“He’s gone, Alex! His cart’s not there anymore, and there’s a goddamn door in the back. He duped me! He’s out!” Sampson turned away and kicked a garbage bag off the curb, sending a shower of trash into the street.

Before he could take another swinging kick, I pulled him back. “Hang on, John. One thing at a time. We don’t know anything for sure yet.”

“Don’t even start with that,” he told me. “It’s him. I put that damn knife back in his hand, and then I let him get away.”

“We both did, John,” I said. “We both did.”

But Sampson wasn’t hearing me. I could tell he was going to blame himself no matter what I said, so I stopped trying and switched to action.

“He can’t be far,” I said. “It’s not like he hopped into a cab or something. We’ll walk the neighborhood all night if we have to. I’ll get this out on WALES right away. Put some more eyes on the street. Maybe get someone from Warrant Squad in the morning, if it comes to that. Those guys are bloodhounds. We’ll get him.”

Sampson nodded and started up the street without another word. No time like the present.

“What’d you say the name was?” he asked as I came up alongside him.

“Stanislaw Wajda,” I told him.

“Stanislaw…?”

“Wajda.”

“Screw it. I’ll learn to say it after we find the son of a bitch.”

Chapter 90

IT WAS THREE DAYS BEFORE we got anywhere even close to some forward movement. No Talley. No Hennessey. No Wajda.

And then the worst happened.

On Friday morning, for the third time that month, I got an early call from Sampson about a dead body. Another junkie had been beaten to death, with more of the same numbers gibberish carved into his forehead and across his back.

But one thing was different this time, and it changed everything.

“They found Stanislaw’s shopping cart next to the body,” Sampson told me. “At least, I’m pretty sure it’s his. Hard to tell one from another, you know?” His voice was hoarse. I wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d gotten since Wajda had disappeared. “This poor kid doesn’t look like he was much more than eighteen, Alex.”

“Sampson, are you going to be okay?” I asked. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I sure hope so.”

“This isn’t your fault, John. You know that, right?”

He still wasn’t ready to answer that one. All he said was “You don’t have to come down here.”

“I’m coming,” I said. “Of course I am.”

Chapter 91

THE SCENE AT Farragut Square was depressingly familiar when I got there. I’m never sure which is worse — the shock of something I’ve never seen before, or the weight of seeing it one too many times.