Dammit, what did any of that mean now? His brother's death overshadowed everything. All he could think of was what he might have done to help Danny that he hadn't. Call the U.S. Embassy or the Rome police and send them to his apartment? He didn't even know where he lived. That was why he had started to call Byron Willis, his boss and mentor and best friend, from the limo when he'd first heard Danny's message. Who did they know in Rome who could help? was what he had intended to ask but hadn't because the call had never gone through. If he had, and if they had found someone in Rome, would Danny still be alive? The answer was probably no because there wouldn't have been time.

Christ.

Over the years how many times had he tried to communicate with Danny? Christmas and birthday cards formally exchanged for a short while after their mother's death. Then one holiday missed, then another. Finally nothing at all. And busy with his life and career, Harry had let it ride, eventually accepting it as the way it was. Brothers at opposites. Angry, at times even hostile, living a world apart, as they always would. With both probably wondering during the odd quiet moment if he should be the one to take the initiative and find a way to bring them back together. But neither had.

And then Saturday evening as he'd been in the Warner's New York offices celebrating the huge numbers Dog on the Moon was realizing – nineteen million dollars with Saturday night, Sunday, and Monday still to come, making a projected weekend gross of thirty-eight to forty-two million – Byron Willis had called from Los Angeles. The Catholic archdiocese had been trying to reach Harry and was reluctant to leave word at his hotel. They'd traced Willis through Harry's office, and Byron himself had chosen to make the call. Danny was dead, he'd said quietly, killed in what appeared to be a terrorist bombing of a tour bus on the way to Assisi.