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Pringle pulled out his phone, and a moment later said into it, “Tell Rev what you said.”

Cross took the phone.

“Smitty,” he said, “what the hell is going on?”

“Hey, Lenny, look,” Smitty Jones began, “I did what I was told to. But I thought I was the only one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was in the crowd, right where I was supposed to be in front of the stage, and waiting for you to finish your speech, before, you know, before shooting those blanks I got at the sporting goods store Chester.” He paused, and chuckled, then said, “You know, when I was buying them, the kid behind the counter asked me if I was getting them for horses or dogs, and I said, ‘What?’ and he said, you know, there’s small blanks—ones that don’t make too loud a bang—for training a horse or hunting dog, to get used to hearing a gun going off—”

“Smitty—” Cross said, trying to interrupt.

“—I said I wanted the louder blanks. You believe that, Lenny? That’s what those rich folks do. Shoot fake bullets to get used to the sound. I about said just come on in to Philly, ’cause we’re used to lots of shooting going on—”

“Smitty!” Cross snapped. “Tell me what the hell happened in the damn crowd!”

“Oh, yeah,” Jones said after a moment. “Sorry. So, like I said, I was doing what I was told, waiting for you to finish your speech—gonna shoot when you said, ‘I won’t be stopped’—but then King Two-One-Five jumped up on the stage and started getting the crowd chanting. I was afraid I missed

when I was supposed to shoot, so I got out the gun and—BAM! BAM! BAM!—some bastard starts shooting next to me. Couldn’t see who—bunch of white folks there holding posters. So I aimed at King and started squeezing the trigger.”

“Someone else was shooting?” Cross said slowly.

Cross’s eyes shifted to DiAndre Pringle, who was shaking his head.

“It was just supposed to be Smitty alone,” Pringle said.

“Yeah, it was someone,” Jones said, “but I dunno . . .”

“I’ll call you back, Smitty,” Cross said, then broke off the call and handed the phone back to Pringle.

“Who you think it was?” Cross said.

“No idea, Rev,” Pringle said, shaking his head. “Except it could be anyone.”

Cross glanced at Hooks, who was thumbing a message on his cellular telephone.

So, Cross thought, he didn’t shit himself? No, he did do that. He said he saw the gun.

But they were shooting at him?

Or me, too?

[ THREE ]

Queens Club Resort

George Town, Grand Cayman Islands

Saturday, December 15, 7:35 P.M.

“Here’s Illana now, right on time,” Mike Santos announced as the stunning tanned blonde appeared through the white canvas flaps of the Jolly Mon Cabana.

Rapp Badde saw that she carried a stack of manila folders. He also noted, appreciatively, that she had changed from the nautical-themed outfit of tight navy shorts and sheer white captain’s shirt into a melon-colored linen sundress.

Illana put the folders on the table between Badde and Janelle Harper.

Santos looked at Jan and said, “These you’ll of course recognize as the contracts that I sent up for your review last week.