“This is Sean Meriden. Gerald King left this number with my service, asked me to call about a job.”

“Yes, I made that call, Mr. Meriden. I presume you know who I am?”

“Gerald King died five years ago,” Sean pointed out. “It was in all the papers. He your dad, or is this your idea of a clever alias?”

“There was an attempt made on my life five years ago,” King said. “To prevent another, I have since allowed the general public to believe the first was successful.”

King had been a complete recluse before he’d died—or had faked his death—so his story was almost plausible. “Are the police involved in your charade, or this job you want done?” Meriden avoided butting heads with the NYPD whenever possible.

“Not at all. I prefer working with independent contractors. Excuse me for a moment.” He continued speaking for a minute, but he must have covered the receiver, because Meriden couldn’t make out more than the muffled sound of his voice. Then he said, “I would like to hire you to find my daughter Alana, Mr. Meriden. I haven’t seen her since she ran away from home, but according to the latest information I’ve been given, she was seen in Manhattan yesterday.”

Meriden felt oddly relieved. “I’m sorry, Mr. King, but I don’t work missing persons cases. I’m strictly bond jumpers and parole violators.”

“When you find Alana and bring her home, I will pay you five hundred thousand dollars,” King said as if he hadn’t heard him. “In cash, if you prefer.”

He rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t matter if you pay me in gold coins, sir. My answer is still the same. I don’t do runaways.”

“I believe I can persuade you to change your mind.”

Meriden checked his watch; he had only seven hours left before he’d have to call it a day. “I believe we’re done, Mr. King.”

“Not yet,” the old man said. “Would you turn around for a moment, please?”

Surprised by the request, he looked over his shoulder, and then turned. A heavyset man in a parka stood a few feet behind him. He was making short work of a pastrami sandwich half wrapped in greasy deli paper. When Meriden met his gaze, he scowled.

“You gonna be all day, pal?” the fat man asked. “I’m freezing my ass off here.”

“Watch,” he heard King say over the line.

Meriden heard a hiss, and the man waiting to use the phone flinched and clapped a hand to the back of his head. His eyes widened as his hand, now wet with blood, slid away. The half-eaten sandwich hit the icy sidewalk a moment before the fat man’s knees did, and then disappeared under the heavy body as the man toppled sideways and didn’t move again.

As a passing woman stopped and screamed, Meriden saw the neat bullet hole at the base of the man’s skull.

“I can arrange the same thing to happen to you,” King said softly. “At any time, in any place. As with that unfortunate gentleman on the sidewalk, there would be no warning at all.”

“All right.” He heard sirens approaching. “What do you want?”

“As I said, I want you to find Alana—”

As flashing lights appeared at the end of the next block, Meriden hung up the phone and wove his way through the gathering crowd around the body until he broke free of bodies. He pulled his car out of the parking space a few moments before the patrol cars arrived, and used the momentary traffic disruption to make a U-turn and drive away from the murder scene.

He watched his rearview to see if he was being followed while taking several unnecessary turns. Once he felt safe, he went directly to the garage. He left the Mustang parked in the bay, let himself out onto the roof, and stood watching the street for an hour.

Gerald King was crazy, of that he was convinced. But if he went to the cops with this story, they’d lock him up as a suspect or send him over to Bellevue. The last thing he needed was to spend a night in a holding cell or on a psych ward. He could hear the sound of the phone in the garage office below ringing, and his gut told him it was King.

Meriden climbed down the back fire escape stairwell and went on foot to D’Anges, where he used his key to get inside and head up to his apartment. Fortunately he kept very little in the way of personal possessions, so it would take him only a few minutes to pack up. Then he saw the stack of money and note left on his kitchen table.

Dansant had left the note, which Meriden read then swore. The bike in the alley belonged to Dansant’s new girlfriend, and he wanted Meriden to fix it. His fucking lordship had taken on another damsel in distress. Well, this time he’d have to walk away from his new charity case. They had to get out of the city now, before King tracked them down.

Meriden was just closing his suitcase when the phone rang. No one had the number here, not even the girls at the answering service. The phone, like the apartment and the restaurant, belonged to Dansant. He considered tossing it through the window before he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Meriden,” King’s dry voice said. “Perhaps one demonstration was not adequate. Shall I arrange another?”

“You’ll kill me whenever you like, King,” he said. “Whether I take the job or not. So have your shooter do me now, because I’ll burn in hell before I work for you.”

“An interesting response—not at all what I’d expected. I myself don’t believe in hell.” He paused. “It seems you have a new neighbor. I think you’ll find the surveillance photos of her with your landlord to be most interesting. An envelope should be delivered to you within the next minute.”

Meriden dropped the phone and went to the door, yanking it open. A kid wearing white ear buds and holding a plain brown envelope stood stooped over, and looked up in surprise.

“Hi. I’m supposed to stick this under the door.” He handed the envelope to Meriden, who grabbed the front of his ratty T-shirt. “Whoa.” He held up his hands. “I don’t know what it is. Some guy down the street paid me fifty bucks to deliver it, okay?”

“Yeah.” Meriden released him, shoved a five into the kid’s hand, and shut the door. He opened the envelope and took out a short stack of five-by-seven photos and a file folder. The pictures showed a sequential series of shots of a tall dark man leading a tall pale girl into the kitchen and treating her scraped knees. The condition of her clothes looked as if she’d slid across dirty concrete. He shuffled through the photos, studying them. Whoever the girl was, Dansant was definitely interested in her. One of the pictures showed him kneeling and looking up at her as if she were an angel.

Meriden went back and picked up the phone. “You get your rocks off peeping through windows, old man?”

King didn’t respond to the insult. “According to the sous-chef your landlord fired last night, her name is Rowan Dietrich. It seems Mr. Dansant paid for the damages she caused before he tended to her injuries and let her into the apartment across from yours. A great kindness on his part.”

The stupid bastard. “Neither of them have anything to do with me, King. I just live here.”

“Perhaps you have no history with Ms. Dietrich, but you and Jean-Marc Dansant are quite another matter.” King made a thoughtful sound. “The two of you met in Paris and traveled all over Europe together before coming to the States. He helped you finance your garage, while you supervised renovations for his restaurant. I don’t know how you were able to arrange his U.S. citizenship, but it was granted in a third of the time it usually takes.”

He thought they were friends. Meriden began to laugh.

“You think this is funny?” For the first time the old man sounded angry.

“Go ahead and shoot Dansant,” Meriden told him. “You’ll be doing me a personal favor.”

“What about Ms. Dietrich?”

He looked at the image of the battered girl. He had no interest in Dansant’s strays, but something about her eyes made his gut knot. “I don’t know her. She’s his problem, not mine.”

“Not the words of a born hero, Mr. Meriden,” King chided. “Rita Gonzalez would be so disappointed.”

He’d been monitoring the mobile, somehow. “Fuck you.”

The old man chuckled. “Given the charm of her voice, I was surprised to discover that Rita is a rather plain, plump woman of multiracial background. Too young to be a single mother of three, of course, but her kind always seems to breed indiscriminately. She walks fifteen blocks to work each day to save on subway fares. Her mother is already raising four grandchildren in a one-room flat, so I don’t imagine three more will be welcome.”

The information on Rita made it clear that King had been investigating him for some time. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’ve just received the background information on Ms. Dietrich.” King drank something. “It seems she was recently involved in some very unpleasant business in Atlanta. She’s wanted on multiple assault charges, vandalism, and various computer crimes. One of the corporations she defrauded is offering a sizable reward for her apprehension and return for prosecution.”

Meriden said nothing.

“I can arrange to have both Rita and Ms. Dietrich picked up today,” the old man continued. “Some of my employees are former convicts, you understand, and prefer to indulge some of their personal vices before they carry out their specific orders—”

“Enough.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll do it.”

“I thought you might.” King’s voice turned crisp. “The file in the envelope contains all the information you need to locate my daughter. Once you have her, you will bring her to me directly.” He gave Meriden the address of one of the last privately owned mansions in Manhattan. “One last thing I should mention. Your movements and your communications will be under constant surveillance. Any attempt on your part to involve the authorities in any capacity will result in the immediate execution of someone you know, starting with Ms. Gonzalez.”