“Keep doing that and you’ll fall over,” I say, feeling cold at the sight of him. Rage rises in me, months-long rage, rage I’ve nursed as summer turned to autumn and autumn to young winter. “Get that shit off him.”

  Flint tears the duct tape from around his head. I notice that bits of grey hair cling to the sticky side of the duct tape before Flint tosses it away. Then Max Smithson is talking, his words tumbling out quickly: “Are you mad? I’m an FBI agent! Are you completely mad? What’s the matter with you? How do you think this will end for you? The FBI don’t have a track record of being kind to men like you, you fool! They’ll kill you. Some brave agent will put a bullet in your head, file a report claiming it was justified, and nobody will bat an eyelid. Do you understand?”

  I stare at him, saying nothing.

  His lips quiver, his eyes searching the room. Then he launches into another speech. “Okay, okay, if you’ve been following me you must know that I have lots of money, places in Cali, and places in Texas, too, though they’re off the record. I have over two-hundred thousand dollars in three separate bank accounts. I can make this right. How much will it cost to make this right?”

  “Cost,” I repeat. Flint chuckles darkly. I approach the man, kneeling to my haunches so that we’re eye to eye. “Cost is a funny word to use in this situation. Cost implies that something was bought, or can be bought. What do you think you’re gonna buy?”

  “My ... my life!” A tear rolls down Max Smithson’s cheek.

  “Your life was forfeit the day you started working for Mickey, old man.”

  He spits in my face, a phlegmy globule that hits under my eye and slides down my cheek. “Your father was a mob boss! Your father was a criminal! If I had anything to do with his death—I’m not saying I did, but if I did—do you really think you’re ... you’re morally justified in taking my life? Do you really think you can kill me and have it be okay? If I am working with Mickey, it’s only because I’ve—”

  I wipe the spit from my face with my sleeve. “You gave Mickey the location of my father. You had FBI men tailing my father, telling them it was for a case, and then you gave Mickey the location. The other men have been dealt with. They’ll go back to being FBI men now, or they’ll run, or they’ll die. But you—I can’t let you get away like that.”

  He squints at me, trying to work out the words beneath my words. Maybe he’s guessed that I know.

  “You want me to believe that you worked with Mickey to bring down my dad. That’s all. That’s the furthest it went, eh?” I hold out my hand, and Flint places the piece of paper in it. “Lexi Connington, Samantha Priestley, Isabella Jones, Charlene Thomas, Alexendria—”

  “Stop this nonsense!” Max roars. “Stop this right now! Stop this before I have you killed, you fucking cunt! You stupid boy!”

  I finish the list, talking through his roaring outrage. When I’m done, I let the paper flutter to the floor.

  “You didn’t work with Mickey to bring down the mob, Mr. Smithson.” I think of Scar, working under this man for years. I think of Scar in her FBI getup, her jacket, and her black trousers. I think of this man, this old perverted fuck, eyeing her up and wondering what he could do to her if he got her alone. My jaw aches from clenching it. My knuckles feel like they might burst out of my skin, I’m clenching my fists so hard. “You worked with Mickey because he went out, picked up hookers, and brought them to a room he owned in the middle of nowhere—a room you used to rape, torture, and kill them.”

  “You’re mad!” Max Smithson snaps. “You’re out of your mind—”

  Flint takes out the cellphone and starts playing the video. As it plays, I wish I was with Scar, holding her. The world is too dark and messed up to be alone. The camera is set high up in the room, looking down with a clear view of what this man is doing to these innocent girls.

  “He recorded it all, you stupid bastard,” I say. “He was going to use it against you one day, when you finally remembered you had a conscience.”

  “Will you ask him to turn that off?” His voice is whiney, pathetic. My fingernails, short as they are, scrape against my palm.

  “Flint.”

  He returns his cellphone to his pocket.

  “So you’ve figured it all out. Well done. What a clever boy you are. So why am I not dead? I told Mickey where to find your father. And I—you can say I hurt those girls. But if you watch carefully, you’ll see them wriggling in pleasure. And if you listen carefully, you’ll hear them moaning in pleasure.” His eyes are glassed over, like he’s not really here. For years, Scar had to call this man ‘sir.’ After this, I tell myself, I’ll reconnect with her. Damn opposite sides. There’s no such thing as opposite sides when you care this much about somebody. There can’t be. “So why wasn’t I just killed, instead of brought here?”

  “You that eager to die?” Flint laughs.

  “No, not eager to die. But eager to get out of this fucking chair. Look, listen, just listen to me, all right? What do you want?”

  “We need to know where Mickey is staying,” I say. “We know it must be one of my dad’s hideouts, but which one? He had a few.”

  Max Smithson starts to cry, the tears sliding down his cheeks. “You know I can’t tell you that.” He blubbers, sniffling. He goes from an outraged psychopathic killer to a weeping child in a matter of seconds. “You know I can’t tell you that!” he cries. “The man is—the man is—the man isn’t a man! He’s a monster! He’s something out of nightmares. If I tell you that, I’m dead!”

  I jump at him, wrapping my hands around his throat just enough to show him how strong I am. “If you don’t tell me, you’re dead. What difference does it make? Listen to me, you old perverted fuck. You’ve done worse things than any man I ever knew in the mob. You’ve done worse things than my father ever fuckin’ dreamed of. And now you’re gonna sit there and tell me you can’t give me shit? I bet you had fantasies about her, didn’t you? Every damn day, every damn time she was in your office, you were looking at her and dreaming your sick dreams. Dreaming your sick dreams about the woman I love! Do you hear that, you psychotic old fuck? The woman I love! Not anymore! Not anymore!”

  I don’t know how long I hold my hands around his throat, only that when I finally let go my fingers are aching and Max Smithson’s face is a strange color. Flint is talking, but I can’t make out any words. My ears are ringing. I stumble away, sitting with my back to the boxes and taking slow breaths. The woman I love, I repeat in my head. The woman I love. It’s this realization, as much as killing the man, that is hitting me with the force of a truck. I love Scar. It doesn’t matter that our time together was short; I want to have more. It doesn’t matter if we’re on different sides; I want to close that gap. I ache for her with an almost supernatural longing. I don’t understand it. It’s like she’s another half of me, calling out to me.

  Standing up and shaking my head, I try to get all this soppy shit out, but fail. I go to Flint. “I need you to call the others. I need to know Scarlet O’Bannon’s location. Urgently.”

  I’m done being apart from her. One of the men responsible for my father’s death is dead. We’ll go after the other man together.

  I leave the old killer in his chair and walk into the warehouse, breathing in the cold air, and opening and closing my eyes to try and work the ache out of them.

  “They’re looking for her, boss,” Flint says. “Let me get this bastard cleaned up, and we’ll have some coffee.”

  “All right.”

  THREE HOURS LATER, with Max Smithson given a mob funeral and Davey and Sebastian out looking for Scar, Flint and I sit near the cigarette boxes drinking black coffee and eating takeaway pizza that Flint picked up on his way back from the burial. I try and not let my mind go crazy, but the more time passes, the more I think about the videos on Flint’s phone and how Scar could’ve been one of those women. How easy would it have been for Mickey to wait for Scar outside her apartment building and hit her over the head? The thought of Scar tied to the bed just like those girls—I swallow, telling myself I shouldn’t let my mind stray here. Nothing good can come of it. All I know is I need her. All I know is leaving her was a mistake.

  Finally, once the sun has started to set and Flint has dragged out the electric radiator, Sebastian returns. Normally Sebastian is a grinning, cool twenty-year-old with a goatee and a ponytail. He dresses flashy, in suits with watches and sometimes a chain around his neck. Now his goatee, normally blonde, is stained red. His ponytail has come loose and his hair is hanging in tatters around his shoulders. His suit jacket is torn at one arm, his trousers scuffed and bloody. All his jewelry is gone.

  “He killed him,” he whispers, taking the seat I offer him. “I was at her apartment. I mean me and Davey were at her apartment, waiting for her. He came out of nowhere, man. Out of nowhere. We were listening to the game on the radio and shooting the shit and then—bang, fuckin’ bang—the windows shattered and there was Mickey, lifting Davey out of the car like he was a toy. He lifted him over his head and slammed him down on the broken windowpane. His neck was all cut up, gashed to pieces. He smiled at me and said, ‘You all die unless Cor accepts me as Don.’ That’s what he said, looking into my eyes like some kind of fuckin’ psycho.”

  “What about Scarlet O’Bannon? What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know.” Sebastian’s eyes are red. He looks scared, like a little kid. “No, wait. Mickey said ... what was it? My head ... yes! He said, ‘Tell Cor he was always selfish.’ What does that mean?”

  “Shit!” It means he’s going for Scar!

  Head down, sprinting, I make for the door.

  Chapter 3

  Scarlet

  The problem of seeing Cor everywhere I look is heightened as I go from bar to bar, searching for him. I go into six bars and see six different men who could be Cor. I can’t explain this aching I have for him. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. I think back over my brief flings in the academy, and then afterward, on the job. I try to work out if any of them made me feel anything close to this. Some of them made me feel something, at least I had thought so at the time. But comparing it with this, all my past relationships—not that any of them were relationships—seem petty and trivial. I was just playing at feeling something. As I roam the streets, searching for him, I imagine the two of us in bed together, not even having sex, but just lying there with hot chocolate watching bad TV. Right now, that seems like heaven.

  I approach the barman at the seventh bar with a photograph of Cor ready on my phone. “Excuse me,” I say. “Have you seen with man around here, maybe sometime yesterday?” The man barely even looks at me. None of them do. He just glances at the photograph and shakes his head. “Are you sure?” I don’t move, just standing there with the photograph in his face. “He can be quite charming. Maybe he cracked a joke. He has an Irish-American accent.” The man shakes his head firmly, and I’m forced to leave.

  I walk down the street, wondering what Max Smithson is up to. I learned about his absence this morning when I got into work. Nobody’s heard from him. I wonder if he’s with Mickey somewhere, planning something. I wonder if it’s time to enact our plan with Moira, but the idea of it makes me feel dirty and mean. I just wish I could turn all this back—that we could sit in The Leprechaun and flirt without pain and violence. I even find myself longing for that two-bed motel room. It seems like a lifetime ago that I pulled a gun on Cor.

  I tell myself that I’m continuing my investigation, but really, I know that it’s my desire to reclaim a tiny piece of the past that sends me to The Leprechaun. The model leprechaun out front has been painted since I was last there. Now it’s bright green, his face a healthy pink color. Inside, the place has been fully converted to make it family friendly. Nothing of the old, grimy décor survives. Everything is smooth, with clean surfaces, brand-new, bright-green cushioned couches for the booths, and stylish chairs for the tables; even the barstools have new green cushions. As I enter, a teenager with braces, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, smiles and says, “Top of the morning to you, lassie. Do you have an appointment?” She has the strongest New York accent I’ve ever heard, without a hint of Irish.

  I shake my head and go to the bar. It’s afternoon, so I order a diet coke and sit there, listening to the Irish folk songs that play quietly beneath the sound of families talking, people laughing, and glasses clinking together. It will be time to pass on Moira’s whereabouts to the mob soon, I think, with a pit in my stomach. Pass on her whereabouts and use her as bait. I sip my coke, feeling rotten. The only upside is that it will all be controlled. If Mickey himself comes to pick her up, we’ll get him right there and then. If it’s one of Mickey’s cronies, we’ll follow him and have our people move in for the arrest. Moira knows that something like this might happen. She’s asked about it several times, looking at me with an expression that reminds me of Cor—brave and ready to do what’s necessary.

  “It will be controlled,” I tell myself, but I don’t feel any better about it. Sometimes being in the FBI sucks.

  I’m about to leave when a huge man sits next to me. He’s so big that I have to crane my neck to look up into his face. It’s the ugliest face I’ve ever seen. His nose has been broken too many times to count, and it’s crooked and bent out of shape. His eyes are close together, one a dim blue and the other a dirty green. His mouth is small and mean, and he doesn’t have a chin. His lower lip seems to lead directly into his neck. His hair is a bowl cut, black specked with grey. He must be seven feet, or maybe taller, wearing a clean, cheap grey suit that’s too tight for him, stretching at the arms. I know the face well. I’ve stared it at in FBI files enough times over the past two months. It’s Mickey MacFarland.

  On instinct, I reach for my gun. Mickey shakes his giant head. “If you do that, I’ll have to crush your skull. People think it’s very difficult to crush a skull. They think a skull is such a strong thing. But it’s not, especially if your hands are strong and used to crushing skulls.” He pauses thoughtfully. “My hands are strong and used to crushing skulls. Little lady skulls. You might have a gun and a suit and shoes and all the things women cover themselves in to try and feel like men, but you’re still a little lady. Don’t forget that. Put your hands on the bar and don’t make a scene. You know I’ll kill you here. I wouldn’t like that very much, but I will.”

  In one of the files I’ve read, Mickey MacFarland broke a man’s back by throwing him to the floor and kicking him once. One swift kick to the back, and the man will never walk again. In another, he slaughtered two prostitutes by hacking them to pieces with an axe. In another ... fear roots me to the chair. Slowly, I bring my hands to the bar and lay them flat. For a few seconds my FBI training drifts way, but I wrench it back. I have to try and talk with him.

  His barstool creaks as he leans forward to gesture to the barmaid. “Excuse me,” he says, in a polite voice. “Would it be too much trouble if you brought me a lemonade, please? Thank you.” When he turns to me, his smile is all gums. “Manners make people think you’re a nice man. I like that.”

  The barmaid brings him the lemonade. When she asks me if I want anything, I shake my head, smiling like everything’s okay. Mickey is insane. I’m sure of it. Calculating and clever in his own way, but also insane. You can’t do the things he’s done and be sane.

  “Aren’t you thirsty?” he asks, concern in his voice. He has a voice that can shift at will. One second he’s menacing and the next he’s my old friend asking me what’s wrong. “You have to stay hydrated, although coke isn’t very good for that. You see, coke has caffeine in it and caffeine dehydrates you. Once I had strep throat and the doctor told me to say away from coke and drink water instead. I told him I liked the fizziness, so he said fizzy water. But I didn’t like that either. In the end we settled on lemonade. Would you like to try some?” After taking a sip, he thrusts the glass into my face. When he leans across, I see the guns inside his jacket—a sawn-off shotgun and a pistol dangling in a holster.

  “I’m okay, thank you—”

  He pushes the glass until it’s pressed against my lips. It’s either sip or let it spill over myself. I mean to take a small sip, but Mickey tips the glass so I’m forced to gulp it all down.

  “There’s a good girl.” He smiles, patting me on the back. I lurch forward. His strength is unbelievable. One hit and he could send me through the bar. He would, too. That’s the scariest part. I’ll play along until I get a chance to go for my gun, then I’ll end this. “Aren’t you a good girl?” He squints at me with his mismatched eyes. “Oh, yes, you are. You are a very good girl. Do you know how I know that? Because you’ve been so good about not catching me. All the things I’ve done, but you still let me walk free. What a good, kind girl you are.”

  “It makes it easier when you have contacts within the FBI, doesn’t it?” I smile back at him, hoping to give him the impression that we’re two equals having a conversation—hoping to make him comfortable enough to turn his back.

  “Not anymore. Your friend Cor took care of that. He was always a pesky brat, Cor was, always getting in the way where he wasn’t wanted. His father, my uncle, loved me more than anybody. I was his favorite. He never said it, because he knew it would offend his little darlings, but it was obvious. Cor was jealous.”

  “What do you mean, not anymore?” I think of Max Smithson. “What’s happened?”

  “I had three contacts,” he says breezily. It’s an agent’s dream, their suspect confessing without even having to be questioned. “Well, five contacts, but the two you messed with on the road had to be let go ... Two of my current contacts have gone into hiding. Max Smithson will be dead right now. Cor won’t let him live.”

  “Cor won’t kill him for spying on the FBI. He’s not FBI.”