Kilpatrick had other clients—a top-seeded tennis player, a soccer player who had helped the US take home the World Cup, but it was clear from his office who the real superstar was. It wasn’t just the regulation NBA Marcus Rippy backboard mounted high on the wall. They might as well have been standing in a Marcus Rippy museum. Kilpatrick had framed jerseys going back to Rippy’s youth league days. Signed basketballs lined the window ledge. Two Rippy bobbleheads sat on opposite corners of his desk. Championship trophies were on a specially designed floating shelf that had a pin light wrapping every inch of gold. There was even a pair of bronzed size-fourteen basketball shoes that Rippy had worn when he helped his college team win the Final Four.

Will had always assumed that Kilpatrick was a failed player. He was not too short, but not tall enough, the kind of guy who puppydogged the team, trying to be friends with the players while they walked all over him. The only difference now was that he at least got paid for it.

‘Heads up,’ Kilpatrick said. He passed the basketball to Will.

Will let the ball hit him in the chest and bounce across the room. The sound echoed in the cold office. They all watched the ball dribble into the corner.

Kilpatrick said, ‘Guess you’re not a player?’

Will said nothing.

‘Have I met you before?’

Will had spent seven months hounding Kilpatrick and his people over the Rippy investigation. There was probably a dartboard in the break room with his face on it. Still, if Kilpatrick was going to pretend they had never met, that was fine with Will.

He said, ‘Drawing a blank.’

‘Me too.’ Kilpatrick bumped the glass table as he stood. The bobbleheads nodded. ‘Ms Wagner. Can’t say that I’m happy to see you again.’

Amanda didn’t tell him that the feeling was mutual. ‘Thank you for moving up our meeting. I’m sure we’d all like to get this straightened out as soon as possible.’

‘Absolutely.’ Kilpatrick opened a small refrigerator packed with bottles of BankShot, an energy drink that tasted like cough syrup. He twisted off the cap. He took a mouthful and swigged it around before swallowing. ‘Tell me, what’s “this” again?’

‘ “This” is a murder investigation that is currently taking place at Marcus Rippy’s nightclub.’ When he didn’t respond, Amanda said, ‘As I told you on the phone, I need information about the development.’

Kilpatrick chugged the drink. Will glanced at Amanda. She was being unusually patient.

‘Ahh.’ Kilpatrick tossed the empty bottle into the trashcan. ‘What I can tell you right now is that I’ve never heard of this Harding guy.’

‘So the name Triangle-O Holdings Limited means nothing to you?’

‘Nope.’ Kilpatrick grabbed the basketball off the floor. ‘Never heard of it.’

Will had no idea where Amanda was going with her question, but for her benefit, he explained to Kilpatrick, ‘The triangle offense was made famous by Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls under coach Phil Jackson.’

‘Jordan, huh?’ Kilpatrick smiled as he palmed the basketball. ‘I think I heard of that guy. Like a really old Marcus Rippy.’

Amanda said, ‘Dale Harding was living in a very nice home owned by Triangle-O Holdings.’

Kilpatrick threw the basketball toward the hoop. It hit the backboard and he took the rebound for another shot. ‘Nothin’ but net,’ he said, like he couldn’t simply walk up and touch the bottom of the net with the tips of his fingers.

Amanda said, ‘Triangle-O Holdings is registered in Delaware to a company that is registered in St Martin, then St Lucia, all the way through to a corporation held in Copenhagen.’

Will felt a tickle in his brain. The construction signs outside Rippy’s nightclub had a Danish flag in the logo.

Amanda had obviously noticed the same detail, but earlier and when it could better serve her purpose. ‘I’ve got the state department making an official inquiry into the names of the corporation’s board and shareholders. You could make this a lot easier if you would just tell me.’

‘No idea.’ Kilpatrick tried to spin the basketball on the tip of his finger. ‘Wish I could help you.’

‘You could let us talk to Marcus Rippy.’

He coughed a laugh. ‘Not a chance, lady.’

Will sneaked a glance at Amanda again, wondering what she was up to. She had to know they had lost their one shot at Marcus Rippy.

She asked, ‘What about the name Angie Polaski?’

Kilpatrick finally got the ball to spin. ‘What about it?’

‘Have you ever heard of her?’

‘Sure.’ He slapped the basketball to make it spin faster.

‘In what capacity?’

‘Uh, let’s just say she provided a service.’

‘Background checks? Security?’

‘Snatch.’ Kilpatrick got a look on his face that made Will want to punch him straight out the window. ‘She provided girls for some of my parties. Nothing was expected of them. I just asked that they be experienced.’ He paused, and added, ‘Conversationalists. Experienced conversationalists. Like I said, nothing sexual was expected of them. They were all adults. They were paid for their conversation. Anything else was their choice.’

‘Choice,’ Will repeated, because he knew for a fact that Marcus Rippy preferred women who didn’t have a choice.

Amanda summed it up. ‘So you’re saying that Angie Polaski provided escorts for your parties?’

Kilpatrick nodded, his eyes on the spinning ball.

Will had to admit there might be something to what he was saying. Angie had loved working vice. She was always more comfortable walking the line between cop and criminal. She also knew her share of prostitutes, and she never had any problems with women making money any way they knew how.

Kilpatrick said, ‘My clients are high-profile celebrities. Sometimes they want a little discreet company. It’s hard for them to meet women.’

Amanda asked, ‘You mean other than their wives?’

Will thought about the working girls that Angie knew. They were low-level streetwalkers, drug addicts, some of them toothless, all of them desperate, none of them more than a few years away from a prison cell or a grave. Will might be able to imagine a world in which Angie pimped out some girls and told herself that she was doing them a favor, but the girls she knew were not the kind of ladies that Kilpatrick’s clients would want to meet.

Kilpatrick said, ‘So, that’s what you wanted to know? What Polaski was doing for me?’

‘Do you have her current address?’

‘Post office box.’ He picked up the phone, punched in some numbers, and said, ‘My office.’ He hung up the phone. ‘My guy Laslo can give you the details.’ Laslo again. Will was right to assume the bullet-headed Boston thug was an extra pair of dirty hands.

Amanda asked, ‘How did you meet Ms Polaski?’

Kilpatrick shrugged his shoulders. ‘The way you meet these kinds of people is, they’re just there. They know what you’re looking for and they offer to take care of it for a price. Easy.’

Will said, ‘Like bribing witnesses in a rape trial.’

Kilpatrick looked at him. Something like a snort came out of his nose. ‘Yeah, now I remember who you are.’