Kurtz clicked off the connection, folded the phone, and set it carefully in his suit's chest pocket.

"Whatsamatter?" said Mickey Kee. "Lose a big bet or something, Mr. Howard from Raiford? Somebody named Rafferty slapping around one of your bitches?"

Ignoring Kee and the other bodyguards, shaking off their restraining hands, Kurtz stood and walked down the hall and went into the dining room to get Angelina Farino Ferrara so they could get the hell out of there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"You wanted to see us, Captain?"

"Sit down," said Hansen.

Detectives Brubaker and Myers glanced at each other before taking their seats. Captain Millworth had called them into his office on occasion, but he'd never asked them to sit before.

Hansen came around his desk, sat on the edge of it, and handed Brubaker a photograph of John Wellington Frears. "You know this man?"

Brubaker took the photo and shook his head. Hansen hadn't expected them to have heard about Frears's appearance at the station when he made his report. He was going to tell them that Frears was missing and put them on special assignment—undercover—to track him down. Hansen planned on dealing later with the complications this would cause.

"Hey, I saw this guy," said Myers.

Hansen was surprised. "At the station?"

"At the station? No, uh-uh. Fred, we saw this guy go into Blues Franklin last week when we were tailing Kurtz, remember?"

Brubaker took the photo back. "Yeah, could be the same guy."

"Could be? Shit, it is. Remember, he drove up in a white… Ford, I think, maybe a Contour… and parked right near us when we were staking out the Franklin when Kurtz was in there."

"Yeah."

If Hansen had not been sitting on the edge of his desk, he might have collapsed onto the floor. This was too perfect. "You're saying that this man was in the Blues Franklin at the same time as Joe Kurtz?"

"Absolutely, Captain," said Myers. Brubaker nodded.

Hansen felt his universe click back into focus. What had seemed chaos a moment before became a perfectly clear mosaic how. This coincidence was a gift from God, pure and simple. "I want you to find this man," he said. "His name is Mr. John Wellington Frears and we're concerned about his safety." He went through the whole report-to-me-only routine with the two idiots.

"Jesus," said Myers. "Sorry, Captain. But you think this guy's disappearance this morning has anything to do with Joe Kurtz?"

"You were on surveillance then," said Hansen. "Where was Kurtz?"

"He slipped out of sight last night and this morning," said Brubaker. "We picked up his tail out in Cheektowaga this morning. We were going to check out Kurtz's secretary's house there, but we saw Kurtz driving down Union…" He paused.

"Near the Airport Sheraton," said Hansen.

Myers nodded. "Not that far away."

"It looks like we're back on Kurtz surveillance," said Brubaker.

Hansen shook his head. "This is more important than that This concert violinist, Frears, is a very important man. This could be a potential kidnapping situation."

Myers frowned. "You mean SWAT, FBI, all that shit? Sorry, Captain, but you know what I mean."

Hansen went around his desk and sat in his leather executive chair. "Right now it's just you two, me, and a hunch. Just because you saw Frears go into the Blues Franklin at the same time Joe Kurtz was there doesn't mean there was a connection. Did either of you ever see Kurtz and Frears together during your surveillance?"

The two detectives shook their heads.

"So I want some careful surveillance done. Starting this afternoon. Round the clock."

"How can we do that?" said Brubaker, adding a "sir."

"Solo work," said Hansen.

"Twelve-hour shifts?" whined Myers. "Alone? This Kurtz bastard is dangerous."

"I'll pitch in," said Hansen. "We'll work out a schedule. And we're not talking weeks here, just a day or two. If Kurtz has something to do with Frears's disappearance, we'll know soon enough. Fred, you take the first shift. Check out that secretary's house in Cheektowaga. Tommy, you'll spend the next few hours looking for Kurtz at his home, office, and so forth. Fred, you stay here a minute. I want to talk to you."

Myers and Brubaker glanced at each other before Myers went out, closing the door behind him. Captain Millworth had never called either of them by his first name before.

Brubaker stood by the desk and waited.

"Internal Affairs was checking in with me about you last week," said Hansen.

Brubaker lifted a toothpick to his mouth, but said nothing.

"Granger and his boys think you have some connections with the Farinos," said Hansen, staring the other man in the eye. "They think you're on Little Skag's payroll, picking up where your pal Hathaway left off last November."

Brubaker's eyes showed nothing. He shifted the toothpick back and forth with his tongue.

Hansen moved some paperwork on his desk. "I'm mentioning this because I think you'll need someone to cover your back, Fred. Someone to let you know who's sniffing around and when. I could do that."

Brubaker removed the toothpick, looked at it, and set it in his pocket. "Why would you do that, Captain?"

"Because I need your best work and discretion for this project, Brubaker. You scratch my back and I'll protect yours."

Brubaker stood there, staring, obviously trying to understand this deal.

"That's all," said Hansen. "Go hunt for Kurtz. Relieve Tommy on stakeout in eight hours. Call me on my cell if anything comes up. But tell Myers… you two do nothing but observe without my permission. Understand? Nothing. You see Kurtz buggering the Mayor's son on Main Street at high noon, call me before you do anything. Capische?"

"Yeah."

Hansen nodded toward the door and Brubaker went out.

The homicide captain swiveled his chair and spent several minutes looking out at the gray pile of the old courthouse across the street. This was all going too far, too fast. It had to be resolved, but even if something happened to Detectives Brubaker and Myers—and anything could happen to a plainclothes officer when dealing with someone like Kurtz—there would still be too many loose ends around afterward.

Hansen sighed. He had enjoyed being a homicide detective. Heck, he was good at it. And he liked his wife Donna and stepson Jason. This persona had only lasted fourteen months and James B. Hansen had thought it might go another year or two, perhaps longer.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Thy will be done. Lord. Thy will be done. Hansen opened his eyes and used his private line to dial the number of a certain dentist in Cleveland. It was time for Robert Gaines Millworth's dental records to be made ready.