"Sure." He took a pace back. "I'll . . . I'll meet you in an hour." Field turned away and began to climb the stairs.

"d.i.c.k."

Field stopped.

"Where did you learn to punch like that?"

"My father taught me."

"Thanks."

"It's hard," Field said, "not knowing . . ."

"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 gla.s.s. 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 gla.s.ses. 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 case," case," Maretsky said, raising his eyebrows. "I see. When is it a case, not an incident, I wonder?" Maretsky said, raising his eyebrows. "I see. When is it a case, not an incident, I wonder?"

"What do you mean?"

"A little Russian princess. A wh.o.r.e. Bit of a playful end. Why would anyone care about that?" He looked at Field, his piggy eyes burning with angry intensity. "You care about it, Field, why is that?"

"She was murdered."

"She was a Russian prost.i.tute."

"So it doesn't matter?"

Maretsky hesitated. "Is that a philosophical question or a practical one?"

"It's just about doing a job . . ."

"Oh, is it? Of course. How foolish of me." He turned back to his desk. "We work within our limitations here, Mr. Field, and if you haven't learned that, you soon will."

"You mean you you do." do."

"I mean I I do, yes. I can see you're not a member of the club, but a bright young man . . ." He smiled. "It won't last, so I wouldn't worry about it." do, yes. I can see you're not a member of the club, but a bright young man . . ." He smiled. "It won't last, so I wouldn't worry about it."

Field tried not to betray his confusion. "Tell me about this case, Maretsky."

"You're the detective."

"So Lu can do whatever he likes?"

Maretsky faced him again. "Please, I have work to do."

"Tell me about him."

"You really don't understand, do you?"

"Don't patronize me."

"Don't patronize you?" Maretsky sighed deeply. "All right, I'm sorry, I'm just not used to idealism." He breathed out again. "Or perhaps I should say ignorance. You seem to be . . . energetic, but what will happen if you pursue pursue this case with any vigor is that you will make a certain amount of headway and then you won't get any further. If you get somewhere close to the truth, it will become very dangerous for you. As to evidence, forget it. Witnesses will be too frightened to speak, and will be eliminated if they are foolish enough to do so." He rolled his eyes. "This is Lu's girl. He killed her himself, or gave her to someone else for the purpose-it doesn't much matter." this case with any vigor is that you will make a certain amount of headway and then you won't get any further. If you get somewhere close to the truth, it will become very dangerous for you. As to evidence, forget it. Witnesses will be too frightened to speak, and will be eliminated if they are foolish enough to do so." He rolled his eyes. "This is Lu's girl. He killed her himself, or gave her to someone else for the purpose-it doesn't much matter."

"But we can still establish the truth, can't we? Or do you consider that naive, too? We can still determine whether the murder was carried out by Lu himself, and if not, who it is he is protecting and why."

Maretsky didn't answer.

"Will he do it again?"

"Probably."

"Has he done it before?"

Maretsky hesitated. "Possibly. I can't be sure. We have no record of anything like . . . specifically like this, and the French say they have none . . . but . . ."

Field could tell that, despite himself, Maretsky was interested. "But what?"

He shrugged. "There is a confidence to it."

"What do you mean?"

Maretsky was silent. "It's a developed fantasy," he said.

"You mean he's done similar things before?"

"I mean there is a history leading up to this. You would have a pattern of violence against women. To begin with, beating, s.e.xually abusing . . . the abuse becomes steadily more violent. Then, one day, it gets out of hand and he actually kills a girl. He enjoys it. So now he goes about achieving the same satisfaction with greater confidence. He knows what he wants. The kind of attire he likes, tied up, under control."

"So there might be a pattern?"

"There is is a pattern. One a pattern. One might might be able to find it." be able to find it."

"And now it will accelerate?"

"I would say he has done this before. It will certainly continue now, and it might accelerate."

"Other girls in Lu's possession?"

"I don't know."

"So we do nothing?"

Maretsky shrugged.

"So you won't help me?"

"I wish you good luck."

"Tell me about Lu."

"What about him?"

"He's your private obsession." Field looked at the clippings on the wall.

"Only in an academic sense."

"Then tell me about him in an academic way. Whatever has happened, he is at the center of it."

Maretsky closed his newspaper. He took off his gla.s.ses and placed them carefully on the desk. "There are many files," he said quietly.

"And most of them are not in the system."