“You don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
Caprisi shook his head, bemused. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“We’ll get there, Field.” Caprisi raised his hand and walked away. He was smiling.
Nine
Field didn’t want to go into the Special Branch offices to face Prokopieff’s hostility and Granger’s wrath, so he went on up to the sixth floor. It was dark up here. The door at the end of the corridor was blue, with paint peeling around a small pane of frosted glass. Field knocked once and then entered without bothering to wait for an answer. He dropped his cigarette and felt the heat as he stubbed it out under the sole of his shoe.
Maretsky was seated at his desk. He was reading the newspaper with his back to the door, his feet not touching the ground.
“I thought I might find you here,” Field said. Maretsky did not reply, turning back to his newspaper.
It was a tiny room, the desk occupying most of it. Field had to step to the left and shut the door before he had anywhere to stand. There was a bookcase behind him, full of newspapers, and the wall opposite was covered with yellowing clippings in fading newsprint pinned to a corkboard. Every one of them referred to Lu Huang.
“There was a fight after you left,” Field said.
“Sorenson is an animal.” Maretsky did not raise his eyes from the newspaper. Field leaned back, crossing his legs. The article in the center of the corkboard opposite had a picture of a smiling Lu underneath the headline “Another Generous Donation to Sisters of Mercy Orphanage.”
Maretsky swung around, looking at Field over the top of his glasses. He followed Field’s gaze to the clippings on the wall. “Sometimes he prefers them younger.”
Field stared at him.
“Eleven or twelve.”
“From that orphanage?”
Maretsky shrugged. “From wherever takes his fancy and whoever is willing to be bought, which means most people in this city.”
“The donations are for procuring . . .”
“Oh, I don’t know the specifics of individual donations, but it’s a nice irony, don’t you think?”
Field shook his head slowly. “No.”
“I usually deal with visitors in the registry.”
“I know.”
“Then do me the courtesy of calling when you wish to see me.”
“I need to keep out of the office until tempers cool.”
“Well, this is not a rest room.”
“Who was Slugger?”
Maretsky frowned. “Slugger?”
“Prokopieff taunted Caprisi by referring to a Slugger . . .”
“Slugger Davis. Alan Davis. A detective from London. Caprisi’s partner until the end of last year.”
“What happened to him?”
Maretsky turned back to the newspaper. “Ask Caprisi.”
“He won’t say.”
“Then I won’t, either.”
“I think I should know if I’m working with him.”
“You think you are.”
“What does that mean?”
Maretsky frowned. “What do you want, Field?”
“Can I smoke in here?”
“No you can’t.”
Field crossed his arms. “Why did you walk out of the briefing?”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“You know I’m on the Orlov case.”
“The Orlove
