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his—what, stepdaughter?—would be pure spite. To get his hands on the money Poppy had set aside for Emma behind his back? Faith added Jason to the list. From what little she recalled, he’d never struck her as a terribly nice man, and at the moment, that was enough to fit the profile. Then there was Fox himself—he knew Emma was his daughter and she may have told him about the pregnancy during one of their parent-child bonding visits. But Fox was already dead when the first card turned up. Even if he’d written it, he couldn’t have orchestrated the delivery of the money or composed the second from the grave. He’d been a vocal force when previously underground, but this time around was decidedly different. Whatever one’s beliefs concerning the hereafter, none included the postal service or even faxes.
    â€œI know I have no right to ask you to do anything else, Faith, when you’ve been such an angel, but there is one more thing. A big favor.”
    Emma was putting some money down on the table, over Faith’s protests that they split the bill. “Women aren’t good at this. No one ever has the right change or can figure out who owes what, so it’s easier for me to pay, and besides, I want it to be my treat.” Emma had interrupted herself to settle the question of the bill. Faith put her coat on and waited to find out what thisfavor might be. It could be anything from helping her find that perfect little something for sister Lucy—some desk models of guillotines, “conversation pieces” leapt to mind—to breaking into Fox-Fuch’s apartment to be sure the photo and cards were gone. This had already occurred to Faith. And if Emma had a key, it would even be somewhat legal.
    â€œThere, that should be right.” Faith looked at the money tucked next to the teapot. If everyone tipped the way Emma did, the waiter could go to Acapulco for Christmas and Easter.
    Emma pulled on her long suede gloves and put one hand on Faith’s arm.
    â€œWill you go to the service for me? Daddy’s service? Knowing that you’re there will be the next best thing to being there myself, and you can tell me all about it. I wish I could go, but I can’t. There could be pictures, and soon everybody would be asking why I went.”
    â€œOf course I’ll go. The Times had said Quinn, his agent, would be arranging a memorial service soon. Tell me once you know when it is, in case I miss the notice.” This was not a big favor. This was nothing.
    The big favor that Faith had already taken on—in her mind anyway—was finding out who was blackmailing her old schoolmate.
    And going to the memorial service would be the first step in her investigation.
    Â 
    Emma left and Faith made her way to the rest rooms. There had been talk of placing public conveniences like the coin-operated kind in Paris at various locations throughout the city, but at present one had to grab at any opportunity or go into a department store, whichinvariably cost much, much more than any pay toilet—in Faith’s experience anyway. The last time she’d dashed into Bloomies, she’d come out with a Jil Sander jacket—it had been on sale—and a Mary McFadden scarf for her mother—it hadn’t. The cubicles on the streets in Paris had occasionally failed to open, trapping the occupant, and Faith had resolved either to avoid them until foolproof or always carry a very long book—something like Proust—that she’d been meaning to read for years.
    Returning, she again noted a man with his face buried in the Wall Street Journal a few tables behind where they had been sitting. The few other men in the café at this hour were older with, presumably, spouses or were younger with families. She looked back at him. He was leaving. There was something familiar about him, yet it could just be that they’d been on the subway together, or he could have