Sunday, August 7^th

Trent awakened at seven o’clock. He was hesitant to open his eyes. He lay in self-imposed darkness for a few minutes.

Might as well get it over with, he thought.

He opened his eyes.

They were no longer dilated. His vision had returned to normal.

He lay in bed for minutes longer. There had been so many symptoms. This morning there seemed to be none.

No hallucinations. At least none that he knew about.

No voices speaking only to him.

Vision normal.

It was starting out to be a good day.

He made it better. He put his arms around Darcey, pulling her to him. She was only half awake but she returned his kiss when she felt his lips touching hers. They lay for long minutes in each other’s arms.

Later, she lay with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her.

“Can I assume there are none of those pesky symptoms this morning?”

“None. The world looks normal. Did I tell you any wild stories in the middle of the night?” he asked, referring to the earlier hallucinations.

“Not that I recall.”

They wandered into the kitchen, Darcey in her robe, Trent in the long sleeve tee shirt and black pajama pants he always slept in.

They were surprised to find Miles, still in the tight-fitting, pink tee shirt covering him halfway to his knees, flitting about the kitchen. He had found lox and cream cheese in the refrigerator. Capers and bagels and a red onion in the pantry. He had chopped the onions, and laid out a breakfast feast on the kitchen island.

“Girl, I thought you were going to kill that poor man from the noises I heard coming from your bedroom,” he teased, sounding more like his old self.

“Oh no, there’s been nothing the least bit unpleasant this morning,” Trent intervened. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“And you look like the Miles I used to know,” Darcey added.

“I feel more like myself,” he replied. “Scott died because he loved me. He was the only person in this world who ever loved me. I’ll be grieving his death for a long time. I have been feeling like something inside me died with him. But those men destroying our home last night brought whatever that was back to life.”

“That’s great news, Miles,” Darcey said, giving him a hug.

Trent poured coffee for both of them. Darcey joined him on a stool at the kitchen island.

“They killed Scott. I won’t let them kill his memory,” Miles continued. “Darcey, I want to make arrangements to get all the damaged furniture out and new furniture brought in. I want to clean up the mess and restore our home.”

“Let’s do it,” Darcey replied, enthusiastically. “I’ll get a cleanup crew over there to clear out the old stuff. And let’s go shopping.”

“Trent, I know I have things to take care of. I have to meet with the funeral home. Scott and I agreed we will both be cremated and our ashes mixed together,” Miles said with a whimsical smile. “And I have to meet with our lawyer about the will and such. That’s for tomorrow. For today, do you mind if we have a girls’ day out?” Miles asked.

“You two go for it. It’s time.”

He didn’t want to spoil the mood by reminding Darcey to take her gym bag. He trusted her to remember her commitment.

In the hills of Atherton Rossi slept until well past eight o’clock. He rang down to the kitchen for coffee. There was no answer.

Putting a red silk robe on over his blue silk pajamas, sliding his feet into leather, sheepskin-lined slippers, he walked on unsteady legs downstairs. There were no servants in sight.

“What’s going on?” he said aloud.

In the kitchen he made his own coffee. With a cup in hand, he walked outside, seeing no one. He walked around the pool to the guest house. There was no one there either.

He checked all the bedrooms. Empty.

He was alarmed. His hand was shaking enough to slosh coffee over the rim of the cup.

He returned to his office. The assault rifle lay on his desk. He took it upstairs to his bedroom.

Trent volunteered to clean up the kitchen while Darcey and Miles got dressed, preparing for their girls’ day out.

The doorbell rang just as he finished wiping down the kitchen island. Preston Johnson was at the door. Trent welcomed him in. The old man accepted the offer of coffee. Trent filled mugs for both of them.

“How are you feeling today, my boy?” Preston inquired. “Any more symptoms?”

“Today is a good day,” Trent responded. “Yesterday not so much, though it turned out well.”

“Oh? More symptoms yesterday?”

“Yes, my pupils were fully dilated. I had to stay in a darkened room or wear heavily darkened glasses if I went outside. It was uncomfortable. Not especially painful as long as I stayed in the dark.”

“I see,” Preston said. “Well, I’m pleased that you’re having a better time of it today.”

Though he tried to make light of it, the old man was concerned.

Darcey and Miles went first to their office building. They had catalogues there with furnishings from all the suppliers with whom they did business. Darcey brewed tea for them to sip as they flipped through the pages.

“I’m thinking clean. Modern. Sleek silhouettes. Sexy. Like me!” Miles pronounced dramatically.

“Yes, just like you,” Darcey agreed, glad to see him showing some life again. “And don’t forget that brass is back. Brass is very in this year. Burnished brass.”

They giggled their way through living room, dining room, and bedrooms. By the time they were out of tea, they had furnished Miles’ condo. At least on paper.

“How in the world will I pay for all this?” he worried.

“Well, we’ll get the firm’s discount, which will lower the price significantly. If necessary, I’ll have it billed to the firm and you can pay it back. I’ll get a cleaning crew out there tomorrow. We can order the furniture to be delivered after they’ve finished their work.”

“Oh, thank you, girlfriend,” Miles gushed. “You’re the best.”

“Just taking care of my Chief Operating Officer,” Darcey quipped. “Got to have you happy so I can go play.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be happy again,” Miles said, turning serious. “But at least I’ll recover enough to take care of business, Darcey.”

“You’ll be happy again, Miles. You won’t ever forget Scott, nor should you. But you will be happy.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get married again,” he said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. You don’t have to be married to be happy.”

“No, but it helps,” Miles insisted.

“Some days, yes; some days no.”

“I heard those noises from your bedroom this morning, girl. This definitely started as a ‘yes’ day.”

“Oh, yes, it most assuredly did!” Darcey laughed.

The day wasn’t going as well at the Rossi compound in the hills at Atherton. By 10:30 Rossi had dressed and was in his office. He was expecting Kiettisuk Jetjirawak and Abdul Rahman to arrive soon.

He still had found no one on the grounds. He didn’t even know how they would get in. He would have to use the gate remote to buzz them in.

Since he discovered he was alone, he had kept the rifle with him. Now sitting at his desk, he had secured the weapon, barrel down, next to his right leg in the well of his desk. It would be out of sight of his visitors but he could reach it easily.

At exactly eleven o’clock, Peter stepped into his office. He held his own Heckler & Koch submachine gun in his hands. He was followed by Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman. Curiously, Abdul was dressed in traditional Arab robes rather than his usual western business suit. Rossi had never seen him wear the robes.

“Good morning,” Rossi said, forcing a smile to his face. “Welcome. I would offer you refreshments but I find that my kitchen staff has taken a day off.”

“That’s quite all right, Jonathan,” Kiettisuk said. “We’re here on business. Serious business.”

“Oh? Well, then let’s get down to business. What can I do for you?”

“You can return the $200 million you took from your three partners,” Abdul calmly demanded.

“$200 million that I took?” Rossi started to stand but didn’t think his legs would hold him up. “I didn’t take any money from you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s simple, Jonathan. All the accounts of your three partners in the fiduciara have been reduced to zero. All the funds were directed to the bank you control in Rome,” Kiettisuk repeated, as if explaining it to a slow-witted child. “Only you could have done that. Or ordered it done.”

“I assure you I gave no such order. I don’t know anything about this. Let me get Giovanni Costa, the manager of the bank in Rome, on the phone. We’ll get this straightened out. I can reach Giovanni at his home.”

“Put your phone on speaker, Jonathan,” Abdul said. It was not a request.

Rossi dialed the international number. After several rings, a voice answered.

“Ciao.”

“Hello, Giovanni. English, please,” Rossi said.

“Certainly, Don Rossi. How may I help you?” Costa inquired.

“Help me figure out what is going on. I’m told that over $200 million was transferred to the bank electronically. How could that have happened?”

“I assumed you ordered it, Don Rossi,” Costa answered.

“I issued no such orders, Giovanni. I want that money returned to the rightful owners’ accounts immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Don Rossi, I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean you can’t do that? I’m ordering you to do it!” Rossi was shouting into the phone.

“Please, Don Rossi. Certainly I would obey your orders if I could. I can’t reverse the transactions because I don’t have the account numbers, the banks or firms where the accounts are located. I don’t have all the necessary details and I don’t know the process you use for such transfers. I mean I physically can’t do it. Only your Signor Douglas can do that.”

“I see. Thank you, Giovanni. I’ll get back to you.”

Rossi ended the call. He was silent. He didn’t know what to say.

Giovanni Costa laid the phone down on the desk in his home office when Rossi ended the call. He looked around the room. The representatives of the Direzione Investigativa Antimafia, the Guardia di Finanza, and the Arma dei Carabinieri stared back at him.

There was no warmth in their eyes. But at least he had done as he was told. It gave him no comfort as they led him from the room in handcuffs.

A similar scene was being enacted in the homes of officials of at least three banks in Paris; one bank and three investment firms in London. In the United States, the FBI was escorting bankers from their homes in New Orleans and Washington, D.C., as well as the head of an investment firm in Shreveport.

Miles and Darcey stopped for salads at one of their favorite cafes for lunch near their office. After the light lunch, they spent the next three hours going from one small shop to another. Looking for small decorative items. Little things that would make Miles feel at home.

“I want to keep Scott in the home with me,” he told Darcey, “but I want a few new things to help me begin a new life.”

Rossi wasn’t thinking about starting a new life. He didn’t know what to think. He was being truthful when he told his partners he didn’t know what happened to their money. That he had not issued any orders, except for Abdul’s instructions to transfer $10 million. The order that Douglas refused to carry out.

He looked blankly around the room. He knew Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman didn’t believe him. Neither would the Mad Dutchman when he finally showed up.

He let his right hand slide under his desk, intending to grasp the weapon concealed there. Before he could do so, Kiettisuk produced a small Ruger hideout gun from his pocket.

“Put both your hands on the desk, Jonathan,” he ordered.

It was then that Rossi learned why Abdul Rahman had chosen to wear his ancestral robes. He produced an M4 rifle, the smaller, modernized version of the M16.

Jonathan had no choice but to obey. He looked at Peter, expecting him to come to his defense.

Peter didn’t move.

“Call Douglas,” Abdul ordered. “If he did this, he can undo it.”

“I can’t call Douglas,” Rossi said, misery in his voice.

“Why not?” Kiettisuk inquired.

“Scott Douglas is dead.”

“Douglas is dead? How did that happen?”

“One of the dummies who works for me took it upon himself to shoot Douglas’ boyfriend. Douglas threw himself between them to save the boyfriend’s life by giving his own.” There was no energy in Rossi’s voice. None.

“Surely there’s someone else who can manipulate the system. Did Douglas have an assistant?”

“Yes,” Rossi replied in his lifeless voice. “But we can’t find Douglas’ files. Without those files, no one can operate the system.”

“This smells of something rotten,” Abdul said. “How convenient it is that just as over $200 million in our money is transferred to your bank, apparently the only man who could have done it, and who could have undone it, is killed by one of your men.”

“If this is true, Jonathan,” Kiettisuk added, “of what use to us are you?”

“He has holdings here,” Abdul reminded Kiettisuk. “If he turns those holdings over to us at least a portion of our losses would be reimbursed. This house alone is worth perhaps $30 million.”

“Yes, Abdul,” Kiettisuk nodded. “Of course, you’re quite correct. No matter how we determine the final solution that would certainly partially satisfy our claims against this man.”

“NO!” Rossi shouted. “You can’t do this to me. I’m the Don of the Rossi family. You can’t treat me like a common worker!”

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat smiled.

“Are you quite done with your little snit?” he asked. “Look around you. Do you see anyone on the grounds? Do you see your once efficient security team? There is no more Rossi Family, Jonathan.”

Rossi made no reply. He looked at Peter for support but saw none. He dropped his eyes to stare at his desk.

“Peter, help me,” Rossi pleaded, begging for the first time in his life.

“My name is Pietro, you pompous, vain fool,” was the reply, fully packed with the frustration of the years enduring Rossi’s arrogance.

“Pietro, please keep Jonathan here while Abdul and I take the necessary steps to pursue this plan.”

“Please watch him closely, Pietro,” Abdul added.

Steve Burgess had stayed out of sight as much as possible since the night of the failed assassination by the two Barons of Lucifer. He had left his cheap hotel only to get food and booze. It was Sunday afternoon. He didn’t think he could bear one more day staring at the dingy walls around him. It was time to take a chance.

Since he went into hiding he had stopped shaving and let his hair grow. With his shaggy, gray hair and matching whiskers, he thought he looked like just another San Francisco character. He was confident he wouldn’t be easily recognized.

He found a dimly lit bar not far from his hotel. There were only a few customers. He sat at the bar and ordered a shot of tequila. The bartender was talking to another customer. It felt good to hear men’s voices again.

After a second shot, he noticed the woman sitting alone at the far end of the bar. Probably a hooker. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman. Maybe it was time to risk that as well.

But then something the bartender said caught his ear. He ordered a third shot of tequila.

“Couldn’t help but hear what you were talking about,” Burgess said when the bartender was pouring the shot. “What was that about the Barons of Lucifer?”

“They’re wiped out,” the bartender answered. “Somebody hit them at their warehouse in Richmond. Killed every one there. Cleaned out everything in the warehouse. They even killed the Mad Dutchman, the gang’s leader. The word is they caught him naked in bed with some woman. Fully loaded but blown away before he could get a shot off.”

The bartender and Burgess both laughed at the joke.

Burgess thought that was good news. So much so that he ordered a fourth shot and told the bartender to pour one for himself.

“Here’s to the memory of the Mad Dutchman,” Burgess said, clinking glasses with the bartender.

With four shots of tequila under his belt, Burgess was feeling bold. He decided to stroll by the Nob Hill condo. He was curious how Marshall was faring with the little gift the former New Orleans cop had left for him. In his imagination, Marshall was suffering terribly. Maybe he was even dead by now. Burgess was ever hopeful.

By the time he reached the condo building he was puffing hard from the hike up the hill. Pausing for a few minutes to catch his breath, he used the time to look over the building. He saw nothing helpful.

He didn’t want to hang around the front of the building too long. Once his breathing returned to normal, he walked on. At the corner of the next intersection, there was a bench. He found an old newspaper in a nearby trash can. He sat on the bench, pretending to read the paper while he kept an eye on the building.

It was a good cover. Lots of people out on a nice Sunday afternoon. Burgess was certain he would attract no attention.

Upstairs Trent was also feeling a bit hemmed in. Since Darcey had discovered that ugly little bug attached to him he had not been working out. He was starting to miss the exercise.

There were no symptoms today. He felt good. He decided to go for a run. He changed into a tee shirt and shorts and put on his running shoes.

Burgess couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Trent Marshall came out of the building, ran up the hill toward Huntington Park.

Running! He was running! Burgess feared he would have a stroke. His brain might explode. He could not believe that Marshall showed no sign of illness. None.

He had no way of knowing the symptoms Trent had suffered or how serious his condition was. The doctors had said there would be good days and bad days. This was a good day. Burgess didn’t know that.

He went back to the bar. He spent the rest of the afternoon there, kicking back shot after shot of tequila. He wanted to be drunk. He wanted to drink the vision of a healthy Trent Marshall from his memory.

With the altered state of his inebriated brain, he decided he could wait no longer. Obviously the nasty little bug had failed to do its job. He would have to kill Marshall himself.

He still had the electronic keys he had forced Piper to give him. He could get onto the secured floor and into their condo. He had the French revolver he had taken from the dead biker. He could do it.

The only question in his besotted mind was when.

It was in the late afternoon by the time Darcey and Miles returned. Trent had showered after his run. He spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. He had meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce with pasta ready for them.

Miles told them to go out on the terrace. It was cocktail hour.

“No, Miles,” Darcey said. “You can’t drink with the medications you’re taking. And it wouldn’t be fair for us to enjoy a cocktail if you can’t join us. That would be rude.”

“Girl, for once will you please do as you’re told?” Miles insisted. “I don’t intend to have a drink. But you’re doing so much for me. I don’t want to be any more disruptive to your life together than I have already been.”

“I’m not arguing,” Trent spoke up. “I’ll have bourbon on the rocks. You’ll find a bottle of Rebel Yell in the liquor cabinet.”

Darcey surrendered. “All right then. I’ll have the same.”

She thought Miles was going to be all right. It would take time. But he was going to survive.