Jordan started the engine and swung the Tahoe into the traffic lane. Marshall was twisted in his seat, looking out the rear window. ‘Hold here a second. We’ll wait until he steps out.’
The SUV pulled up level with D’Anton’s front entrance.
It was the same Lincoln Navigator that Marshall had seen yesterday, and it was the same guy who got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door. For a long moment, he and the two sidewalk guards stood at parade rest, an almost photographic stillness. Then D’Anton Lewis emerged from the alcove. The overcoat was tan today, well fitted, brown brogues sharp at the toe and polished to a honeyed gleam. He raised an umbrella as he came down off the step and started across the sidewalk toward the waiting SUV.
Marshall said, ‘Now.’
Jordan put the Tahoe in reverse and hit the gas.
They took off backward, a jolt and a high-rev roar, and then a short half-block sprint, the front of D’Anton’s Lincoln zooming closer in the rear window, and Jordan touched the brake and brought them to a soft halt with the Tahoe’s rear fender three feet from the other vehicle.
One-way street, cars parked on both sides. Nowhere for it to go, unless they planned to reverse all the way to Madison.
Marshall opened his door and climbed out.
D’Anton was at the rear of the Lincoln, umbrella still raised.
Marshall closed his door. ‘Sorry. Me again.’
The security team hadn’t moved yet, no doubt a little wary: wary of Marshall, wary of taking action that might provoke employer disapproval, especially after D’Anton’s feedback on their maneuver yesterday.
Marshall said, ‘Don’t tell me you forgot. We were talking about Ray Vialoux. And I think I gave one of your guys a sore shoulder …’
Progress: the man was moving now. He came over to where Marshall was standing by the rear of the Tahoe, hands in his pockets, exhaust misting past his knees. Marshall had to give it to him, he knew how to walk up to someone: calm, unhurried, face a little slack so the only thing on show was disapproval. That same gliding motion he’d used yesterday, like his whole world operated without friction. Even the umbrella contributed something, spired at its peak with gothic sharpness.
D’Anton said, ‘I thought we understood each other. I don’t want to talk, you want to keep your good health.’
‘Yeah, what was your line? Cock to throat, something like that?’
D’Anton didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Stabbing me on the street probably isn’t worth it, right?’ He glanced around, looking up, taking in all those windows, all those potential witnesses. ‘And maybe I’m filming you from behind the tinted glass.’
D’Anton shrugged. ‘I have a long memory.’ He smiled, almost tender, making a fond promise to himself. ‘I’ll find another time, I’m sure.’
Marshall shook his head. ‘No need. We can clear this all up right now. What was Ray Vialoux doing for you that got him killed?’
D’Anton stood there looking at him.
Marshall said, ‘Your image is important, right? You want people to take you seriously. But you can’t stab me here, we’ve covered that.’ He turned, glanced at the Tahoe. ‘And you can’t drive anywhere. You could walk wherever you’re heading, and I could follow, and we could make it a spectacle.’ He shrugged. ‘Or I guess you could go inside, and I can keep coming back, and people will start to think you’re trying to avoid me.’
D’Anton said, ‘Your image seems important to you, too. Hard to come striding up to people, be a pain in the ass, if you’re in a wheelchair with two broken legs.’
Marshall said, ‘Broken legs? Better than being stabbed in the balls. Two meetings, you’re softening already.’
D’Anton was moving the umbrella slightly, twisting it back and forth. The spiked circumference passing left and right across his forehead and the gaze below it even sharper.
Marshall said, ‘You’re still thinking it through, huh?’
He tipped his head, aiming at the white town house.
‘Let’s go inside. That’s the easy way to do it. Otherwise people will start asking why I’m following you around, wonder what you’ve been doing that it’s worth my effort. Police tend to wonder these things, you know? Especially given my history.’
The security guys were still standing, watching, so patient and unmoved they seemed like set-dressing for the interaction. Recordings of suited men, overlaid on the street by way of hologram.
D’Anton moved away, heading for his front door. When he reached the curb, he stopped and turned back, nodded at the Tahoe. ‘Is Ms. Mora joining us, or is she just a chauffeur?’
He knew the man wanted a reaction, dropping the fact he knew her name, but Marshall just said, ‘Yeah, she’ll come in for a talk.’
D’Anton said, ‘I’ll give you ten minutes. Consider that a tremendous courtesy. You’re not a policeman anymore.’
D’Anton went into his white palace, followed by one of the security guys on the sidewalk. The other man took up guard duty in the alcove, and the third guy got back in the Lincoln. Marshall waited outside for Jordan to park the Tahoe, and when she walked back and joined him, she said, ‘You first.’
Saying it with half a smile, but Marshall thought trepidation was definitely warranted. Easier to stab and maim inside your own home, rather than out on the street.
But nothing happened. They entered the foyer unimpeded. It was an impressive space. Double-height ceiling, curved stairs accessing a wide balcony cantilevered from the second level, a security guy at the balustrade keeping watch, solemn as a pallbearer. The floor was marble, patterned with some kind of intricate geometric art, and against one wall were two life-size mannequins dressed in Batman costumes. Muscled body armor, and the full cape and cowl, molded out of what looked like thick black rubber.
A white-gloved butler was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Sir. Ma’am …’
The guy gave a tight smile and a tight little bow, a ten-degree incline before resuming strict vertical. His gaze went back and forth a couple times between Marshall and Jordan, as if in pre-emptive reproach of any unbecoming conduct.
‘If you’ll follow me …’
They followed.
The guy set a brisk pace down a white hallway, framed landscape paintings on both walls, delicate scrollwork along the cornicing. There were open doorways to either side. On the right was an office, and then a library with low, fat furniture and leather-bound volumes shelved floor to ceiling. On the left was a long kitchen area, industrial-grade, large enough for restaurant catering.
They came out into a parquet-floored living room, French doors giving a view of a small planted courtyard. Beside the French doors, D’Anton Lewis was sitting on a high-backed red-leather sofa, opposite a pair of red-leather armchairs. In the center of the room was a wooden coffee table so dark and notched and scarred it looked to Marshall like it got here on the Mayflower.
He said, ‘I like your Batman gear. You wear that at night?’
D’Anton Lewis gave a sub-zero smile. He said to the butler, ‘Thank you, Jeremy.’
The butler did his ten-degree bow. ‘I’ll be in the study, sir, should you need anything.’
He departed with a prim and fading clack of shoe leather, and D’Anton said, ‘One was George Clooney’s suit, from the ’ninety-seven film, and the other was from the ’eighty-nine original. Michael Keaton wore it. They’d deteriorated a lot when I bought them, so I had them remolded. They break the rubber down and blend it with resin and then set it on plaster molds.’
Marshall said, ‘Did they still have a copy of the heads, or did you get them in for a re-cast?’
D’Anton smiled but said nothing, sitting there quite placid, like any prior tension was distant and forgotten. Marshall took one of the red armchairs, and Jordan took the other.
Marshall said, ‘You had me checked out.’
D’Anton made a show of sliding back his cuff to check the time. He wore a gold watch that Marshall thought would present a risk of theft by amputation. He was almost like a parody of a gentleman. The polished shoes, the trousers blade-sharp through the creases, a three-button waistcoat on over the shirt.
D’Anton said, ‘Nine minutes. You’re lucky I started the clock when you walked in.’
He rubbed his hands together carefully, as if checking he still had all his fingers. ‘I apologize for yesterday. I’ll concede it was unnecessary. I had various things on my mind and …’ He looked away, came back with a smile that seemed more knowing than sympathetic. ‘Pressure sometimes manifests as rudeness, doesn’t it?’
Marshall nodded. ‘Death threats could be regarded as unseemly.’
D’Anton glanced around the room, apparently out of interest. Maybe the house was big enough, he didn’t come in here too often.
He said, ‘I assure you nothing we’re dealing with warrants facetiousness.’
Marshall said, ‘You threatened to kill me yesterday. I’m just trying to bring the pressure back to a civilized level.’
D’Anton looked again at his watch, but made no comment on time elapsed. He said, ‘To answer your question, yes. I did have you checked out. Or rather, I knew who you were by virtue of your knowing Mr Vialoux.’
‘Oh, yeah? How does that work?’
‘Basically, you spend half-a-million dollars per year on counterintelligence, and you find out who the friends of your friends are. And you also find out if they hold positions that might pose …’ He looked away. ‘I don’t know. How do we put it? A conflict of interest, I suppose.’ Looking back at him. ‘The short answer being, I have some paperwork pertaining to you.’
‘Right. And you decided I’m the kind of guy you can afford to confide in.’
‘Well, not necessarily. All those redaction marks in your file, I wasn’t sure if they were covering up honesty or deception.’
‘Which would be of most comfort to you?’
‘Yes, very clever.’
Marshall said, ‘Do you know what’s happened to Ray?’
D’Anton nodded. ‘I have a copy of the police report. I understand he was shot right in front of you.’
‘Exactly. There’s no mystery about the how. We just need to know the why. And the who.’
D’Anton looked at him.
Marshall said, ‘What are you mixed up in?’
D’Anton shook his head slowly. ‘Who says I’m mixed up in anything.’
Marshall said, ‘Loretta Flynn, from NYPD.’
‘Ah, Loretta. You’ve met her, I take it.’
‘We had a nice meeting in her car after I saw you yesterday. She was worried I might shoot you or something. But she wouldn’t go into why she’s so interested in you. Apparently though, she runs drug-trafficking investigations, so I’m tempted to put two and two together.’
D’Anton smiled indulgently. ‘Guilt and suspicion aren’t the same thing.’
Jordan said, ‘You keep a lot of security around. For someone who’s committed to honest business.’
D’Anton put a foot up on the coffee table. Maybe it wasn’t from the Mayflower.
He said, ‘My wife is missing. I’m trying to find her.’