When their drinks had been delivered, Larson asked to see the restaurant’s pay phone. Frank’s face screwed up into a knot of suspicion, but he maintained his cool. He talked as he led the way. Frank liked to talk. “What’s this about? Anything I can help with? You guys on a case or what? I never figured out exactly what it is you guys, the marshals I’m talking about, do. Besides protecting the courts, and witnesses and all that. Not that that’s not something, you understand, but tell the truth, Roland, you don’t strike me as the type to stand around a courtroom all day.”

The place was crowded. Linen tablecloths. The waiters were mostly old guys in black pants and white shirts. The waitresses dressed like they were from Playboy fantasy camp, with the white aprons, fishnet stockings, and high heels. Frank knew better than to mess with a winning formula. He couldn’t hear who was singing on the piped-in music, but Larson was guessing it was the other Frank.

They passed through the main dining room and entered through a door and into a corridor where Larson had never been. Off of this room were several private dining rooms. Waiters and waitresses came and went from these, standing out of their way as Frank and Larson passed.

“You happen to see anyone using your pay phone earlier this evening? This was at 5:57, to be exact. They aren’t in any kind of trouble themselves,” he hastened to add, he hoped lying convincingly, “but they may have information important to a case.”

“Let me think on that, Roland.”

“I didn’t want the restaurant getting any bad press over this,” he said as the aromas from a platter of something very garlicky caught his nostrils. He was starving. “My boss has a way of playing things pretty heavy-handed.”

“Who is your boss right now? I probably know him.” It was this kind of prodding that left Larson and others wondering about Frank’s true colors.

“He’s outta D.C. You think I could get some takeout? Toasted ravioli or something I could eat in the car?”

“Not a problem.”

“I’m paying.”

“Sure you are.” Cunetto had barely turned his head to look for a waiter before one appeared. A guy in his sixties, balding, with wet lips and an expressive face that belonged on the side of a jar of spaghetti sauce. Frank ordered Larson the toasted ravioli, to go. The waiter took off at a clip, moving well for a guy so round.

Larson finished his beer, having drunk it too fast. On the empty stomach, he already felt a ticklish light-headedness. He craved another.

At the end of the hall, Frank pointed out the pay phone. It was an old, battered thing. An exit door stood three feet away at the very end of the hall.

Larson said, “Hell, I didn’t even know these private rooms existed.”

Frank shook his head nervously, wanting nothing to do with this. Frank knew which side his bread was buttered on.

Larson lowered his voice. “You’re a good guy, Frank. We all know that about you-law enforcement, I’m talking about. Family’s important to you. The kids of this city are important to you. That soccer program you helped get started. It’s good work.” He paused to allow this to sink in. “This case I’m working, Frank-it involves a child. A little girl, actually. Time is everything in these cases-I’m sure you know that. First twelve to twenty-four hours are critical. I’m not making arrests. No rough stuff. But I need to deliver a message to give that girl any kind of fighting chance, and I need to deliver it to whoever made that call ninety minutes ago. Your pay phone, Frank. This one, right here.”

“I don’t know, Roland.” Uneasy.

Larson said, “You understand how this develops if my boss gets his way? A crime scene unit. Your place shut down. Your guests interviewed. Names taken down. Detectives asking to see your credit card records for the evening. You know how long it takes the federal government to let go of a bone? I need a name, Frank.”

Cunetto looked dazed. “A kid? A little girl?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Larson said, his gut turning over. “It’s awful to make a kid a bargaining tool.”

A waitress pushed through the far door, walked down the long hall, and delivered Larson a beer, taking his empty.

She asked, “Everything okay, Mr. Frank?” She eyed Larson like she was ready to punch him out. Might have a good chance at it, judging by her shoulders.

“Thanks, Maddie,” Frank said. “Tommy put in a takeout. Make sure it’s up as soon as possible.”

Maddie marched off, thighs like a hurdler. A body like hers didn’t work in the short skirts Cunetto’s mandated.

“You don’t want to get on the wrong side of this,” Larson said. “That’s all I’m saying, Frank. I held off my boss because I told him you’d help us out without a pile of warrants and a lot of flashing lights out front. But ultimately, that’s gonna be your call.”

Larson swigged the beer. Jesus, it tasted good. He stifled a belch.

“Kathleen and Bridget,” Frank said. “My sister’s twins. Six-year-olds.” He met eyes with Larson, his sad and tight with concern. “I’m not saying I actually saw him use the pay phone. You understand?”

“Who?” Larson’s skin prickled. “The way we do it,” he explained, “is I sell whoever this is on the idea that we tracked his cell phone, that we placed him here in your place at the time the pay phone call was made. Most people-this kind of person-know we can do about anything when it comes to technology. They don’t question something like that. There’s no connection back to you other than his using your pay phone.”

Frank cocked his head to study Larson. They met eyes again. Larson remained unflinching, knowing this was the moment.

“Dino Salvo was in about the time you’re talking about. Had a drink at the bar. Left for the can. I’m not saying one way or the other, but he never came back to finish that drink. Thing about Dino?” he asked rhetorically. “He never leaves a scotch half-full.”

Larson swilled the rest of the beer. On the way out, he handed the sweating empty to the waiter who delivered the bag of takeout. He reached for his wallet and Frank Cunetto said, “Gimme a break, Roland. It’s on me.”

“And I’d like to accept. You know I would. But I’m afraid I can’t.” He passed him two tens. “Will that cover it?”

Frank handed him back one of the bills. “We’ll write you up a receipt. Nice and tidy.”

“And while you’re at it,” Larson said, “I could use a home address for our friend, and a description of his ride.”

Dino Salvo turned out to be a known man to the local cops. One phone call to a detective friend and Larson knew him as a low-grade bagman, an errand runner who was connected up in a business arrangement to a former gangbanger-turned-rap-artist, Elwood Els, or LL, as he was called on the street. LL was currently serving time for a nightclub shooting.

Salvo was believed to be supervising LL’s hip-hop club in East St. Louis. He was a regular at a Friday-night low-rent poker game that the cops knew about.

Larson stopped at a gas station convenience store and bought a disposable camera and a cup of black coffee.

Salvo was registered as owning a black Town Car carrying vanity plates that read: LUV-NE1. He lived ten blocks from Cunetto’s, on the second floor of a walk-up. A drive-by found the place dark, so Larson asked the detective for a BOLO on Salvo and the Town Car.

The cop called him back twenty minutes later after Larson finished the takeout and was working on a second cup of coffee. A patrol had spotted Salvo’s ride outside Guneros’s Pizzeria, a joint that Larson knew because it served the best tapas in town.

The salsa music seemed in direct conflict with the aroma of Bolognese sauce. Larson chatted up the hostess, slipped her a twenty along with the disposable camera, and gave her specific instructions. He then worked his way through the cluster of overly tall cocktail tables and chairs toward the back. The music changed to percussive Moroccan. He recognized Salvo from the simple description supplied him by Frank Cunetto.