Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

"What did you say this was?"

"What we ordered?"

"Yes," Justin said. "Say it again."

"Lobster Newburg," Manwaring told him. "Is something wrong?"

Justin turned to Deena. "Remember what I told you about criminals, how they always make one stupid or arrogant mistake? How they can't resist wordplay?"

"Yes," she said.

"Well, we just found our mistake. I can't believe I missed it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Manwaring asked.

"Make sure you enjoy this lunch," Justin said. "Because it just told me how to find Kransten."

According to the report Roger Mallone had provided, the address for the Lobster Corporation was 289 Park Avenue. Justin parked the stolen Toyota in a garage on Forty-seventh Street, half a block away.

By 5 p.m., Justin and Deena had been to a florist, a bookstore, a stationery store, and a Federal Express mailing office and returned to the shimmering glass Park Avenue office building, supplies in hand. Deena went in first, checked the directory on the large glass-enclosed case, then went back out to meet Justin on the sidewalk. She told him what she'd found, he nodded, then they went in together.

Justin held an enormous potted plant. Under one arm was an unfolded, flat Federal Express carton. Deena held an equally large and elaborate bouquet of flowers in a heavy glass vase. "For Carol Schloss-berg at Bailey and Potter," Deena said to the security guard. She checked the envelope that held the gift card. "It's room 2210. Must be her birthday."

The guard called up, said that flowers were being delivered, and waved Deena and Justin on through to the proper elevator bank.

"Packages usually go through the mail room," Justin said. "But flowers are almost always allowed to go straight up."

"I'll remember that," Deena said, "next time I have to break into an office."

They went up to the twenty-second floor, dropped off the plant and the flowers at the Bailey and Potter law offices, caught a glimpse of the very confused Ms. Schlossberg as she collected her gifts, then took the same elevator up to thirty-three. On that floor, Justin found the men's room, went in, checked it out. Seconds later, he came out, told Deena it was empty. They went in together.

"How long are we going to have to wait?" she asked.

"Building probably closes at seven," he told her. "I'd say eight, eight-thirty should be safe."

They went into one toilet stall, the middle one of three, closed and locked the door, sat and got as comfortable as they could.

"If anyone comes in, pick your feet up and keep quiet," he said.

She nodded and opened the book she'd bought. It was the true story of some guy who traveled around the world with his cat.

"I never would have thought of bringing this," she said, tapping the cover of the book.

"I've been on stakeouts," he said. "I know how boring it gets."

"The glamorous criminal life," she muttered, and started reading. At ten-fifteen that night, the cleaning crew stepped out of office suite 3310 and made their way along the gray, tightly woven industrial carpet until they came to the next stop on their usual trek: the men's room.

They did the toilet stalls first, from left to right. The middle door had swung shut. One of the crew members jabbed at it with his mop and the door opened. He stepped in, found nothing unusual, began to swab the floor. It didn't take them long to clean the sinks and toilets and tiles. Neither the men's room nor the women's room, which they'd cleaned half an hour earlier, got much use on this floor. When they finished, their next stop was office 3325, the beveled door with the elegant gold lettering across it that read THE LOBSTER CORPORATION. In front of the door was a medium-size Federal Express carton.

"Mail room shouldn'ta left it here overnight," one of the crew members, a black man in his early fifties, said, and the other two nodded their agreement.

"Careless," the only woman in the crew said. "They're gonna get in trouble." And this time it was the two men who nodded.

The man who was the first to speak now took his skeleton key and opened the door to the office. The other two pushed the carton inside, into the reception area.

"Heavy," the first man said.

"Bet it's a computer," the second man told him.

"Shouldn't leave no computer in the hallway," the woman said, still angry that the mail room had been so lax.

It took them fifteen minutes to clean the entire office space. They vacuumed the carpets, emptied every wastebasket, and swept off the tops of the ventilated air-conditioning ducts. They also dusted the doors that led to the two offices in the suite and cleaned the glass partition in the reception area as well as the top of the receptionist's desk. Then they left to get to work in the next office on their route.

Fifteen minutes after the crew left the Lobster Corporation, Deena sliced her way out of the small cardboard box, using the box cutter they'd bought at the stationery store. She slithered out and took a couple of minutes to unfurl and stretch her legs, which had been tightly wrapped around her body so she could fit into the FedEx package. It had been Justin's brainstorm to put her in there. "How long can you keep yourself that small?" he asked. When she told him she thought she could stay like that for two to three hours, he cackled and insisted she give him a high five.

While she stretched, Deena took in the entire office. There were two soft leather couches in the reception area. On the wall opposite the reception desk was a genuine Warhol Mickey Mouse. It was huge and dominated the space. There was a door that led past the waiting room and into a hallway. Off the hall was one small office, plain and impersonal, and at the end of the hall was an enormous office, decorated in chilly chrome and black steel. As soon as she felt limber, Deena went back to the phone on the receptionist's desk and dialed.

"Come on up," she said and waited, tapping her fingers on the desk.

Two minutes later the receptionist's phone rang. It was the security guard in the lobby, saying that there was someone there to see Mr. Newberg. She told the guard to send the visitor up.

"Workin' late," the guard said.

"Always," Deena told him, hanging up.

Several minutes later, Justin was in the office with her.

"The couches look a little more comfortable than the toilet stall," he said.

"Why don't we test them out," she said.

"We can't sleep later than seven-thirty," he told her.

Deena took him by the hand and let him over to the first large couch. "As far as I'm concerned," she said, "we don't have to sleep at all." At three-thirty in the morning, they were wrapped around each other, arms and legs entwined. She could hear his rhythmic breathing, feel his chest rise and fall. The rhythm shifted, and Deena sensed that he was now awake. She put her hand over his heart, pressed down lightly, felt the pumping against her palm. His eyes opened and she could feel his lungs taking in a deeper supply of air.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" he said, his voice low and hoarse.

"For everything. For saving my life."

"I think you've got that backwards," he said.

She smiled, put her head on his chest.

They both stayed silent until Justin said, "It's not over."

"I know that."

"No," he said. "It's going to be… different…from now on. The stakes are higher. The endgame is starting."

"I understand," she told him. Lifting her head, twisting it so she could see his eyes, she said, "I trust you."

"I'm glad. And I want you to trust me. But it's going to be different now."

She nodded, put her head back down on his chest. "I understand," she said.

He put one hand on the back of her head, drew her even closer to him. Justin closed his eyes and smiled sadly because he knew she didn't understand at all.