“And if this girl is dead?”

“Provided it had nothing to do with you, maybe I can find a way that leaves you out. That agency’s got to be valuable to you, right? It’s got to be worth giving me the chance to sort things out. What have you got to lose?”

Luciano looked at him shrewdly. “I could speak to the driver myself. Find out what he knows.”

“You don’t know who he is.”

“You do. You could tell me.”

He smiled thinly, suggestively.

“Forget it,” Milton said, smiling back. “I’m not frightened of you.”

“What did you do before you drove taxis, Mr. Smith?”

“I was a cook,” he said.

“A cook?”

“He was working in a restaurant when I met him,” Beau said.

“You think he’s a cook, Beau?”

“No.”

Luciano sucked his teeth.

Milton clenched his fists beneath the table.

“Alright — let’s say, just for the sake of discussion, that I give you what you want. Why are you so interested? What does it have to do with you?”

“The police have me down as a suspect and it’s not in my interest for my name to come out. The sooner I can clear this up, the better.”

“Publicity is bad for you?”

“Very bad.”

Luciano shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re a very interesting man, Mr. Smith. That’s all I need for now. I’ll speak to Beau. You can wait outside.”

Milton made his way down from the raised area and across the wide room. As he passed the bar he saw Carlo with another man. The newcomer held himself at an odd angle, his left arm clutched to his side as if he was in pain, and he had a huge, florid bruise on his cheek. There were purples and blues and greys in the bruise and the centre was pure black and perfectly rounded, as if it had been caused by a forceful impact with something spherical. The nose was obscured by a splint. Salvatore glared at Milton as he crossed in front of him, his eyes dripping with hate. Milton nodded once, a gesture he knew he probably shouldn’t have made but one that he just couldn’t resist. The injured man lost it, aggrieved at the beating that he had taken, aggrieved at seeing Milton walk out of the bowling alley with impunity, not a scratch on him, and he came in at an awkward charge, moving painfully and with difficulty, his right fist raised. Milton feinted one way and moved another. The Italian stumbled past, Milton tapped his ankles and Salvatore tripped and fell. He grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet again but by then Milton had backed off and turned around and was ready for the second go-around. Salvatore came at him again, his fist raised, lumbering like a wounded elephant. Milton ducked to one side and threw a crisp punch that landed square on his nose, crunching the bones again. Salvatore’s legs went and he ate carpet. He stayed down this time, huffing hard.

Milton raised his hands helplessly and looked over at the VIP area, wondering whether things were going to get heated. Beau looked anxious but neither Tommy Luciano or Carlo Lucchese did anything. Milton turned to look at Luciano, then to Lucchese, then to Salvatore, then he pushed out of the door and went outside to wait for Beau in the cold, bright afternoon sun.

29

Milton had gone to a meeting that evening. It wasn’t his usual and Eva wasn’t there. He had gone out for dinner afterwards with a couple of the guys and by the time he returned to his flat it was midnight. He was reasonably confident that there would be no more issues with the Lucianos — at least for the moment — but he couldn’t completely rule out that Lucchese might ignore his boss and come at him again and so he had driven around the block twice before going inside. He saw nothing to make him anxious, and there was nothing in the blindingly bright lobby to suggest that his visitors had returned or that they intended to. He climbed to the third floor. He knew exactly where the light switch was and it was with a single blur of motion that he opened the door, flicked it on and stood in the threshold with the door open wide, scanning the room with practised eyes. Everything looked as if it was in order. He stepped forward and locked himself inside, bending down to examine one of his own black hairs which still lay undisturbed where he had left it before going out, placed carefully across the drawer of the coffee table. He had left a faint trace of talcum powder on the handle of the bedroom door and that, too, had not been disturbed. These were, he knew, extravagant measures to confirm his safety but ten years in a business as dangerous as his had hardwired him with caution. Paying heed to that creed, and to his instincts, was the reason he was still alive. The precise application of a routine like this had saved his life on several occasions. The Mafia was a blunt instrument compared to the secret services of the countries that he had infiltrated — a cudgel as to a scalpel — but that was no reason to treat them with any less respect. A cudgel was still deadly.

He propped a chair beneath the door handle, locked the window that faced the fire escape and slept with his fingers wrapped around the butt of the Smith & Wesson 9mm that he kept under the pillow.

HE ROSE EARLY the next morning. There was a lot to do. First, though, he dressed in his running gear, pulled his battered running shoes onto his feet and went downstairs. It was a crisp, bright December day, the sun’s cold rays piercing the mist that rose off the Bay. Milton ran south on Mason Street, turned onto Montgomery Street and ran until he reached The Embarcadero, the piers, the bridge to Oakland and, beyond it, the greenish-blue of the ocean. He ran north, following the road as it curved to the west, listening to the rhythmic cadence of his feet and clearing his mind. This had always been his preferred way to think. It was his meditation before he found the sanctuary of the rooms, a peaceful retreat where he had the time and the luxury to let his thoughts develop at their own speed, without even being conscious of them.

He ran onto Jefferson, turned left inside Aquatic Park and then followed Hyde to Broadway and then, finally, Mason Street and home.

He passed through the lobby and took the stairs at a jog.

There were two men waiting outside the door to his room.

He recognised them both.

“Detective Cotton. Detective Webster.”

“Mr. Smith.”

“How can I help you?”

“We’re going to need to talk to you.”

“Again? Really?”

“A few more questions.”

“I answered them before. Is there anything else?”

“I’m afraid there is. We found another body this morning.”

PART THREE

The Suspect

#3

MILEY VAN DYKEN

Miley Van Dyken had been having second thoughts about how she had chosen to live her life. She’d told friends about them, how she was thinking about getting out. She knew that turning tricks could be a dangerous business but it seemed to her that there had been more stories of psychos preying on working girls recently. There had been all those poor girls down on the beach in New Jersey, for one, and the police still had no idea who was responsible for their deaths. There were plenty of benefits that came from doing what she did — they money, obviously, but the freedom of working to your own schedule was another that other girls often overlooked — but it had been getting to the stage that her doubts and fears were starting to get so bad that she couldn’t ignore them. She had nightmares and premonitions about running into a murderous john and she had suffered with a really bad one the night before. She had recorded it on her Facebook page, telling her friends in vague terms (since not many of them knew what she did) that she was having serial killer dreams that were more and more vivid each time they came around.