"It's a Mercedes Maybach," Dolce replied. "The first one in the country. Papa knows somebody in Stuttgart."

"Papa knows somebody everywhere," Dino muttered, collecting a sharp elbow in the ribs from Mary Ann.

They piled into the spacious rear seats, facing each other, Pullman style.

"Not bad," Dino admitted, looking around. "I don't suppose there's a phone? I've gotta check in with the cop shop." Dino ran the detective squad at the nineteenth precinct.

"Oh, leave it, Dino," Stone said. "They can get along without you for a week."

Dolce handed Dino a phone, and he began dialing. "Did you pack all my stuff?" Dino asked Mary Ann.

"Everything's in the trunk," she replied. "I ironed your boxer shorts, too." She winked at Dolce. "They love it when you iron their underwear."

"I'll remember that," Dolce laughed.

"Gladys," Dino said into the phone, "I'm off. You've got the number in Venice if anything really important comes up, otherwise I don't want to know, got that? Good. Take care." He hung up. "Okay, I'm cut loose," he said to the others. "What kind of jet we going in, Dolce? I hate those little ones; this better be a G-Four or better."

"Wait and see," Dolce said smugly.

They drove onto the tarmac at Atlantic Aviation at Teterboro Airport, across the Hudson in New Jersey, and up to an airplane that dwarfed everything on the ramp.

"Holy shit!" Dino said as they got out of the limousine. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's a BBJ," Dolce replied, grabbing her jewelry box and cosmetics case from the backseat. The others took their hand luggage from the trunk.

"Sounds like a sandwich."

"A Boeing Business Jet, the biggest thing in the corporate skies."

Hank Esposito, who ran Atlantic Aviation, was at the airplane's stair door to greet them. "You're fueled for maximum range," he said. "You could make it to Tokyo, if you wanted."