Chapter 21: Handcuffs for Richard

The two officers in the kitchen doorway took one step into the ballroom.

Then they stopped.

Nobody had told them what to do about a dead man.

"Officers," Sheridan said again, from the lectern. "That man is trespassing."

"Sir," the nearer officer said, not to her but to Chadwick. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Chadwick Reece," Chadwick said pleasantly. "Born in Stamford, thirty-three years old. I'm not sorry to say I'm very much alive."

The governor's wife stood up from her table.

She was a small woman in silver, and her face was white.

"Officer," she said. "I think we should all stay exactly where we are."

Nobody argued with her.

At the head table my father had stood up.

"This is a disgrace," he said. "Detective, remove that man. My daughter is on parole and she's violated every term of it."

The detective got slowly to his feet.

He did not look at my father.

He looked at the governor's wife, and at the cameras that four hundred phones had just become, and he sat down again.

"Detective," my father said.

"Not tonight, Richard," the detective said. His voice was hoarse.

My father's face changed.

He turned toward the stage, toward me, and I saw the thing I had waited five years to see.

He was afraid.

"Mr. Winslade," Chadwick said, and the room was quiet enough to hear every word. "I'd like to thank you for the wine."

"It has been very good."

A woman near the front laughed, shocked, and stopped herself.

"Chadwick," my father said through his teeth. "Shut your mouth."

"You came to my table every night for five years, Richard, and you never once asked me to shut it. I've enjoyed that."

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