But the ticket . . . no. He hadn’t found that at all, actually.
Saint frowned.
“That’s unlike her. Give it here.”
Micky handed it over.
“Thursday, October fifth, nine-fourteen P.M., Wyndham . . .” Saint read off the citation and shook his head. “No. That’s not right.”
Duka stayed silent, watching Saint stare at the ticket, watching the wheels turn in the man’s head. He looked confused.
And then all at once, his expression hardened, and he turned to Duka.
“Where did you say you saw Quentin last Thursday?”
“The Wyndham Hotel. But—Mrs. Saint was at the movies at nine last Thursday.”
Saint looked down at the ticket again.
“I mean . . . wasn’t she?” Micky prompted.
The second he said those words, Duka wished he could have them back.
“Don’t overplay it,” Castle had warned him. “You understand? Let Saint connect the dots himself, Micky. That’s very important.”
“Yeah,” he’d said then. “I understand.”
But he’d fucked up. Saint wasn’t buying it. The wheels were still turning, he was still trying to puzzle it out, he was—
Micky’s hands were trembling. “Mr. Saint?” he ventured. “You all right?”
Saint looked up at him then, and Micky thought: Bingo.
“You have a key to Quentin’s house?”
“Sure. I do his laundry.”
“Get it. And get me the recent phone records.”
“Mr. Glass’s?”
“Livia’s.” His voice was like ice. “With each call listed.”
“Yes sir,” Micky said, backing away quick as he could; now he could see that Saint had not only bought it, he was on the verge of exploding, and he did not want to be around for that. “The key. The phone records. Can do.”
Duka pulled the door shut behind him.
He could, indeed, do the key, and even the phone records. Had both in his pocket already, in fact.
Frank Castle had already done.
Eight twenty-six. Glass strode angrily out of his house, climbed into his car, and drove off. The bulge of the gun was obvious.
Eight twenty-nine. Castle made his way to the side of the house. He disconnected the alarm and entered through an open window.
Eight thirty-one. He found the bedroom.
Eight thirty-three. He reset Glass’s alarm system and returned to Livia Saint’s car. From his wallet, he pulled out the picture of himself, and Maria, and Jimmy. He sat for a while, thinking.
Eight thirty-six. He burned the picture and started the car.
Enough was enough.
He’d just have to be late for the club; Howard would have to understand. Because this shit could not continue.
Trying to blackmail Quentin Glass? Who did this asshole think he was? Who did he think Quentin Glass was, some two-bit hood who would roll over and play dead on command?
No. Someone else would be rolling over and playing dead tonight, although before they’d played dead, there was going to be pain. A lot of pain. That was why he’d brought the silencer, so he could take his time with this jerk when he showed. Glass wished he still had those pliers from earlier this evening—that was a tool he hadn’t used before, lot of possibilities there.
But he still had his knife, of course.
He pulled into the little shopping plaza and parked.
Inside the Banana Republic, he positioned himself so that he could see the door, watch people come and go. He was certain he’d know his would-be blackmailer on sight; probably it was one of those little Greek kids from last summer, he’d decided. Smart mouths on those kids, both of them. He’d teach ’em.
He looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen. Glass shook his head.
Tell me this little fuck’s going to stand me up again. I swear to God—
“Sir?”
Glass turned. A salesman—a nice-looking salesman, a young black kid in chinos and a blue button-down—was smiling at him.
“Need help with some underpants?” the boy asked, looking suggestively in the direction of the changing rooms.
Glass realized the two of them were all alone in this part of the store. He was almost tempted.
Almost.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said, and strode angrily toward the exit.
No more wild-goose chases, Glass decided. He had a connection down at the police department. He was going to get a trace on whoever made the call to him, and then he was going to take his knife and—
Wait. His knife, and a pair of pliers.
It was a wild-goose chase, had to be. Saint knew that, and tonight of all nights he did not have time for a wild-goose chase. John was holding down the fort at the club, but he needed to be there, too. Inspire the troops. Make them understand the importance of nailing Castle now, this very night, before that psycho had a chance to screw up the organization any further. That was the priority. This was a sideshow.
But he had to know. Quentin. His best friend, his comrade in arms. They’d been to war together how many times since they’d come down to Tampa? He’d lost count. Starting with that prick who Trafficante had tried to saddle them with, what was his name? Cohen. That’s right, Christopher Cohen. Trafficante had wanted Cohen to work with Saint and Quentin on those first big cocaine deals. As if Saint couldn’t see through that; Trafficante wanted Cohen to spy on them. And who had made Cohen decide that he’d rather work for Howard Saint than for Santo Trafficante? None other than Quentin Glass. After Trafficante died, who had made half the dealers in Tampa decide that they’d rather throw in with Saint than LoScalzo? Quentin Glass. Who had put a little bug in the Toros’ ears about a man who could handle every step of the money-laundering process for them so that they’d never have to bribe a customs official again (all right, so he wasn’t in love with the Toros at the moment, but still . . . )? Glass again. And who’d stood up for him the day of his wedding? Quentin Glass, that was who. So this all was . . . crazy, that’s all. Impossible, for another word.
But he had to know.
He brought the Bentley to a stop across the street and used the key Duka had given him to enter.
Saint hadn’t been in Glass’s house for a while, he realized. His friend had changed the place around a little. There was a new dining room table, and a couple new paintings, too, along the far wall. Landscapes, with little lights over them, just like the museums used.
Saint shook his head. Glass was the only guy he knew, the only bachelor, who had any interest at all in art, furniture, things like that. Good thing the guy never married, he and his wife would have fought like cats and dogs over how they ought to decorate. Except for his office, Saint let Livia handle all that stuff.
Livia. He sighed again and started up the stairs.
This part of the house hadn’t changed at least. All the same pictures were here, pictures of Quentin with Bobby and John at their high school graduation, when they were kids, that fishing trip he’d taken the boys on . . . Pictures of Quentin with Red Archeletta, from back when Red was with him, and of Lincoln, and Cutter, and Rebecca, and of course of Quentin and him, breaking ground on the Saint Tower, of them out on the boat . . .
A lot of pictures, too, Saint noticed, of Quentin and Livia.
His hand tightened on the banister a second. Then he drew in a deep breath, and continued on his way.
He entered the bedroom and stopped in his tracks.
He smelled something. Cologne. Quentin wore cologne sometimes, except this was a little too . . . sweet for
