“I want to be honest with her. Do things right.”

“Get serious. She’s not going to forgive and forget. You tell her and it’s over. Is that what you want?”

“I can’t live the rest of my life wondering if she’s going to find out.”

“How’s she going to find out? You’re taking her out of the country. It’s a big world out there. What are the chances of running into someone who—lo and behold—knows what went on? You got what, a handful of people in on the story, all of ’em on your payroll. I wouldn’t sweat it if I were you.”

He turned and looked at her. “I live with you all these years and this is how you think?”

“It’s called common sense. Using the old noggin. Looking before you leap.”

“It’s a rationalization. Finding a way to save your own skin at someone else’s expense.”

“It’s not costing her anything. How’s she going to know?”

And that was the question she left him with, last thing out of her mouth before he helped her carry her bags down to the car and watched her disappear down the drive. End of Lola. Over and done.

Through the tinted windows of the limousine, the quality of the light changed, and he realized Tomasso had slowed at the mouth of the parking garage and was nosing the limo down the incline. Dante returned the report to his briefcase and idly watched the concrete walls slide by, support posts, low ceiling, the exit ramp coming up on his right. Tomasso pulled to the curb near the entrance to Macy’s. The backside elevators to the office floors were located to the right, often unnoticed by shoppers as they passed the spot, intent on something else.

Hubert got out on the passenger side and came around to the rear to open the door for him. As Dante emerged from the car, the elevator doors opened and a young woman stepped out. Dante took in the sight of her—jeans, black turtleneck, and a big slouchy shoulder bag—with a curious sense of familiarity. It was unusual to see anyone in the parking garage at so early an hour. Hubert shifted his weight, automatically, blocking her access to his boss. The woman stopped and Dante saw recognition flicker in her eyes as she looked from his big bodyguard to the limousine. Dante couldn’t remember ever seeing her, but she seemed to know him.

He was about to move past her when she spoke up. “Could I talk to you?”

“About what?”

Hubert said, “Miss . . .”

“You’re Lorenzo Dante. I was just in your office looking for you.”

“Who are you?”

Hubert was saying, “Please, Miss. Could you step away from the car . . .” These were standard phrases he’d learned. Anyone hearing him would think he knew English well, but as it turned out, in his job, fluency wasn’t required unless it came to guns and hand-to-hand combat, at which he was truly gifted.

“Hubert, would you cool it? I’m having a conversation here.”

He said, “Sorry, boss,” but kept a watchful eye on the interchange.

“I’m Kinsey Millhone. I’m a friend of Pinky’s.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“Last night Pinky and your brother got into a shoot-out and Pinky’s wife was hit in the crossfire. She’s in bad shape and Pinky’s worried sick about her medical bills.”

“I’m not seeing the relevance.”

“Pinky had a set of photographs to give you, only your brother got there first and destroyed both the prints and the negatives.”

“Photographs of what?”

“Cappi and Len Priddy chatting together in a parked car on six different occasions. Your brother sold you out.”

Dante stared at her for a moment while he decided what to do and then he said, “Get in.”

He stood aside while she slung her shoulder bag into the back of the limousine and slid in after it, shifting both herself and her bag over to the long side seat. When she was settled, he ducked in and took his usual place. To Tomasso, he said, “Take a drive. I’ll tell you when it’s time to bring us back.”

Before Tomasso pulled away, he triggered the mechanism that closed the panel between the front seat and the rear of the car. By then, Hubert was back in the front seat. Dante was intent on the woman sitting to his left. She was somewhere in her thirties, more girl than woman as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t decide what to make of her. She was small-boned with a ragged mop of dark hair she must have chopped off herself. Hazel eyes, her nose ever so slightly crooked. He could tell she’d been banged up, but he couldn’t imagine why. He said, “How do you know Pinky? You don’t look like the lowlife type.”