No one used the door to the upstairs rooms where lights shone in the windows.

  He drove his car to the rear lot, walked around to the Main Street front. The doorknob to the upstairs suites turned in his hand and put Perry in a yellow-walled vestibule with brown wooden stairs. A sign tacked on the vestibule wall read: NO HANDICAP ACCESS—SORRY! A label that read NEWSPAPERS was stuck on a wicker basket on the vestibule floor.

  That means the door probably stays unlocked. Anybody could drop something in the wicker basket any time of the day or night. Or into the steel box the size of an airplane carry-on suitcase bolted to the vestibule wall. The box lid had a flap big enough for a coffee table book to be dropped through and a built-in lock plus a padlock. The sign on the flap read: MAIL SLOT FOR ALL SUITES IN BUILDING.

  Perry climbed the shadowed wooden stairs. Smelled radiator heat and lemon floor polish. He reached the top landing, let the air and quiet settle around him.

  Four doors waited, two on each side of the dimly lit hall.

  Words on the two doors at the far end of the hall were readable. The solid door on the left held a handmade sign: COFFEEHOUSE OFFICE. Blue paint formed the word SUPPLIES on the also solid wooden door across the hall.

  The two doors closest to the stairs were glass.

  The glass door on the right held black lettering: DISTRICT ASSEMBLY FIELD OFFICE.

  Gilt lettering on the glass door across the hall read: CYRUS TWEED.

  Perry glanced into the government “district” office: low-bid desk and computer setup, gray file cabinets, colorful posters for Long Island, New York City, New York State. Three steel chairs waited in a line for someone to come sit behind the big desk.

  The “Cyrus Tweed” door showed a woman sitting on the desk, her dress high on sleekly stockinged legs as she straightened the hair of the beefy man in the big chair.

  Perry’s blitz entrance startled them. The beefy man jerked back in his chair as the woman whirled to scan the intruder. She wore hennaed hair to her jaw, red lipstick to match, makeup that triumphed rather than hid her forty-some years. The rusty-haired woman beamed seasoned sensuality.

  Perry flashed on Angel in a steamy shower.

  As the redhead slid to her well-shod feet, the beefy guy behind the desk bellowed: “Hey, we’re about to close up shop for the day, but how are you?”

  “Here,” said Perry.

  The woman said: “I’ll check on those constituent issues.”

  She swayed past Christo on her way across the hall, gave him a crimson smile and the scent of musk.

  The door closed behind her as Perry watched Cyrus Tweed watch her go.

  The politician felt the stranger’s eyes on him, shot out his right hand: “Call me Cy, Cy Tweed. Cyrus sounds too—”

  “Whatever,” Perry said as he claimed the visitor’s chair.

  The mahogany desk matched the wood paneling hung with oil paintings, plaques, and spotless framed photographs of Cy playing golf with and sunset beach partying with and backstage rock concerting with and black-tie events with Hollywood stars and billionaires. One photo showed his colleagues on the floor of the state assembly applauding Cy. Portraits of him shaking hands with the current and other-partied former president of the United States hung on his wall. So did a photo of his wife and children.

  Cy said: “And you are . . . ?”

  Guy like this, thought Perry, his every breath is a lie. Hit him hard, fast, straight.

  The private eye said: “Angel.”

  The politician peered around the man sitting in front of his desk to look through the glass of his closed office door and across the hall into the public official’s office where the redhead had gone, told his visitor: “I . . . I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “But you know who I’m talking about.”

  “Did she send you?”

  “I work for people who care about her.”

  “Whoever they are, it isn’t her they care about. Me, I—”

  “You’re a busy man. Your wife and kids. Your ‘whoever she is’ across the hall.”

  “Gwen is . . . a really public-spirited citizen. Volunteers to run my local office.”

  “You mean your office across the hall,” said Perry.

  The vision rose in him and came out like the narration of a movie: “You’re the fixer. All those groups who get mail here—left wing, right wing, Wall Street, union lovers, tree huggers, developers: all the groups are shells run by you and your volunteer. Gwen’s probably on what books they keep. You take money from whoever and funnel it to wherever—for a handling percentage, sure, that’s only fair, because you’re the guy who buys results without fingerprints. Sometimes it’s good: a Hollywood star wants to save the planet, so he gives the group you run a check and you pass most of it along to save the whales. Sometimes it’s a big-money boy who sends you a couple hundred thou’ to launder to the national groups who anyway barely need to explain the millions they spend to buy presidential campaigns.

  “Plus the cash that gets dropped in that steel box. The real dirty money you wash. Say from a Mexican cartel giving you dollars to support tough-drug-law candidates so the illegal market stays intact.”

  Cy said: “I never do nothing for guys like that!”

  “Good to know you’ve got lines. Or at least a price that hasn’t been met yet.”

  Perry shook his head. “I almost forgot about the coffee shop! No customers, but I bet it bangs out business on the books. Who owns it? Some corporate name? Just like who owns this building where the taxpayers and those political groups pay rent? Your own campaign always has the most dollars, plus you arrange contributions for other officials who do you favors you charge the big boys for. You get it coming and going.”

  “You’ve got nothing on me!”

  “Don’t make me try . . . What about Angel?”

  “You can’t tell anybody about her! Is this about the pictures?”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “She said they were out there. I just wanted her to . . . ”

  “What does she want?”

  “She . . . She wanted more from me. For me to . . . to do more.”

  “You mean . . . marry her?”

  “I don’t—No. She said I was blowing a chance to do and be somebody important. Hell, here, like this, I’m bigger than anybody thinks. I am somebody!”

  “And you have the thanks of a grateful nation.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Perry tossed his card on the desk, watched as it was scanned then scooped out of sight.

  Cy said: “Those pictures . . . ” Again he peered toward the office across the hall. Said: “They can’t get out!”

  “You’re not worried about your wife—you’re worried about your partner, that it?”

  “Either one could ruin me. If one does, the other will, too.” Cy shrugged. “Alone, my wife would just force a quiet settlement.”

  “But your volunteer . . . ”

  “Gwen.” The elected state official shook his head. “Gwen has to believe—know—that she’s my . . . that she and I . . . If she knew about Angel, she’d burn down the house. She accepts my wife: that’s a . . . a carrying cost. But Angel . . . ”

  “If you dump Gwen, she could cut a deal and send you to jail—”

  “What I do is essentially legal!”

  “Or just take the empire from you, make you her puppet instead of a partner.”

  “She loves me enough to do worse than that. I’ve got to keep it that way. Those pictures, even though Angel left me—”

  “When did Angel leave you?”

  “When the clocks stopped.” He shrugged. “A week or so ago. Right after she figured out . . . what you figured out.”

  Perry laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just left a man who doesn’t dare fuck the woman he has, and now I’m with a man who doesn’t dare not fuck the woman he has.”

  “Is that other guy tied to Angel?” Cy smiled. “She doesn’t like amateurs.” He leaned across the desk to whisper: “Where is she?”

  Perry leaned forward until their faces were barely a kiss away. “Missing.”

  Cy paled under his tan. “How . . . What happened?”

  “The cops found her empty car but not her.”

  “Cops? Do they know about—I can squeeze the sheriff. Or State Police, locals.”

  Don’t give him Gawain’s name! Perry said: “As far as I know, no badges know about you and Angel.”

  Cy stared into lost time.

  The private detective said: “Where would she go? Who is she afraid of?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She was . . . too disappointed.”

  “If she gets in touch, surprise her and do the smart thing: call me.”

  “When you find her . . . Tell her I’m still here for her.”

  Perry frowned. “You want her back even though she’s big trouble?”

  “She’s worth all that. More.”

  Perry left that office. Looked through another door’s glass and caught the redheaded woman sitting behind a cheap government desk staring back at him. He felt the weight of his cell phone on his hip. Envisioned the picture of Angel caught by a creep who saw and wanted and tried to capture the redeeming essence beyond her mere physical beauty, her sensual hunger. A creep like that, that strong of emotion, people killed for less. And the redheaded woman staring at him now, Perry’d seen that kind of jealousy paid out in too many corpses, just like he’d seen the deaths caused by the tangle of desperations embodied in the politician named Tweed who could have found his courage in an explosion of violence in some curtained room. But she can’t be dead, not Angel, not someone that vibrant. Not before I . . .

  Don’t finish that thought. Any of those thoughts.

  He walked down the long dark stairs into the dying light of the day.

  Walking through that town has made you excited and furious and frustrated all at once, and it’s not just the waiting and following, but the feelings you’ve stored up like a hive of bees buzzing in your brain.

  But you’re cool, no one can tell, walking slow, acting normal, smiling when people pass, some smiling back, no idea of the murderous thoughts that are going through your mind, thinking how you will do whatever you need to do, how you will not let anyone get in the way, the whole time tamping down the feeling that you are going to explode.

  You watched the PI go to that garage again and then to see that politician, and you wondered what that could be about and if it will help you get closer to your destination—to your destiny. But you just get back into the rental car and drive down the lonely stretch of highway, driving as the sun sets and you hold on, clinging to the idea that soon, soon you will have it all.

  11

  KEN BRUEN

  Perry cursed. Damn if he wasn’t in a foul mood, all this driving, all these unanswered questions and not any closer to finding Angel.

  The East Hampton cop was still unavailable, so he’d decided to pay Norman Loki a surprise visit, tell him they’d found his daughter’s car but not his daughter. Not exactly good news.

  Growing dark now as he drove back up to the Montauk house. His car seemed embarrassed to be asked to appear in such surroundings. A PI’s car that harked back to the glory days of Rockford.

  Save Perry was no Jim Garner. Not even close. Past forty, he felt it, the driving, the garage brawl, the past two days of interviews had drained him, dealing with liars and, yeah, scum.

  Scum like Randy Hyde. And now that politico creep, Tweed.

  Would test the best of men.

  Perry was not even close to his best, whatever that was. This acidic line of thought always led to the shame, the dismissal from the force and all the other cluster fucks of his life.

  Being a cop, straight out, he’d freaking loved it. Was proud to carry the shield. His ex, Noreen, used to accuse, “You don’t bend Perry, you’re too . . . rigid.”

  Not the first time he heard that. But it enraged him even now, like being honest was a crime. Fuck it, maybe he’d been too honest.

  His buddies on the sheet, taking firstly nickel-and-dime crap, moving on up, and fast, to serious shit, serious dirt.

  A dirty cop.

  Hung that on him, Jesus H. Christ, not as much as a damn burger on the lam and Internal sneering:

  “Count yer blessings, pal, you ain’t doing time.”

  Doing time?!

  Like having that jacket for the rest of his woebegone life, like that wasn’t a sentence?

  His ex. Believe this? Saying to his daughter, who was all of nine years old then, “Daddy’s a crook.” Okay, not exactly Noreen’s words, but close enough.

  You wanna talk criminal?

  Yeah, her goddamn lawyer, that’s who.

  Perry could feel it, all the bile and self-pity and, yes, fury he always tried so damn hard to keep under wraps rising. Damn, he was tired.

  And now he had to deal with this damn lawyer with his damn house on the beach, and, like, did the guy even give a toss about his daughter? He hardly seemed upset last time he’d been out here.

  Perry mentally composed himself, willed steel into his eyes, thought Today, buddy—trust me—today you are going to give a damn!

  But hell, was he just thinking about himself, about the fact that he’d lost his daughter and his wife along with his shield and still wasn’t over it, never would be?

  He looked up at the house, even on this drab, cold, February eve, the house seemed to whisper, Yo, dipshit, this ain’t never . . . ever going to be your abode.

  Right on the bluff overlooking the beach, and, fuck, a pool. You had the whole goddamn ocean—you needed a pool?

  Perry parked and walked over to have a look. Something floating on the water’s surface . . . Jesus, couldn’t be . . . used condoms? Like, wouldn’t they . . . sink? What the hell sort of pool parties was Norman Loki throwing?

  Shook himself, Get straight. Forget the damn pool. Forget your own bitterness. Stick to the case.

  Perry looked up. Saw a face at the window.

  Loki?

  Last visit, Loki had been alone. Except for the Adonis trainer.

  But hell, why did he feel like this was a goddamn contest? Just ’cause the guy didn’t seem to care, didn’t make him guilty. Or did it? Maybe Perry just wanted to fight with a man, a father, who had it all and didn’t seem to give a shit.

  This time, Perry had ammunition: the interview with the politician, finding Angel’s car, the shifty mechanic part-time boyfriend—oh yeah, different ball game this time. Okay, not exactly ammo, but info. And information was power, isn’t that what they said? Whoever they were. He needed to feed it all back to Loki, see and hear how the man reacted.

  Before he rang the bell, he tried to smooth the wrinkles of his slacks, his beat-up trench, get that tough no-shit vibe going. He looked down at his old dress shoes, damp and scuffed. Not so dressy anymore.

  Physically shook himself, muttered, “Christo, goddamn it, get a grip. This isn’t about you.”

  Pushed the bell and was once again treated to a few bars of “The Impossible Dream.”

  Fuck on a pretentious bike.

  He heard footsteps, slow, no hurry there then, the door eased open.

  Norman, drink in hand, in shorts, garish maroon number, bare feet, and, worse, a bare chest. He said, “Salesmen to the back door.”

  Perry said, “There have been some developments.”

  Norman continued to look at him, like, Who the fuck are you, dude? And nervously glanced toward the back of the house. Something was off, Perry felt it.

  He asked, “May I come in, sir?” Managing to leak a bit of edge on the sir.

  Norman waved him in, peering closely at him, then said, “Got it, you’re the private dick.”

  “How soon we forget.” Perry sighed, asked, “If you could maybe put a shirt on?”

  “Whoa, Shamus, take a chill pill, life’s a beach, man.” Loki laughed.

  The guy was even more stoned than last time. Perry wanted to slug him, hard and often, bring him back to reality. He knew he was taking something out on Loki that he wanted to take out on Randy Hyde or Cyrus Tweed or maybe even himself. But still.

  Norman ambled off to grab a shirt, said, “Grab a pew, pilgrim.”

  He’d affected some sort of stoner accent that slipped among, maybe, six different tones.

  Perry sank into a leather sofa, and as it creaked and groaned, got up, moved to a hard wicker job. He could hear muted voices from the back and an angry buzz building. He took out his notebook, the police-issue one, a futile link to his glory days, if glory meant a job you relished.

  Then Norman was back, a T-shirt with a faded logo of Jerry Garcia and the words BE GRATEFUL, DEAD.

  He moved to a bar in the corner, asked, “What’s your poison?”

  Jesus. Perry said, “Some water would be good.”

  Norman turned, a highball glass in his hand, pushed. “No Long Island Tea? Rock your mundane world—you ain’t lived until you’ve got on the other side of ol’ Norm’s LIT . . . get it, LIT?”

  Not just stoned, bombed. On booze.

  Julia Drusilla’s words played again: He drinks. Or did. And when he does . . . you’ve never seen such a personality change.

  “Put the glass down,” Perry said.

  Norman gave him an inebriated stare.

  Time to rein him in. Perry said, “We found Angel’s car.”

  Norman didn’t seem to hear him, fixed a lethal amount of some colored mess, drank deep, shuddered, said, “We? Or Five–O did, and you’re, like, grabbing the headline?”

  Perry said, “The normal response would be to ask if she was in it.”

  “What?” Norman gulped more booze, barked off a short laugh, said, “And where the be-jaysus would be the mystery in that?” This said in a very bad Irish lilt. He drained the glass. Then said, “You accusing me of something?” but didn’t wait for an answer, already adding more alcohol to his drink.

  Perry really needed to get this schmuck’s attention and snapped, “Do I have to say it again? In a few days, Angel will come into a sizable inheritance; it’s vital she’s around to sign the document. You forget that, or you too stoned to remember?”