Demers shrugged.

'You know we have Engel awaiting deportation to Germany. Naturally, he doesn't want to go. The Germans don't want him either, because they say there's not enough evidence to try him, but that's not our problem. We'd prefer a trial, but getting him out of here is enough.'

'Wait,' said Walsh. 'So why are we sending him over there?'

'We're deporting him on the basis of irregularities in his original visa application.'

'Not because he was a war criminal.'

'A suspected war criminal,' she corrected. 'No.'

'I don't understand,' said Walsh.

'Denaturalization and deportation is all we have,' said Demers. 'It's not ideal, and it's not enough, but it's better than the other option, which is to let these people live out their last years in the bosom of their adopted country. Because of a loophole in the system, we can even keep paying them their Social Security if they agree to go. Effectively, we bribe them to get the h.e.l.l out of the United States. But Engel has a family here a wife, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and he wants to die surrounded by them. His wife still refuses to believe that her husband was a murderer who put bullets into the necks of naked, kneeling men and women. She'll take him back, if he can stay. So Engel offered to give up another n.a.z.i in hiding if we'd halt the deportation proceedings.'

'Did you agree?'

'We told him it would depend upon the quality of the information. The truth is that he's going back to Germany no matter what he tells us. He could prove to us that Mengele didn't drown in Brazil in 1979 but is alive and well in Palm Beach, and we'd still want him gone. We're simply delaying packing him up and shipping him off until we've bled him for all we can get, and then his own people can have him.'

'And Engel pointed you to Marcus Baulman?'

'He told us that Baulman was actually Reynard Kraus. He said he and Kraus served together at Lubsko. We looked into Baulman, and his paperwork had some gaps and inconsistencies in it yet not enough to support a case against him, and they could be explained away by the chaos of war. But you get a sense for these people if you hunt them long enough, and Baulman is bad. What might have helped was a positive identification from Isha Winter, who knew Kraus by sight.'

Walsh picked up on the words 'might have.'

'But you didn't get it,' he said.

'Yesterday I showed Isha Winter a picture of Baulman as a younger man. She told me that Baulman wasn't Kraus.'

'So Engel was lying.'

'I haven't had a chance to put that to him yet.'

'Unless he was right about Baulman, but somehow managed to connect him to the wrong name. I mean, all these guys must be old as Methuselah by now. I have trouble remembering names, and I'm only fifty.'

'It's also possible that Isha Winter is mistaken, but it's a long shot. She comes across as sharp as a tack. If she says Baulman isn't Kraus, then it must be true. I'm going to keep working the case, but I was banking on the positive ID to give us a push.

'It leaves you with problems too. Whatever information Bruno Perlman had, it couldn't have been that Marcus Baulman was really Reynard Kraus, not unless he was as mistaken as Engel. Either way, why would Baulman go to the trouble of having Perlman and everyone connected with him killed if they were on the wrong track to begin with?'

Walsh swore. He'd been so sure that he'd found a way to connect all the pieces. It didn't take him long to regain his composure, though.

'Baulman doesn't matter,' he said.

'Really?'

'The rest of it feels right. We just need another name, but Lubsko remains the common detail. Whatever is happening here, it goes back to there.'

'Let's stay in touch, see what emerges,' said Demers.

'And Ross?'

'I'm going to shout so loudly at him for keeping me out of the loop, his phone will melt.'

'It sounds like a plan.'

'Then he's going to shout at you.'

'I have a plan too.'

'Which is?'

Walsh abandoned the rest of his coffee. With luck, he'd manage to get a night's sleep sometime before Christmas.

'I won't answer my phone.'

50.

Rachel and Sam lived in converted stables adjoining the house owned by Rachel's parents, although a wood-and-gla.s.s conservatory furnished with overstuffed couches and chairs now connected it to the main building. Rachel's father Frank had recently retired, but continued to work as a freelance consultant in business realms in which Parker had no interest, even if Rachel's father had ever been bothered to try to explain them to him. Parker had never gotten along with Frank Wolfe. He had been suspicious of the detective from the start, and everything that followed had only reinforced his conviction that Parker was bad for his daughter in almost every way. He made some small concession only for Sam, upon whom he and his wife doted, although Parker was certain Frank had somehow blocked from his mind the fact that Sam carried any genetic material from his daughter's former lover.

Thankfully Rachel's old man was absent when Parker, with Angel and Louis as escorts, arrived at the house. Frank had left the previous morning for a meeting in Seattle, and would not return until the weekend. It was doubly fortunate for all involved, because whatever doubts Frank had about Parker were multiplied manifold when it came to Angel and Louis. If he had his way, the two men wouldn't have been allowed into the state, let alone onto his property.

A white Mercedes CLS-Cla.s.s Coupe was parked in the driveway outside the house as they pulled up, alongside Rachel's recently purchased used Prius.

'A white coupe,' said Angel. 'That's an a.s.shole's car right there.'

With that, the a.s.shole himself appeared. Rachel's boyfriend Jeff was about ten years older than she was, and believed that if wealth was worth having, then it was worth displaying. He was all white teeth and prematurely white hair. If the lights went out in a mine, they could have sent Jeff to lead everyone back to safety using only his smile. Parker was self-aware enough to realize that he was still more than a little in love with Rachel, and therefore Christ Himself could have come down to date her and he still wouldn't have approved of the match. Still, the thought of Jeff and Rachel involved in any kind of intimacy physical or emotional caused his gut to tighten. Parker tried to be civil to Jeff for the sake of all involved, but the effort strained his diplomatic muscles to their limit. As for Angel and Louis, they made it clear on the rare occasions when they were forced to spend time in Jeff's company that if they could have gotten away with shooting him and dumping his remains in a swamp, they would have.

'The f.u.c.k is he doing here?' asked Louis.

'He doesn't look happy,' said Angel. 'Which makes me happy.'

He was right. Jeff was red with rage, even beneath his year-round tan. He was wearing a yellow V-neck sweater over a pink shirt and blue pants, and was carrying a navy blazer in his left hand.

'He looks like the father of a groom at a gay wedding,' said Angel.

Jeff paused as Parker got out of the car. He had to pa.s.s Parker to get to his own vehicle, but appeared reluctant to do so, as though he hoped the detective might instead just vanish into the ether, leaving only bad memories.

'Jeff,' said Parker, by way of greeting.

Jeff managed to pull together a Frankenstein's creation of a smile, composed entirely of other unrelated emotions. It lived for only a moment before it collapsed and died.

'I heard you were coming,' said Jeff.

'You didn't have to welcome me personally.'

Jeff raised his right forefinger and pointed it in the direction of the house. His car keys dangled from his fist, catching the morning sun.

'They deserve better,' he said. 'That child deserves better.'

'Better than what?'

'You know.'

His eyes drifted past Parker to Angel and Louis, who remained seated in the car. Angel gave him a wave and a smile, and mouthed the word 'f.u.c.kwad.'

'And you bring these people here, these-'

'Careful,' said Parker. 'Their feelings are easily hurt.'

Rachel appeared at the door of the house before Jeff could say anything more. Her arms were folded across her chest. She'd been crying.

'Jeff,' she said. 'Just go. Please.'

Parker almost felt sorry for Jeff, but it quickly pa.s.sed. Whatever had occurred before they'd arrived was serious, and possibly terminal. Now Jeff was suffering the added humiliation of retreating before the three men in the world he least wanted to see at that moment.

Jeff brushed past Parker, got in his shiny new car, and drove away. Parker watched him go. When he looked back at the house, Rachel was no longer at the door.

'Give us a minute?' he asked Angel and Louis.

'Sure,' said Louis.

'Is it too early to start celebrating?' asked Angel.

Parker gave him a look that suggested he would be well advised to keep cracks like that to himself for the present.

'Okay,' said Angel. 'We'll celebrate on the inside.'

Parker knocked on the door and called Rachel's name. He wasn't about to enter a house that wasn't his own without her permission, not even this one. She called to him from the kitchen, and he found her with her back against the sink, her head low and her shoulders shaking. He walked over and stood beside her, but he didn't touch her. He knew her better than that.

'Is there anything I can do?' he asked.

'Besides everything you've done already? You could shoot me. How about that?'

'I didn't bring my gun.'

She gave a short laugh, then just cried harder.

'Why don't you go outside and borrow one? They must have a f.u.c.king a.r.s.enal in that car.'

'I don't think they'd let me shoot you. They like you too much. But if you want someone else shot, I'm sure they'd be willing to oblige.'

'Would they shoot you if I asked?'

'Possibly. You want to tell me what all that was about?'

Rachel wiped her nose on the back of her hand, disgusted herself by what she had done, and reached for a piece of kitchen towel.

'You know how mad I am at you?' she said.

'I figured. I saw it in your face at the hospital.'

'She could have been killed, Charlie! That man on the beach, she saw him die. She watched him shoot a police officer. And if that dune hadn't collapsed, he'd probably have killed you, and her as well.'

'I know.'

She punched him on the arm.

'What were you thinking, putting her at risk and yourself?'

'I-'

'You what? You couldn't stand by? You couldn't let someone be hurt? Christ, I know all that. But Sam was there. She was your priority. She was the one you should have thought about first.'

There was no point in telling Rachel that he had ordered Sam to stay in the house. He should have guessed that she wouldn't stay. He was familiar enough with her nature by now. After all, it was so much like his.

'You're right,' was all that he said.

She stopped crying, although she still emitted small hiccupping sobs.

'I can say these things to you,' she continued, 'but Jeff can't not to me, not to you, and certainly not to Sam. If anyone is going to drag you over hot coals, it's going to be me.'

'I appreciate that. Kind of.'

She wiped her nose again, and exhaled long and slow.

'Go on,' she said. 'I know you want to ask.'

'Ask what?' he said, with as much innocence as he could muster.

'Jerk. If it's over between Jeff and me.'

'Is it over between Jeff and you?'

'I think so. I'm sure you're pleased.'

'd.a.m.n. And I was just starting to like him.'

She gave him another punch on the arm.

'I hate you. You ruined my life.'

'Yeah, I'm sorry about that. You want some coffee?'