“Still am. This case has crossed so many jurisdictions over the years, the higher-ups gave up trying to take ownership; they just keep me and Wilson on along with two other teams. Got someone on them round the clock now.”

  Brayman moved slowly through the van, studying the photographs taped to the wall above their desk, his eyes lingering on the one labeled Amelia Dyer on the left. “Weird how?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said something weird is going on up in there.”

  Buncy glanced at Walter. “Remember how I told you they only use this place for dispatch? Calls come in, the girls go out, but they never host the johns here?”

  Walter nodded.

  “Yeah, well, as of a few hours ago, that business model has gone to shit. We’ve had eight men go in there since sunset, and none have come out yet.”

  “Nine,” Wilson said. “Not eight, nine.”

  Buncy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. At least six are in our records, part of their frequent-flier program. We’re running photos of the other guys, trying to get an ID. None of the girls have gone out on calls for hours. The ones who were out have come back and stayed. Everyone’s inside like they got called home for some customer appreciation party or some shit.”

  Walter pointed at the grainy photo of Amy Archer. “Is she in there?”

  “They’re all in there. Even Turgenev, and he never comes by here. Something big is going on.”

  Brayman was looking over the various monitors, studying the camera shots, when Wilson said, “We’ve got another.”

  He pointed at the monitor on the top right. A man wearing khaki pants and a dark blue shirt was standing at the door next to the potted plant.

  Wilson pressed several buttons below the monitor, unplugged his headphones, and audio came out of two speakers mounted in the van’s ceiling. They all heard the man knock twice on the door, then watched as he looked up and to the right, speaking into what must have been a camera. “The breakup of AT&T will end badly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Walter asked.

  “Code phrase,” Wilson replied, turning up the volume. “They’re all saying it, then—”

  Then the door opened, the man went inside, and it closed behind him. From their current angle, they couldn’t see who opened it.

  “Then we lose them,” Wilson finished.

  “No surveillance inside?” Brayman asked.

  Buncy shook his head. “Our warrant covers internal audio and video, but they sweep for wires at least once each night. We’ve gotten bugs in there before, but they don’t stick. The little bit of audio we’ve recorded on them has been nothing but gibberish, like they know we’re listening and they’re just trying to screw with us. Phone taps are useless. We explained that one to your partner here the last time he dropped by unannounced.”

  Brayman took a photograph out of his pocket. It was the woman from Corktown, the teal sheet at the morgue pulled up to her neck revealing only her face. He showed it to Buncy. “Her name was Aneta Kostenko. You ever seen her before?”

  Buncy’s face twisted into a grimace. “God, no. Get that out of my face.”

  Brayman gave Walter a sidelong glance, then took out one of the mug shots from Aneta Kostenko’s jacket. “What about her?”

  This time, Buncy nodded. “Her I’ve seen. Bolted out of here with a bag a few days ago. Hasn’t been back. We figured she ran.”

  Brayman was looking at Walter again, but he didn’t say anything. He shoved both pictures in his pocket.

  “Why don’t you send somebody in there?” Walter asked. “You’ve got their secret password, handshake, whatever. Why not send someone in to try and get something concrete and take them down?”

  “We’ve got a requisition in. We’re waiting for them to send someone down here. They know both of us. We need a fresh face.”

  “How long is that gonna take?”

  Buncy didn’t have an answer for that.

  “I’ll do it,” Walter told them.

  Buncy laughed. “You’re not exactly a fresh face, either. The fine gentleman who ran you out of there last time told all his buddies about you. Told the girls to stay away from you. No way you’re walking in there.”

  “I could do it,” Brayman said. “They don’t know me.”

  Buncy eyed him up and down but didn’t reply.

  “I don’t know,” Wilson said. “I think we should wait on whoever our captain sends out.”

  Brayman sighed. “O’Brien might be right about the timing. If they’ve got a full house, doing things outside the norm, that means their usual security is lax. This might be your only shot.”

  Buncy licked his lips as he thought it over. “They’ll frisk you at the door. That means no gun, no wire. You’d be going in there blind. Are you sure you’re up for that?”

  “Wouldn’t be my first undercover op, and we’ve all got a vested interest here. This organization might be tied to at least three or four homicides in the past week. If we’ve got a chance at busting it, we need to take it. No telling when there will be another window.”

  As he said all this, another man walked up to the brownstone door, gave the pass phrase, and disappeared inside.

  “Now or never, gentlemen,” Brayman said.

  He must have known what their answer would be, because his backup weapon was sitting on the chair beside him, and he had already started unsnapping his shoulder holster.

  A moment later, Walter, Buncy, and Wilson were all huddled around the monitor, watching Brayman provide the pass phrase and disappear inside the brownstone.

  Chapter

  48

  Five minutes ticked by.

  Ten.

  “Want one?” Wilson held a Jolt Cola, his eyes glued to the monitor.

  Walter shook his head. “I’m good.”

  Wilson shrugged, popped the top, and took a long chug. When he set the can down on the table, he wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and burped. “Love these things.”

  “This might have been a bad idea,” Buncy muttered. “How old is Brayman now? He’s probably knocking on the retirement door. Nobody’s gonna mistake him for a john.”

  “He’s a smart guy. He’ll find some way to play it.”

  Buncy chuffed. “Like what? ‘I dropped my son off here half an hour ago, and he forgot his wallet. Any idea what room he’s in?’”

  Wilson laughed. “Better to play off the age thing. ‘Who are you people? Wait—this isn’t my house…’”

  Walter was busy studying the other monitors. He noticed a black Mercedes parked across the street. “Is that their car? I noticed one like it dropping off and picking up girls the other night.”

  Buncy nodded. “Driver’s inside with everyone else. He went in about two hours ago.”

  Fifteen minutes.

  “Maybe we should have put a time limit on this or had some signal so we’d know he was okay.”

  “What, like hang a sock on the doorknob when the charge on your credit card goes through?” Wilson laughed at his own joke, and Jolt shot from his nose. “Oh, Christ, that hurts.”

  “I’m not worried about Brayman getting hurt,” Buncy said. “I’m worried he’ll get made and they’ll boot him out and ruin our chances of getting someone else in there tonight. They know we’re watching. They wouldn’t touch a cop.”

  Wilson pointed up at one of the screens. “Door’s opening.”

  “Is it Brayman?” Walter asked, turning back to the monitors.

  Wilson pointed up at the photographs on the wall. “It’s your girl, Lolita Number One. She’s moving fast.”

  By the time Walter got eyes on the monitor, he only caught a blur as she walked off camera.

  Wilson pointed at two different screens. “Give it a second. We should catch her here or here, depending on which direction she goes.”

  The three of them stared, but she didn’t reappear.

  “Shit. I don’t get it. There’s no blind spot.”

  Buncy’s forehead creased. “Where the hell did she go?”

  “Goddamnit, out of the way—” Walter pushed by the large man and scrambled for the door, yanked the handle, and jumped down onto the sidewalk. He spotted her about halfway down the block hailing a taxi. She was wearing a slinky black dress with matching pumps, her dark hair swept back.

  Walter ran, closing the gap as a taxi pulled to a stop next to her on the curb.

  As she got into the car, Walter jumped in beside her and pulled the door shut.

  She startled. “Walter? What are you doing here?”

  Walter tried to find the right words. He couldn’t risk her running. “I’m gonna give you a choice.”

  “What kind of choice?”

  “Come with me, right now. Testify against these guys. I can get you out of this life, keep you safe. Away from Turgenev, or whoever has a hold on you.”

  The driver eyed them both in the mirror with a look of complete indifference. “Where to, miss?”

  She gave him an address.

  He steered the car away from the curb and out onto Franklin, merging with the traffic as he accelerated.

  Her makeup had been applied with the skilled hand of a professional, and the sweet scent of lavender drifted from her. She moved aside the small purse she clutched in her hands. A soft smile crossed her lips. “You’re going to be my knight in shining armor? Is that your plan, Walter? You barely know me.”

  “I know enough. I know where this life leads.”

  “What if I like this life? I’ve got money. I’m free to do what I want, when I want.”

  “You know the police are watching that building, right?”

  “So?”

  “When they arrest everyone, you don’t want to get caught up in the sweep. At best, you walk away with a record that follows you forever. At worst, you go to prison for a long time. If they’ve been coercing you, forcing you to do things against your will, you’re not at fault. You’re a victim.”

  She looked down at her hands. “People like Turgenev don’t let you walk away. He would kill me. Or have me killed. Who knows what he would do to my friends. I can’t leave Willow in there.”

  “I’ll find a way to get her out. I can get you into protective custody, both of you. If you cooperate, I can keep you out of trouble. This is your chance to walk away, but it has to be now.”

  The car pulled to a stop.

  She turned toward the window and let out a soft breath. “That’s a lot to promise, Walter.”

  “I can keep you safe,” he said again.

  Her hand had slipped into his. Or had he taken hers? He wasn’t sure, but he felt her fingers tighten around his, felt the warmth of her body beside him, the inches between them feeling like an impossible distance. She must have felt this, too, because she eased closer and rested her head against his shoulder. The two of them sat there like that for a moment. Then a mischievous glint entered her eyes. She smiled up at him. “How about you buy me dinner first?”

  Before he could answer, she was out the door and rounding the car.

  They had stopped in front of Giovanni’s. The same restaurant where he had spotted her on Sunday with Michael Driscoll. Without looking back, Amy Archer stepped inside.

  Walter swore under his breath, and when he reached for the door, the driver scowled. “Hey, somebody needs to pay for the ride!”

  Quickly fishing some bills from his wallet, Walter tossed them onto the front seat and went after her.

  Chapter

  49

  Inside, Walter was bombarded by the scent of garlic, Italian music, and voices all talking over one another. Different hostess. About two-thirds of the tables were full. He spotted an older waiter pulling a chair out for Amy at a small table in the back corner partially hidden behind a potted plant. If the kid from the other day was working, he didn’t see him.

  Walter worked his way through the maze of tables and sat across from her.

  Amy smiled, unfolded her white cloth napkin, and smoothed it on her lap. “This is one of my favorite restaurants. I’ve always had a thing for Italian food, real Italian food. There are so many imitators out there, but the head chef here, Luca Giulia, he’s from Palermo. Doesn’t speak a lick of English, but he is such a talented man in the kitchen. I’ve told him he should start a chain, but he won’t hear any of that. He wants to keep it in the family. I guess that makes sense, but food like this should be celebrated far and wide, not hidden away in Detroit, of all places.”

  “You speak Italian?”

  “Of course. Parlo molte lingue, tesoro Walter.”

  The waiter had filled up two glasses of water. Walter picked up the one nearest him, wiped away some of the condensation from the glass with his thumb, and set it back down without taking a drink. “Why are we even here? We need to go back.”

  She pouted. “I don’t want to leave, not yet. There are bad things waiting for both of us. I don’t think you’re ready for them any more than I am. So how about this? Let’s pretend we’re on a date. Our first. I’m from a small farm in Dubuque, Iowa, and we met today in the checkout line at the grocery store. You asked me out, and against my better judgment, I agreed.”

  “What, like role-playing?”

  She settled back in her seat, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath. The air washed over her with a shiver, and something within her shifted. Her posture changed. The muscles in her face twitched and seemed to settle in slightly altered positions from only moments earlier, and when her eyes opened, there was something different about them. The color hadn’t changed, nothing like that, but different. Walter couldn’t put his finger on it. She reached up and removed several bobby pins from her hair, letting it drop down over her shoulders, and shook it out. When she spoke again, there was an accent to her voice that hadn’t been there before, just a hint of the Midwest but far removed from her normal speaking voice.

  “If you hadn’t asked me out, I might have made the first move. I don’t think I would have let you walk away.”

  Walter stared at her.

  It was like she’d become another person.

  He told himself it was only a trick of the lighting, but even her dark hair looked lighter, filled with subtle highlights.

  When the waiter came to take their drink order, she didn’t drop the pretense. Instead, she played it up. Even her movements seemed to belong to someone else, her body language that of a stranger. “I think I’d like to order, if that’s all right. I’m famished. Are you ready, Henry?”

  She tilted her head slightly to the side and smiled at him from across the table.

  Henry?

  “Sure.”

  She looked back at the waiter. “I’ll take Ossobuco alla Milanese with a side of focaccia.”

  Although she’d spoken with a perfect Italian accent only moments earlier, now she completely butchered it, as if saying the words for the first time.

  Exactly like someone who had never set foot out of Iowa might say them.

  Walter ordered a small pizza and tried to remember how much cash he had in his wallet as the waiter collected their menus and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Under the table, he felt Amy’s foot rub against his ankle. “Tell me about yourself, Henry. Where did you grow up?”

  He leaned closer to her. “We don’t have time for this, Amy.”

  She leaned closer, too, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “My name is Velma, Henry. Velma Barfield. And if you have any hopes of getting lucky on this first date of ours, the least you can do is call me by my name.” She grinned mischievously. “I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to get lucky tonight. That’s why my underwear is in my purse.”

  The waiter returned with a plate of bread, a bottle of white wine, and two glasses. “Compliments of Chef Luca.” As he poured first Amy’s glass, then Walter’s, he told her, “He said to tell you you look ravishing this evening. Our dining room is brighter when you’re in it.”

  She blushed and pressed a hand to her cheek. “He is just the sweetest thing. Please thank him for me.”

  When the waiter left, she raised her glass. “To those who have seen us at our best and seen us at our worst and can’t tell the difference. We, the misfits of the world.”

  She said all this without dropping the Iowa accent. If anything, it became more complete. Walter had trouble remembering her actual voice. She took a sip of her wine, smiled, and set the glass down. “My daddy makes the best strawberry wine, but this is nice, too.”

  Walter left his glass sitting on the table between them. “Why did you burn down Earl Golston’s apartment? Who was he to you?”

  She cocked her head. “Earl Golston? I’m not sure I know who that is.”

  Walter unbuttoned his shirtsleeve, rolled it up, and peeled back a corner of the bandage. “Does this help you remember?”

  She didn’t look at the burn. Instead, she smiled, tore off a small piece of bread. “Okay, Henry. If you’re not going to tell me about your past, I’m going to guess.” She reached across the table, turned his hand over, and studied his palm. “My gran was really good at this, and she said I have the gift, but it’s never worked quite right for me. Instead of a fine-tuned engine like she had, I’ve got more of an old motor that sputters along and doesn’t necessarily start on the first pull.” Her eyes narrowed as she traced one of the lines from his index finger to his wrist. “I see tragedy in your life. Something horrible as a young child. A loss. A great loss.” She looked up at him. “Oh, it was your parents, wasn’t it? They died in a car accident? Or, no, wait. Something else.” She stroked the outer edge of the bandage. “Was it a fire?”

  Night—his father, standing outside the kitchen window, his back against a tree. A woman in his arms. A woman who wasn’t Walter’s mother. His father’s hand twisted in her hair, holding her close as their lips met. Her palm in his shirt, on his chest. His father glancing at the window, seeing Walter, watching him yet unable to stop.

  Walter jerked his hand away. “That’s not funny.”