Working with Anton, she had learned quickly to forecast his mood swings, which were often as chaotic and unpredictable as summertime in New England. Sometimes the storm lasted minutes, sometimes days (especially if he’d gotten a blood transfusion), replaced by gray clouds or, God willing, sunshine and clear blue skies. Whatever was eating at him, it had nothing to do with the Audi.

She knew better than to ask. Anton hated when his employees asked him personal questions of any kind. It would set him off.

Then again, Faye Simpson wasn’t his employee, not anymore. Faye Simpson now worked exclusively with Frank. Faye Simpson wouldn’t ask Anton questions, but Officer Ellie Batista would because she needed to know what Anton was after, his thoughts, his game plan, everything.

Still, she’d need to be careful. On a good day, Anton was about as stable as a live grenade.

Anton got a call. His phone was connected to the BMW’s computer system through Bluetooth, so the caller’s name was displayed on the console: Galina. Anton took it.

The woman spoke only in Russian. Anton spoke in Russian, too, and while Ellie didn’t have the slightest idea what they were talking about, she knew it wasn’t good. The woman screamed at Anton, but he didn’t scream back—didn’t do much of anything except sit there and rattle off a few Russian words, looking like he wanted to take the world’s longest vacation. The call ended ten minutes later, when Galina hung up.

“What is it with you broads?” Anton asked, throwing his hands in the air. “You act nice, treat them right, take them out to nice dinners and shit, and what do they do? They squeeze your nut sack and smile because you’re not giving them more. But if you treat them like dirt, wipe your feet all over them, shit on them, they smile and come back and ask for more. You’re all insane.”

Then, when Ellie didn’t reply, he turned his head to her and said, “What? You got nothing to say?”

“I wasn’t aware you wanted my input.”

“Let’s hear it. I need your help with this.”

“That’s a sweeping generalization, your view of women.”

“You saying I’m a liar?”

“You ever think you’re picking out the wrong kind of woman? That maybe instead of going after the ones who have brains the size of a chickpea and beach-ball-sized boobs—”

“I’m a tit guy. It’s in my DNA—I can’t help it.”

“How about finding a woman of substance? They are out there, you know.”

“Yeah, and they’re fat and collect cats.” Anton sighed.

Then, much to her surprise, he opened up to her about his problems with his girlfriend, Galina. She was Russian, Anton explained, and they had met at the wedding of a mutual friend, and after dating for eight months she thought they should move in together. Galina had become “too Americanized,” he said—had become a spoiled brat of a woman who expected to have the latest this and that, top-of-the-line cars and clothes, a beautiful home that would be the envy of her friends. Only she didn’t want to work for any of it. That was the job of a man, and she didn’t like how cheap Anton had become. She deserved the finer things in life, and if Anton couldn’t provide, then she’d find someone who could.