“I thought it was new art installation,” a woman wearing too much makeup and a load of dead animal skin said. “Something meant to be provocative and deliciously offensive. Like Mapplethorpe and Damien Hirst for more—how shall I say?—discerning, mature tastes.”

When the captain of the Lausanne police was interviewed, he had very little to say that was in any way informative. It wasn’t that he was being purposely obtuse; it was simply that bodies suspended in cylinders of ice happened to be new, uncharted territory for his department. Behind him, officers were throwing large tarps over the cylinders of ice.

“We are currently checking every frame, every angle of CCTV, as I’m sure you know—”

I think we all nearly hit the ceiling when Lucy’s other laptop suddenly blurted alarm sounds and flashed red and white.

“It’s him,” Lucy growled. “He’s been calling every twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds since this story broke.”

“Who’s ‘him’?” Jimmy said.

“The goddamn boogeyman, that’s who!” Lucy said. Then she pointed a trembling forefinger at me and said, “His assassin freak-show buddy, Count Fuckula!”

33

33

“Tell me this wasn’t you,” I said to one of Lucy’s two laptops.

“It was me.”

It was the effete Eastern European accent of the man I’d come to know as the Cleaner.

“Jesus!” I yelled. “Why?”

“You asked me to keep a protective eye on the young Bronson girl,” he said. “Non-lethal protection, you said. And I did as you asked: I watched the men watching her. Unfortunately, their simple assignment to shadow the young lady evolved into KRM.”

“KRM?”

“Kidnap, rape, murder,” he said. “Was I to simply stand by and allow this to happen?”

“You turned those guys into fucking popsicles!” Lucy blurted.

“Ms. Three Rivers?” the Cleaner said.

A chill snaked up my back.

“It’s a pleasure to hear from you,” he said. “Your talents are renowned.”

“You—know me?” Lucy said. In her voice was both pride and the terror that comes when a world-class killer drops your name.

“Of course I do,” he said with a surprising giddiness. “Well within the top six percent of today’s cyber black hats. Were it not for that unfortunate incident a few years ago, you might be completely off the grid. But you were seventeen. What were you supposed to do?”

Lucy’s clay-red skin suddenly turned ashen and her eyes flooded.

She stood suddenly from her seat on the floor near my coffee table, ran past Jimmy to the downstairs bathroom, slammed the door and proceeded to vomit.

“You got somethin’ on her, you gonna have to go through me, mister,” Jimmy said.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Radmon,” the Cleaner said. “I wouldn’t think of hurting her. I wouldn’t think of hurting any of you. But if we are to work together, we must have a rudimentary understanding and appreciation of each other, yes?”

“How you know me, man?” Jimmy said.