepperoni, onions, cheese, a few other things.”

“Yuk, anchovies.”

Like they were worms. Lesley being sensitive, delicate. He wondered when she’d ask about the car, the silver-gray Mercedes 450 SEL parked in front. She took dainty bites, holding an open palm beneath the wedge, bending over the table to give him a shot of her breasts hanging free in the tanktop.

“You still have Sunday’s paper?”

“How should I know?”

“Aunt Leona keeps newspapers, doesn’t she? Gives them to some charity drive?”

“She sells them. She’s so goddamn money-hungry. Where you going?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Maguire went in through the manager’s apartment, past Leona asleep in her Barcalounger, with a TV movie on, to the utility room off the kitchen. There were several weeks of newspapers stacked against the wall. He began looking through the first pile and there it was, last Sunday’s edition of the Herald, finding it right away. Sometimes that happened. He pulled out the “Living Today” section, glancing at Karen and Frank DiCilia, then took the sports section, too, and slipped “Living Today” in behind the sports pages.

Lesley was sitting now, her chair turned away from the table, one foot on the seat, a tan expanse of i

“Why’re you so interested in the paper?”

“There’s a story on the Tigers I missed.”

“I think baseball’s boring. Nothing ever happens.”

Maguire was eating. He didn’t care what Lesley thought. He wondered, though, how she’d get around to the car.

She said, “Brad’s really pissed at you, you know it?”