“To allow the cleanup operation to be completed.”
This opened up an area Field did not want to consider. “I don’t know how close they could have been. Perhaps their past drives them apart, rather than bringing them together. Are they ashamed to be reminded of how life used to be? Or is the nostalgia what keeps them alive?”
“Both,” Caprisi said as he watched the crowds hustling down the street. “There’s something wrong with this.” He swung around toward his companion. “Lu’s men abducted the doorman, under our noses, a full twelve hours after Lena had been murdered. Does that make any sense to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“If Lu was behind the murder, why not remove the doorman at once, in the middle of the night?”
Field couldn’t think of a simple answer and found himself instead thinking about what Maretsky had told him— or not told him—about Slugger Davis.
“Are you married, Caprisi?”
The American’s intense, dark eyes rested on Field. “You’re persistent, Dickie.”
“I was once told it was my only attribute.” Field tried to smile. “It’s hard to know someone if you know nothing about them.”
Caprisi turned back to the window and the street outside.
“You don’t have to mistrust me,” Field went on.
“I never trust Brits.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“Macleod is a Brit.”
“He’s a Scot.”
“So it’s the English?”
Caprisi didn’t respond.
“How come you ended up with Macleod?”
Caprisi frowned at him.
“You’re an Italian American Catholic. By rights, you should be with Granger.”
“Some things transcend the small-minded . . .”
“Like what?”
“I was in crime. In Chicago. Macleod is a detective.”
“You mean it was decided on a professional basis.”
A thin smile tugged at the corner of the American’s lips.
“So you came out here for a bit of adventure?” Field asked.
“There was enough adventure at home.”
“Al Capone?”
Caprisi smiled again, a gesture that brought deep creases to his cheeks.
“So what brought you out here? I mean . . .”
“Jesus, you don’t give up, do you?”
“I’m curious.”
“Well, that’s how you’re going to stay.”
“How old are you?” Field asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“I just had a bet with myself, that’s all.”
“And what did you put your money on?”
“Thirty-five.”
Caprisi’s smile grew broader, his body breaking into a momentary chuckle. “Then you’d better stick to policing, Dickie Field, because my mother tells me I’m twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven?”
Caprisi was looking out of the window on his side. “Yes, my friend, twenty-seven. Too much experience of the dark side, that’s what it is.” He turned back to Field, his expression suddenly serious. “We call them the cabal.”
Field frowned.
“You don’t understand, so I’m offering you an explanation.”
Field waited until he realized the American wasn’t going to expand. “Those who . . .”
