'Well, it's certainly possible,' Jessica said. 'I'm just not remembering it.'
'No?'
He said this like it was hard to believe. 'No,' she said. 'But you know what? I'm okay with that.'
Thick as a batter-dipped brick, he pressed on. 'Have you ever danced? I mean, you know, professionally.'
Here we go, Jessica thought. 'Oh, sure.'
The guy snapped his fingers. 'I knew it,' he said. 'I never forget a beautiful face. Or a great body. Where did you dance?'
'Well, I was with the Bolshoi for a couple of years. But the commute was killing me.'
The guy cocked his head at a ten-degree angle, thinking-or whatever he did as a substitute for thinking-that the Bolshoi might have been a strip club in Newark. 'I'm not familiar with that place.'
'I'm stunned.'
'Was that full nude?'
'No. They make you dress like a swan.'
'Wow,' he said. 'Sounds hot.'
'Oh, it is.'
'What's your name?'
'Isadora.'
'I'm Chester. My friends call me Chet.'
'Well, Chester, it was great chatting with you.'
'You leaving?' He made a slight move toward her. Spidery. Like maybe he was thinking about keeping her on the stool.
'Yeah, unfortunately. Duty calls.' She slipped her badge onto the bar. Chet's face went drab. It was like showing a cross to a vampire. He backed off.
Byrne returned from the men's room, locked stares with Chet.
'Hey, how ya doin'?' Chet asked.
'Never better,' Byrne said. To Jessica: 'Ready?'
'Let's do it.'
'See you around,' Chet said to her. Cool now, for some reason.
'I'll count the minutes.'
On the second floor the two detectives, led by a pair of massive bodyguards, traversed a maze of hallways, the journey ending at a reinforced steel door, above which, encased in thick security plastic, was a CCTV camera. A pair of electronic locks graced the wall next to the hardware- free door. Thug One spoke into a handheld radio. A moment later the door inched open. Thug Two pulled it wide. Byrne and Jessica entered.
The large room was sparsely lighted with indirect spots, deep-orange sconces, pin-light cans recessed into the ceiling. An authentic-looking Tiffany lamp graced the colossal oak desk, behind which sat a man who, based on Byrne's description, could only have been Callum Blackburn.
The man's face lit up when he saw Byrne. 'I don't believe it,' he said. He arose, put both hands in front of him, handcuff-style. Byrne laughed. The men hugged, clapped each other on the back. Callum took a half step backward, did a second inventory of Byrne, hands on his hips. 'You look well.'
'You too.'
'I cannae complain,' he said. 'I was sorry to hear of your troubles.' His accent was broad Scots, tempered by a number of years in eastern Pennsylvania.
'Thank you,' Byrne said.
Callum Blackburn was a vigorous sixty. He had chiseled features, dark lively eyes, a pure silver goatee, salt- and-pepper hair swept back. He wore a well-tailored charcoal suit, white shirt, open collar, and a small hoop earring.
'This is my partner, Detective Balzano,' Byrne said.
Callum straightened, turned fully toward Jessica, dipped his chin in greeting. Jessica had no idea what to do. Was she supposed to curtsy? She stuck her hand out. 'Nice to meet you.'
Callum took her hand, smiled. For a white-collar criminal, he was kind of charming. Byrne had filled her in on Callum Blackburn. His stretch had been for credit-card fraud.
'The pleasure is mine,' Callum said. 'If I knew that detectives were so beautiful these days, I would nae have given up my life of crime.'
'Have you?' Byrne asked.
'I am just a humble businessman from Glasgow,' he said with a glimmer of a smile. 'Soon to be an auld father, at that.'
One of the first lessons Jessica had learned on the street was that there was always subtext in conversations with criminals, an almost certain inversion of the truth. I never met him generally meant We grew up together. I was never there usually meant It happened at my house. I am innocent almost always meant I did it. When Jessica had first joined the force, she'd felt as if she needed a Criminal-to-English dictionary. Now, after nearly a decade, she could probably have taught Criminalese.
Byrne and Callum went way back, it seemed, which meant that the conversation would probably ring a little closer to the truth. Once someone puts you in handcuffs and watches you walk into a prison cell, it's harder to play tough guy.
Still, they were here to get information from Callum Blackburn. For the time being, they had to play his game. Small talk before big talk.
'How is your bonny wife?' Callum asked.
'Still bonny,' Byrne said, 'but no longer my wife.'
'This is such sad news,' Callum said, looking genuinely surprised and disheartened. 'What did you do?'
Byrne sat back, crossed his arms. Defensive. 'What makes you think I screwed it up?'
Callum lifted one eyebrow.
'Okay,' Byrne said. 'You're right. It was the job.'
Callum nodded, perhaps accepting that he himself-and those of his ilk and criminal persuasion-had been part of 'the job,' and therefore partly responsible. 'We have a saying in Scotland. 'Clippet sheep will growe again.' '
Byrne looked at Jessica, back at Callum. Did the man just call him a sheep? 'Truer words, eh?' Byrne said, hoping to move on.
Callum smiled, winked at Jessica, knitted his fingers. 'So,' he said. 'To what do I owe this visit?'
'A woman named Kristina Jakos was found murdered yesterday,' Byrne said. 'Did you know her?'
Callum Blackburn's face was unreadable. 'I'm sorry, what is her name again?'
'Kristina Jakos.'
Byrne put the photograph of Kristina on the desk. Both detectives watched Callum as he glanced at it. He knew they were watching him, and he betrayed nothing.
'Do you recognize her?' Byrne asked.
'Aye.'
'How so?' Byrne asked.
'She recently came into my employ,' Callum said.
'You hired her?'
'My son Alex does all the hiring.'
'She worked as a receptionist?' Jessica asked.
'I will let Alex explain.' Callum stepped away, took out a cell phone, made a call, clicked off. He turned back to the detectives. 'He will be here shortly.'
Jessica glanced around the office. It was well appointed, if not a little gaudy: faux-suede wallpaper, gold filigreed-framed oils of landscapes and hunting scenes, a fountain in the corner that looked like a trio of golden swans. Talk about your irony, she thought.
The wall to the left of Callum's desk was the most impressive. On it were ten flat-screen monitors hooked into closed-circuit cameras, showing various angles on the bars, the stages, the front door, the parking lot, the cash room. On six of the screens were dancing girls in varying stages of undress.
While they waited, Byrne stood in front of the display, transfixed. Jessica wondered if he was aware that his
