EATED ON A chair in front of the windows in room 102, with his feet propped up on the windowsill and a pair of binoculars in his lap, MacNeil yawned and stretched and watched in weary boredom as rosy pink streaks appeared in the sky above the sparkling waters of the Caribbean. He and Childress were sleeping in shifts, and Mac’s shift had just begun.

Hotel employees were already moving around at the beach, setting up for breakfast and wiping down chaise longues, and several taxis were in line at the front entrance, ready to take early risers to destinations of their choice. If Wyatt decided to leave the hotel, he had to pass by MacNeil’s window to get a taxi. From this same vantage point, Mac had been able to use the binoculars to watch Wyatt and the Donovan woman last night until they finally went up to their room.

At eleven, Childress and he switched places at the window, and Childress poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe that room service had delivered while MacNeil was on watch. “I’ve been here too long,” Childress remarked, spooning sugar into his cup. “Last night I read the hotel brochure, and I started thinking that my toenails really need attention, and I can’t go another day without aromatherapy.” He put his coffee cup on the table beside his chair and picked up the binoculars Mac had laid aside. Lifting them to his eyes, he slowly scanned the beach, looking for a particular blonde. “There she is, lying on her favorite lounge chair. I’m falling in love. Look at that... she’s got a little tattoo on her butt on the left cheek. How did I miss that yesterday? He paused to zoom in closer and adjust the focus. “It’s a ladybug—is that cute, or what?”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Mac replied, then quoting from the same brochure as he started toward the bathroom, “and drown myself in the luxury of frangipani shampoo.”

Childress looked sharply over his shoulder and called, “Leave some for me.”

MacNeil chuckled, stopped at the closet to take out a fresh shirt and pair of pants, and then laid them on the bed, because his cell phone began vibrating on the dresser.

Gray Elliott’s voice was grim and brisk. “We just found William Wyatt’s body, with a shotgun hole in the chest, in an old well on a neighboring farm that was owned by the Udall family. Actually,” he corrected, “we didn’t find it; the developer who bought the farm a few months ago found it when he tripped over a rusty well cover underneath an inch of snow. While he was picking himself up, he noticed something wedged under the cover that struck him as odd. He knew William had disappeared when he was supposed to be at the farm next door, so he dragged the cover aside to have a look. The local cops responded to his call, and they’ve handed the whole thing over to us. William’s body and the shotgun that undoubtedly killed him arrived by helicopter a little while ago. Ballistics is going over the gun now.”

“Any prints left on it?”

“Not a one,” Gray replied, sounding surprisingly unconcerned.

MacNeil immediately guessed at the reason: “What was wedged under the cover?”

“A black leather button, about the size of a button from a man’s overcoat, with the thread still attached.”

“A button?” MacNeil repeated, frowning, and sat down on the edge of his bed.

“A very distinctive, handmade leather button,” Gray amplified, “with an interesting design stamped on the front and a symbol on the back, identifying its creator.”

“I take it you think you can trace it back to whoever made it?”

“We should be able to do better than that. It turns out that buttons like these are ordered exclusively by European tailors who keep careful records so that matching buttons can be obtained for their clients as needed.”

“Europe is a big place. How long do you think it will take to track down the tailor or the button maker?”

“Forensics says the leather and dye used on the button are British, so we’re focusing first on London tailors. Right now, my problem is time. It’s only a matter of hours before the media gets wind that we’ve recovered William’s body, and if Wyatt hears about it, that jet of his will take off from St. Maarten, heading as far away from U.S. jurisdiction as it can take him.

“If I can lure him back to Chicago, I have enough grounds to detain him for questioning and force him to surrender his passport. That will give us time to locate the tailor who made the overcoat for him, or better yet, the overcoat itself. Once we have either one, I can get a warrant signed for his arrest. I’ve already arranged with NYPD to search his New York apartment later today when I give them the go-ahead. He also has apartments in Rome, London, and Paris, and I’m trying to arrange for a simultaneous search of them, but the authorities in Europe won’t play ball with me yet. I’m going to start pulling some personal strings after we hang up.”

“You’re going to need a hell of a big lure to tear him away from the Donovan woman.”

“I have a plan,” Gray said. “I’ll get back to you in a little while. In the meantime, just don’t lose him, and don’t worry about tailing Kate Donovan if they split up. I’ll deal with her myself as soon as I get Wyatt into our jurisdiction.”

“We’ll stay on him,” MacNeil said.

“Mac?”

“Yeah?”

“I also have a witness who has seen Wyatt wearing an overcoat with a button just like the one found at the well.”