"Billy? I thought I'd find you here," said Mickey McKeogh, appearing from behind palm leaves. "The boss wants you, pronto."

"OK, Mickey," I said, draining my glass. "We going back to the war?"

"Dunno, Billy. Be a shame to leave this place. Almost as nice as the Plaza."

Mickey was a fellow Irishman who had been a doorman at the Plaza Hotel in New York City before the war. He knew his hotels. Since nothing was as nice as the Plaza, this was high praise for the King David. I followed him through the lobby, hoping that whatever came next would take my mind off Diana, Kay, and Uncle Ike.

I couldn't get that postcard out of my mind. A picture of the Garden of Gethsemane on one side, Uncle Ike's unsigned declaration on the other. I thought about that slab of rock in the church, the one the monks said Jesus prayed and wept on. And then I remembered another thing from my Sunday School lessons about the Garden of Gethsemane.

It was where Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus. With a kiss.

CHAPTER THREE

Mickey gave two short raps on the hotel-room door, opened it, and gestured to me to enter. I wondered what he knew about nighttime whispers and things left unsaid. What he knew would never pass his lips; he was as loyal as they came. He patted me on the back and shut the door behind me, leaving me in a narrow hallway, face to face with Uncle Ike. I felt as if an accusation was written across my face.

"William," he said, his face lighting up with his trademark grin as he put a hand on my shoulder. "Come in, come in. Are you all right? You looked flushed. Too much sun today?"

"No, no, sir," I said. "I'm fine. Really." He stared at me oddly for a second, searching for some hint of trouble. I put on my cop face and the look vanished.