“Of course.”

“Let me see it.”

“Sandro,” said Gregor with a snap of his fingers. “Briefcase.”

“While I look at this,” I said when he handed me the partnership agreement, “why don’t you call back that number and try to find out who the hell is whispering in your ear.”

The agreement was a typical partnership thing, party of the first part, party of the second part, all that legal jazz. It was dated not too long ago, which meant Miles stole the money shortly after it was placed in Wren’s business. Reading through the boilerplate was like wading through a steaming pile of legal muck without your boots on. Miles Cave was the general partner, which meant his name was up front and he was liable for all debts. The investment would be made in his name only. Gregor was a limited partner, which meant his participation could be hidden, even if he supplied the cash. All pretty normal, and the language was enough to induce an insomniac into coma, but as I read through it, I noticed something peculiar.

Most contracts detail the name of the lawyer who drafted them at the end, by either name or initials. This contract had nothing to indicate the drafter. But in even the most vile examples of legalese, something of the personality of the writer always comes through: a touch of humor, a penchant for showoffy words, a strange fear of spiders. And reading through this agreement, I was getting a whiff of personality. The drafter was both arrogant and imprecise in language, was quick with the formal phrase that said nothing except to let you know it was written by a lawyer, was careful to provide for all kinds of bizarre eventualities while allowing certain obvious loopholes to remain. In short, the lawyer who drafted this partnership agreement was an unpleasant weasel.

And I had a pretty good guess who the weasel was.

I looked up from the document. Gregor was on his cell phone. “So,” he said, “be nice fellow and tell me where you are.”

Pause.

“No, not what you are wearing, this is not that type of call. Just where you are, please.”

Pause.

“You don’t say. So thank you and have nice day.” He flipped closed his cell and looked at me. “Pay phone,” he said.

“Where?”

“Here. Philadelphia. Thirtieth Street Station.”

My eyes lit up. “Miles Cave is still in town.”

“So it appears.”

“Then we can find him.”

“Yes,” said Gregor. “The hunt is on. This will almost be enjoyable, though not as enjoyable as squeezing his head until his eyes pop out like avocado pits.”

“What about me?” I said.

“Believe me, Victor. If you have my money, I will enjoy squeezing out your eyes twice as much. Cruelty is always richer when the victim is someone you know.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said. “What I mean is that if I find the bastard for you, what do I get?”

“I told you already. The information about Wren wanting to have you killed, it disappears. That was my promise, and I intend to keep it.”

“I don’t really care anymore. The way things are going, your tepid piece of information is the least of my worries. If I find Miles, I’d be better off turning him over to the government. The D.A. would have a suspect, the trustee of Wren’s business would get his one point seven mil, and I’d be off the hook whatever you do.”

“I sense a scheme rising. What are you proposing, Victor?”

“I want a piece of the pie,” I said.

“Of whatever I recover?”

“That’s right.”

“Of my own money?”

“Exactly.”

“Go to hell.”

“I was thinking the bank.”

“It is impossible.”

“It is only fair.”

“It is not fair, it is robbery. But if what you want is your normal fee, paid on an hourly basis, then-”

“I wasn’t thinking of an hourly fee. This is a collection case, pure and simple, and lawyers in collection cases usually get a third.”

“Because they are greedy bastards.”

“That’s my club.”

“A dangerous club to belong to.”

“But prosperous.”

“As long as you live. But I might be able to see myself clear to giving you five percent.”

“Now you are insulting me.”

“That is absolutely my intention. And just so I am clear, you are ugly as well as greedy.”

“Give me a quarter and we’ll call it a deal.”

“Ten percent.”

“Not enough.”

“Twelve point five, then, and that is my final offer. Only if you find him first, and only from what I actually recover from the bastard.”

“Forget it. I’d rather snooze at the shore.”

“I could have Sandro kill you, painfully.”

I heard the sound of a switchblade opening in the front seat. Swish-click.

“Twelve point five it is,” I said cheerfully.

“So we are agreed. Good.”

The car pulled up to an intersection and stopped. “Is this all right, Mr. Trocek?” said Sandro.

“Perfect,” said Gregor. “Good hunting, Victor.”

I opened the door and started to slide out when he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.

“My patience is not limitless,” said Gregor Trocek. “I have pressing business back in Iberia. Her name is Aitana, and she is a vision of youth. But for how long, no one knows. So know this, Victor. In exchange for your percentage, I am taking back promise of speedy delivery. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

“For sin’s sake, Victor, let’s both hope you do better than that.”

I slid out of the car, slammed the door behind me, watched as the Jaguar slid away down the street, did the calculation even as the car slipped from my view. Twelve point five percent of one point seven mil. Something over two hundred thousand dollars. Enough for my own Jaguar after all. Sweet.

And I knew exactly where to start looking.

When the car finally disappeared, I scanned the location where I was dropped off. It was the same intersection where Sandro had picked me up. The bank where I had been shanghaied was across the street. I turned around, and there was Derek, still searching the sky as if seeking out those IRS cameras on the light poles.

“Hey, Derek.”

He stopped looking and turned his attention to me. “Took your sweet time, bo.”

“Did you happen to notice, with your brilliant detecting skills, what happened to me across the street?”

“Trouble with the ATM?”

“Not exactly. You see, I was kidnapped at knifepoint, forced into a strange automobile, taken on a drive through the city, all the while being threatened with bodily harm from a Cadizian assassin and his blood-soaked switchblade.”

“Word?”

“Yes, Derek,” I said. “Word. And all the time you were standing here, across the street, you saw nothing.”

“Not nothing. I think I spotted one of them cameras right up there.”

“You’ve certainly got eagle eyes.”

“So let’s get to it. You got my money?”

“Yes, I do,” I said, “but first I have to catch a weasel.”

26

The offices of Swift & Son were on Pine Street, just west of Broad, occupying the ground floor of an old stone apartment building. The name of the firm was printed in ornate gold leaf on the wide plate-glass window. The gold leaf was in varying states of peel.

“This a beat little outpost,” said Derek, standing beside me. I had come right over from the bank, and Derek, still waiting for his money, had followed.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I said.

“What should I do in the meantime, bo?”

“Wait out here,” I said as I peered through the window. The outer office looked like it was straight out of a Hopper painting, bare and dusty, with a few old chairs scattered across the worn wooden floor. On a side table, a single magazine sat forlornly. Radiators were uncovered, the walls were a faded pale blue, a vintage ashtray stand was set beside one of the chairs.

When I stepped through the wooden door, a little bell rang.

“Can I help you?” said an older woman behind a counter so high that only the top half of the woman’s head appeared. From what I could gather, her hair had once been red.