“But he is,” Caprisi said, “not in the business of letting other people fuck his women for free? This Russian boyfriend, for example, what is his position?”
“If she chooses to do this, it is very dangerous. Perhaps Lu will tolerate—what is it to him? Only Russians. Or perhaps he will be annoyed. If the woman is beautiful, favored above others, it is very dangerous. He may execute immediately. If less important, perhaps he will ignore once—no point in wasting assets. Each case different. But, of course, it could be he like to murder. This is different. Russian girls are good, then. Inferior.”
“Maybe Krauss is wrong,” Caprisi went on. “The man opposite says Lu arrives at four—perhaps he murders her then. She dies at four, not earlier.”
Field recalled his exchange with Natasha the previous evening and his suggestion that she might have been in the building while Lena was being murdered. He thought about her hasty denials.
“Krauss was wrong about that Chinese boy last year,” Caprisi said. Field frowned, but the American waved his hand to indicate it was too complicated to explain. “But if it was Lu, he was quick.”
“It does not take long,” Chen said.
“To tie her up?”
“A minute. Two.”
“So he’s angry. He’s learned she’s been fucking Sergei?”
“Sergei is still alive.” Chen smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Besides, Maretsky is right. So many wounds.” Chen mimed the stabbing. “Anger.”
“He likes doing it. He enjoys it.”
“Then why here?” Field asked. “Why not in the French Concession? Isn’t that safer for him?”
Caprisi and Chen looked at him. There was a long silence.
Caprisi said, “Don’t discuss this, Field. Not with anyone. If there is physical evidence—if any useful prints come back, or any other documentation—we do not keep it in the office. You give it to me. I’ll hold it at my apartment. Is that clear?”
Chen was looking at Field as though he were an idiot.
They heard the lift stop. Macleod pulled the metal cage back and walked slowly down the room toward them. He was wearing a long gray raincoat and a brown trilby. He carried a black leather briefcase with dull brass buckles. He went straight to the corner and poured himself a glass of water, as Caprisi had done.
“That’s better,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping the sweat from the dome of his head with his hand. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Caprisi was sitting on his desk. He pulled up a chair to rest his legs on. “Field wants us to concentrate on the murdered Russian girl.”
Macleod looked at him without smiling. “When he gets to manage his own department, then that’s what he can do.”
“Maretsky says there will be more.”
Macleod walked into his office, taking off his raincoat and placing it on the stand, along with his hat, before coming back to the doorway. “More what?”
“More victims. More deaths.”
“And what makes him so bloody sure of that?”
“He thinks it is part of a pattern. Some deaths already, perhaps in the French Concession, more to come.”
Macleod sighed. He sipped his water. “Well, you can give it priority, but we’ve got too much going on to clear the shelf.”
“It could be an avenue into Lu. Perhaps he’s overreaching himself.”
Macleod thought about this. “All right, you can clear the decks for a few days, see where it takes you. Field, have you got a minute?”
Field followed Macleod into his office. The Scotsman closed the glass door behind him and his manner instantly softened. He was no longer frowning—he even smiled once as he encouraged Field to sit opposite him. “How are you settling in . . . It’s Richard, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to have come far, for a Griffin.”
“Well, I’m not sure . . .”
“You have a confidence about you and I like that.”
Field did not know how to respond.
“Caprisi thinks you’re a good man.”
“That’s . . .”
“He has good judgment.” Macleod was not meeting Field’s eye. “It’s been a while since I got really involved in training.” He turned to Field now, smiling again. “Used to be my beat before CID.”
“A lot less interesting.”
“Yes.” Macleod nodded. “But it had its uses. The training department is the future, of course.”
“Then God help us.”
