The Driver

“And if this girl is dead?”

“Provided it had nothing to do with you, maybe I can find a way that leaves you out. That agency’s got to be valuable to you, right? It’s got to be worth giving me the chance to sort things out. What have you got to lose?”

Luciano looked at him shrewdly. “I could speak to the driver myself. Find out what he knows.”

“You don’t know who he is.”

“You do. You could tell me.”

He smiled thinly, suggestively.

“Forget it,” Milton said, smiling back. “I’m not frightened of you.”

“What did you do before you drove taxis, Mr. Smith?”

“I was a cook,” he said.

“A cook?”

“He was working in a restaurant when I met him,” Beau said.

“You think he’s a cook, Beau?”

“No.”

Luciano sucked his teeth.

Milton clenched his fists beneath the table.

“Alright — let’s say, just for the sake of discussion, that I give you what you want. Why are you so interested? What does it have to do with you?”

“The police have me down as a suspect and it’s not in my interest for my name to come out. The sooner I can clear this up, the better.”

“Publicity is bad for you?”

“Very bad.”

Luciano shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re a very interesting man, Mr. Smith. That’s all I need for now. I’ll speak to Beau. You can wait outside.”

Milton made his way down from the raised area and across the wide room. As he passed the bar he saw Carlo with another man. The newcomer held himself at an odd angle, his left arm clutched to his side as if he was in pain, and he had a huge, florid bruise on his cheek. There were purples and blues and greys in the bruise and the centre was pure black and perfectly rounded, as if it had been caused by a forceful impact with something spherical. The nose was obscured by a splint. Salvatore glared at Milton as he crossed in front of him, his eyes dripping with hate. Milton nodded once, a gesture he knew he probably shouldn’t have made but one that he just couldn’t resist. The injured man lost it, aggrieved at the beating that he had taken, aggrieved at seeing Milton walk out of the bowling alley with impunity, not a scratch on him, and he came in at an awkward charge, moving painfully and with difficulty, his right fist raised. Milton feinted one way and moved another. The Italian stumbled past, Milton tapped his ankles and Salvatore tripped and fell. He grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet again but by then Milton had backed off and turned around and was ready for the second go-around. Salvatore came at him again, his fist raised, lumbering like a wounded elephant. Milton ducked to one side and threw a crisp punch that landed square on his nose, crunching the bones again. Salvatore’s legs went and he ate carpet. He stayed down this time, huffing hard.

Milton raised his hands helplessly and looked over at the VIP area, wondering whether things were going to get heated. Beau looked anxious but neither Tommy Luciano or Carlo Lucchese did anything. Milton turned to look at Luciano, then to Lucchese, then to Salvatore, then he pushed out of the door and went outside to wait for Beau in the cold, bright afternoon sun.

29

Milton had gone to a meeting that evening. It wasn’t his usual and Eva wasn’t there. He had gone out for di

He propped a chair beneath the door handle, locked the window that faced the fire escape and slept with his fingers wrapped around the butt of the Smith & Wesson 9mm that he kept under the pillow.

HE ROSE EARLY the next morning. There was a lot to do. First, though, he dressed in his ru

He ran onto Jefferson, turned left inside Aquatic Park and then followed Hyde to Broadway and then, finally, Mason Street and home.

He passed through the lobby and took the stairs at a jog.

There were two men waiting outside the door to his room.

He recognised them both.

“Detective Cotton. Detective Webster.”

“Mr. Smith.”

“How can I help you?”

“We’re going to need to talk to you.”

“Again? Really?”

“A few more questions.”

“I answered them before. Is there anything else?”

“I’m afraid there is. We found another body this morning.”

PART THREE

The Suspect

#3

MILEY VAN DYKEN

Miley Van Dyken had been having second thoughts about how she had chosen to live her life. She’d told friends about them, how she was thinking about getting out. She knew that turning tricks could be a dangerous business but it seemed to her that there had been more stories of psychos preying on working girls recently. There had been all those poor girls down on the beach in New Jersey, for one, and the police still had no idea who was responsible for their deaths. There were plenty of benefits that came from doing what she did — they money, obviously, but the freedom of working to your own schedule was another that other girls often overlooked — but it had been getting to the stage that her doubts and fears were starting to get so bad that she couldn’t ignore them. She had nightmares and premonitions about ru