Nadia shrugged. “Balance sheets aren’t my thing.”

“Not exactly mine either. But I figure if I’m going to be an alpha ape in the software jungle, I have to know how a company is run. Damned if I can figure how they’re running this one.” He smiled. “But that’s not my worry. I’ll be out of here by this time next year, and in the meantime, let’s keep those commission checks rolling in.” He pulled her close and kissed her. “Dinner tonight?”

“How about the Coyote?”

“I’m always up for Tex-Mex,” he said. “Call you later.”

Nadia grabbed his arm as he started for the door. “Whoa! What if you run into Dr. Monnet on your way out? Let me go first and see if all’s clear.”

She led him back to the security door, passing a tech or two along the way who paid them little attention. They seemed to assume that if Doug had got in and was with Dr. Radzminsky, he must belong.

Nadia stepped through the door and looked around. No one in sight. She motioned to Doug, who hurried up behind her.

“Go,” she said, giving him a quick kiss. “And don’t do this again.”

A smile, a wave, and he was heading down the hall toward the reception area. Nadia turned and nearly bumped into Dr. Monnet.

“Oh, Nadia. There you are. I was just calling the dry lab to tell you I’ve been delayed. But I’ll be down in half an hour and we’ll get started.”

He looked distracted, frayed at the emotional edges. Dragovic’s fault. Had to be. She felt her anger rise. It was criminal for a man of Dr. Monnet’s brilliance to be upset by a thug. He needed a tranquil environment to allow him to focus fully on his work.

Don’t worry, Dr. Monnet, she thought. I know you’re in some kind of trouble, but I think I’ve found you help.

She wondered if Jack was already working on the case. Would he call it a case? And if he was on it, how was he starting out?

8

The quickest way to Staten Island’s north shore was through New Jersey via the Bayonne Bridge. The guy Jack was going to see, Sal Vituolo, ran a junkyard there off Richmond Terrace. Lots of junkyards among the old docks along this stretch of road. Word had it some of them were fronts for chop shops, but Jack wasn’t interested in car parts.

When he was a kid, New Yorkers called this chunk of rock the Borough of Richmond and used it mostly as an offshore refinery and garbage dump. Sometime in the seventies it renamed itself Staten Island. A lot of people Jack knew would rather admit they were from Jersey than Staten Island.

He steered his five-year-old Buick Century into the Sal’s Salvage, Inc., lot and got out. The air smelled of brine, acetylene fumes, and carbon monoxide. Hopping over muddy puddles, he was making his way toward the office when he heard a voice shout, “Watch out!”