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“BILL Piper, the sergeant on desk duty, answered the 911 call the night Harlan Brewster died—”

Detective Quinn climbed into the driver’s seat, talking rapid-fire the whole time. Clearly, the man was in supercop briefing mode.

“Along with the eyewitness account, the sergeant let me see Brewster’s accident report, the coroner’s report, and the toxicology results. Harlan wasn’t legally drunk, but he’d had a few before he got behind the wheel. The official cause of death is blunt-force trauma. His airbag deployed properly, but Brewster wasn’t wearing a seat belt or a shoulder harness, so the bag did more harm than good. Also, Harlan was a short man, and children and small adults tend to get hurt the worst when airbags deploy.”

“So,” I said when he finally drew breath, “there’s nothing suspicious about it?”

“The sergeant said this type of thing is not uncommon among the summer crowd.”

“What about the person running away? Galloping Gwen seemed awfully certain about seeing a flashlight come out of that wreck.”

“No mention in the accident report. The cops obviously didn’t believe Mrs. Prescott.” Quinn shrugged. “That’s the whole story from this station.”

“Not the whole story,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I told Quinn about spotting Stevens in the parking lot. I shared as many details as I could remember about my tangle with him in the Parkview’s Gotham Suite, including the conversation I overheard between Madame and Annette’s sister, Victoria Holbrook. I also shared my suspicions—and fears—about why the hotel security chief was out here in the Hamptons, far from his limited jurisdiction.

Quinn’s reaction was surprisingly subdued. He even made an effort to dial back my rising panic. “Calm down, Clare. From what you just told me, Annette’s sister—”

“Victoria.”

“—is running the hotel where Stevens works. You said this woman is desperate to find her sister. We know Annette and Harlan have a house out here, right?”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“It makes more sense that Stevens is out here on Victoria’s behalf, looking for clues to Annette’s disappearance, and not necessarily for you.”

“Or”—I gave Quinn my own version of the Spock eyebrow—“maybe he’s doing the same thing we’re doing, looking for Harlan’s killer.”

“Maybe,” Quinn said. “Speaking of which, we have one more stop to make—”

“Wait a second, flatfoot!” Matt cried. “Weren’t you listening? If this Stevens guy really did track our van from the hotel, then he’s going to show at my place in Water Mill.”

“What’s your solution, Allegro?”

“Drop me back at the house. Then you and Clare can take that rental car out of my driveway and to your next stop. I want no evidence that anyone is at home but me if this little piggy turns up on my doorstep with questions.”

Quinn shot me that wink again. “Good team work, Allegro. Sounds like a plan.”