Arlene tapped the keys and opened file drawers softly, careful not to wake Joe, but he slept on. She knew that he would not need the wake-up call—he always awakened exactly when he wanted to—and, sure enough, a few minutes before 3:00, his eyes snapped open and he looked around with that instant comprehension upon awakening, which had always amazed and mystified Arlene.

He dressed quickly, adjusting the suit jacket just so, buttoning his collar button, and making sure that his tie was knotted perfectly and that his cuffs shot properly.

"You need a snap-brim fedora," said Arlene as Joe headed for the back door, his car keys in his hand. She did not ask him about the meeting, and he did not offer any information before he left. Arlene knew from experience that it might be something as mundane as a request for a bank loan or something else altogether—something that Joe might not return from. She never asked. He almost never told.

Arlene finished a few e-mails to clients and wondered if she should tell Joe that their sweetheart-search business looked as if it was going to show a profit of eight or ten thousand dollars by the end of the first month. She decided to wait.

It was almost 5:00, she was finished with the day's Web searches and notices, and she was about ready to call it a day when unusual movement on the small security monitor caught her eye.

A monster had come in the front door of the porn store. The man's face was half burned away, one eye was swollen shut under inflamed tissue, and only a few white clumps of hair remained on a skull that had been cracked and cooked. The man wore a raincoat open and even through the black-and-white monitor, Arlene could see that his chest was covered with makeshift bandages and raw burns.

The clerk, Tommy, went for the shotgun he kept on the lowest shelf behind the counter.

The monster grabbed Tommy by his ponytail, pulled his head back, and cut his throat from ear to ear with one vicious sweep of his arm.

There were only two customers in the store. One ran for the front door, trying to squeeze past the monster, but the burned man spun quickly and ripped the man from his pubic bone to his throat. The man went down in the entrance and collapsed against the glass counter.

The other customer clutched his dirty magazines to his chest and ran between shelves to hide. The monster followed in three huge steps. The camera showed the mirror in the corner reflecting the monster stabbing downward—three, four, five times.

Arlene's breath had frozen in her chest. Now she lifted the telephone and dialed 911. A voice answered, but Arlene could not speak. She could not tear her eyes from the security-camera monitor.

The monster, raincoat open and bandages flying like a mummy's wrappings, burned face distorted into a snarl, was rushing down the short corridor toward the door to the basement… toward her.

Don Farino assembled everyone in the mansion's drawing room. Kurtz had never been in a drawing room—he'd always been amused when he encountered the phrase in books—and was curious about exactly what a drawing room was. After being seated in it, he still didn't know. The room was huge and dark, heavy drapes drawn over deep-set bay windows so that it could have been night for all one could tell from inside, and there were some bookshelves, two large fireplaces—no fires burning—and multiple seating areas scattered around like those in an old hotel lobby. There were six of them in the room, counting the two bodyguards in blazers: Don Farino in his wheelchair next to the black-shaded lamp, Sophia sitting in a plush chair to the don's right, Kurtz on a deep-tufted but uncomfortable leather sofa, and the lawyer, Leonard Miles, sitting opposite everyone in a straight-backed chair. The two bodyguards stood with their meaty hands clasped over their crotches immediately behind Miles.

Kurtz had been met at the gate and ordered to leave his Volvo parked outside the compound. He wondered if they were afraid of car bombs. The two security goons frisked him very carefully—he'd left the polymer H&K pistol under the front seat—and then drove him up to the big house in a golf cart. The day was cold and gray, and it was getting dark by 4:00 p.m.

The old don greeted Kurtz with a curt nod and waved him to his place on the sofa. Sophia was lovely, wearing a soft blue dress and a smile that was almost—not quite—a smirk. The lawyer Miles seemed nervous.

The four sat in silence for what seemed like a long moment. Kurtz brushed a speck of lint from the crease in his gray trousers. No one offered drinks.

"Have you seen or heard the news today, Mr. Kurtz?" the old man said at last.

Kurtz shook his head.

"It seems that the city's black street gangs and some religious white-supremacist group are at war," Don Farino continued.

Kurtz waited.

"Some anonymous caller informed the white supremacists that four of their members had been killed by some Bloods," continued the old man, his voice sounding raspy but amused. "Someone—perhaps the same caller—informed the Bloods that a rival street gang had started a fire at one of their gathering places. Also this morning, it seems that the police received an anonymous call connecting the death of one of their homicide detectives with the same group of Bloods. So, as the day ends, we have blacks shooting blacks, cops rousting gangbangers, and idiot white supremacists fighting everyone."

After a spell of silence, Kurtz said, "It sounds as if Anonymous has been busy."

"Indeed," said Don Farino.

"Do you give a rat's ass about blacks killing blacks, or the Aryan Nation Types live or die?" asked Kurtz.

"No," said Don Farino.

Kurtz nodded and waited.

The Mafia patriarch reached down beside his wheelchair and lifted a small leather valise. When he opened it, Kurtz could see stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

"Fifty thousand dollars," said Don Farino. "As we agreed."

"Plus expenses," said Kurtz.

"Expenses as well." The don closed the bag and set it down. "If you have brought us any useful information."

Kurtz gestured with his hand. "What would you like to know?"

The old man's rheumy gray eyes seemed very cold as he squinted at Kurtz. "Who killed our accountant, Buell Richardson, Mr. Kurtz?"

Kurtz smiled and pointed one finger at Leonard Miles. "He did. The lawyer did it."

Miles shot to his feet. "That's a goddamned lie. I've never killed anyone. Why are we listening to this crap when—"

"Sit down, Leonard," Don Farino said in flat tones.

The two goons in blazers stepped forward and laid heavy hands on Leonard Miles's shoulders.

The lawyer sat down.

"What evidence do you have, Mr. Kurtz?" asked Don Farino.

Kurtz shrugged. "Malcolm Kibunte, the drug dealer who was hired to kill Richardson, said that Miles had hired him."

Miles was on his feet again. "I've never seen Malcolm Kibunte out of a courtroom where I was defending him. I resent this absurd—"

Farino nodded and the goons stepped forward again. Miles sat down.

"Why would Leonard do this?" Sophia asked in her soft purr.

Kurtz shifted his gaze to her. "Maybe you know."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she said.

"It means that Malcolm and his pal Cutter were the hit men and Miles here was the go-between, but maybe someone else in the family gave Miles the orders."

Sophia smiled pleasantly and shifted so that she was looking at her father. "Mr. Kurtz is crazy, Papa."

Farino said nothing. The old man was rubbing his jaw with one mottled hand. "Why did Miles have Buell Richardson killed, Mr. Kurtz?"

"Your accountant stumbled across quite a few million dollars being laundered through family sources," said Kurtz. "He knew it wasn't from the usual family revenue. He wanted some of it."