“Do you know anything about this man?”
“No. That’s your job, Monsieur Gravois. You sold your worthless soul to the devil. Now go back to your computer and get the devil what she wants.”
“Yes.”
She gave him a phone number. “How long?”
“If he has a criminal record, maybe two hours. If I have to dig deeper, a little longer.”
“Don’t waste time. I need it now.”
“I understand.”
“One more question, Etienne. Do you have anything new on the Ghost?”
“No.” He laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just that half the police agencies around the world are looking for the Ghost. Now you, too.”
“Well, if you get anything on him, I hope you don’t make the mistake of calling any of them first. Comprenez-vous, Etienne?”
“Oui.”
She hung up.
Marta Krall rarely smiled. All those years of posing for fashion photographers had drained the joy from her. Her eyes were cold and malevolent-looking. Her face could not hide the evil in her heart.
But that was before Chukov hired her to kill the Ghost. She opened her bag and took out a pocket mirror.
Just as she suspected. She was smiling now.
Chapter 27
MARTA WAS CONFIDENT that Gravois would identify the handsome guy in the photo. His life depended on it. As for tracking down the Ghost, she had a better resource. And he was right here in New York City: Ira.
She took a cab down to lower Manhattan and got off on Canal Street, where the air was thick with the fumes of the hundreds of trucks and a few scattered cars that crawled their way into the Holland Tunnel heading for Jersey.
She walked from Canal to Laight, then along West to Watts, and finally, positive that no one was tailing her, past the sprawling UPS truck garage to a soot-gray brick building on Washington Street.
The building was a little piece of old New York gone to seed. Six stories; six doorbells. She pushed the only one that had a name on it — ACME INDUSTRIES.
A voice answered. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“I’m told that you’re open late for your premier customers,” Marta said.
The voice came back. “What level premier customer?”
“Titanium.”
She was buzzed in. She walked past the elevator and took the stairs. On the second-floor landing she saw a rat gnawing on a moldy bagel. He didn’t move, just glared at her and bared his teeth until she passed.
Ira’s door was on the fourth floor. Another buzzer and she was inside the loft. It was three thousand square feet, every inch of which was covered. There were rows of mismatched tables holding electronic equipment, and a kitchen area where Marta could see two more rats scavenging on a countertop. There was a bed littered with food containers, beer cans, and porn magazines. Stacks of computer manuals piled waist-high were parked next to an overflowing garbage can.
A path wide enough for a wheelchair wound its way through the chaos. The man in the chair was somewhere between thirty and fifty, grossly overweight, and seemingly uninterested in personal hygiene. He had an open bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on his lap and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi on the computer stand next to him.
“I’m Ira,” he said. “Sorry if I smell a little gamey. We don’t get many social calls, and getting in and out of the tub is a bitch.”
“No problem,” Marta said. “I’m Giselle.”
“Who sent you, Giselle?”
“A friend.”
“My best reference,” Ira said. “If I ever meet this Mr. A. Friend, I’d love to buy him a beer. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a husband who can’t keep his dick in his pants, but if you can’t get in and out of a tub, I doubt you can do anything for me. My problem requires someone with a lot more muscle.”
“We have a division of labor at Acme Industries,” Ira said. “Brains and brawn. I’m brains.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Ira,” Marta said, “but I already have brains. What I’m looking for is someone strong enough to toss a hundred and ten pounds of shit off a roof.”
“I’m guessing the husband with the wandering dick weighs more than one ten,” Ira said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hard-bodied little mistress about that size.”
“Well, I was surprised, Ira. And now I’m going to surprise them. Yes or no, is this something you know how to handle?”
“Absolutely. Do you want your husband roughed up as well?”
Marta laughed. “I could rough the dumb bastard up. I could also bash his head in with a cast-iron skillet when he’s sleeping. But I’d rather see the look on his face when he finds out that his little office-manager — slash-whore did a swan dive off a building.”
“No problem. I have several candidates who can handle the job.”
“I don’t want several. I want one. The best man you have.”
“I can give you second best,” Ira said. “But my number-one man doesn’t do matrimonial.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He gets top dollar for hunting down hard-core dirtbags. He doesn’t believe in killing some pretty little thing just because she’s banging your old man.”
“A killer with a conscience. How noble. What’s his name — Don Quixote?”
“They call him the Ghost.”
“And you’re sure he’s good?” Marta said.
“Nobody better.”
“Excellent,” Marta said. “He sounds like just the man I’ve been looking for.”
Chapter 28
“I think I would really like to meet this Ghost fellow,” Marta said. “Tell me about him.”
Ira stroked the stubble-covered rolls of fat that were his chins. “Let’s see, what can I tell you about the Ghost?” he said. “He likes candlelit dinners, long walks on the beach, outdoor concerts at Tanglewood, and doing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in bed with a smart, sensuous woman. Someone like you, Giselle.”
He shoved a handful of Doritos in his mouth.
Marta stiffened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“C’mon, Marta, do you think I’m stupid?” Ira said, Cool Ranch crumbs blowing out of his mouth. “I have a database of millions of voiceprints, and I have yours from half a dozen phone calls. Somebody buzzes me from downstairs, I check the voice for a match. I’m flattered you would visit. My clients usually come here, but my operatives almost never come to the office. It’s dull as hell around here on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. What do you want with the Ghost?”
“We’re working on the same job.”
“What job?” Ira said. “Zelvas is dead. Finished.”
“Not finished,” Marta said. “The diamonds that Zelvas stole from the Syndicate got stolen from him.”
“I know,” Ira said. “Chukov sent me a picture of some guy nabbing the stones out of a locker. I passed it along to the Ghost. You want a copy of that?”
“I have it. Chukov hired me as backup. Sorry about trying to con you, but since the Ghost and I are on the same side, I thought you could connect us.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he said. “He contacts me. But it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Forgive me if I don’t stand up.”
“Did you ever meet the Ghost in person?” Marta asked.
“No, ma’am. He’s got a policy. Nobody gets to see him. That way, nobody knows what he looks like.”
She unsnapped the clasp on her black leather Bottega Veneta shoulder bag and removed her Glock 38 semiautomatic. The light.45-caliber pistol fit comfortably in her hand, and its ten-round magazine gave her a soul-satisfying feeling of power.