Jerry Trotter loved this semi-legal, clandestine work because it was so far removed from anything he’d done as a plastic surgeon or a money manager. He loved everything about it and even saying “Brubaker” and “Hooper” gave him a little thrill; to his mind, they were perfect PI names. For him it was like being in his own movie. Brubaker and Hooper were ex-cops and had seen everything; Jillian Jones had seen everything too but no one knew what work she had done prior to this and no one dared ask. In contrast to most PIs, she always acted anxious and quick to take offense. She also had a black belt in karate and was always armed.

As usual, Higgins took care of all the practical arrangements. He bought three use-and-lose cell phones and used one to place a prearranged marketing cold call to Hooper and Brubaker’s offices. The call purported to be from a firm interested in talking to the business manager about the company’s metered postage. This identified the source of the call. The first digit of the call-back number times one hundred was the rate being offered; the last four specified a time for a meet at the usual location. Brubaker and Hooper had a habit of checking their messages regularly and both picked up Higgins’s call within a half-hour. The promise of a $300-an-hour rate drew them to the four o’clock meeting place in a back booth at Flanagan’s bar on Second Avenue. It took Higgins five minutes to give them their marching orders, a cell phone for each to call in on, and a $1,200 down payment on their work.

Another aspect of the game that Trotter relished was asking his guys how they’d found whatever information they dug up. At first neither Brubaker nor Hooper wanted to talk about their MOs, but they’d come to indulge Trotter’s whims. He did sign the checks, after all.

When the phone rang at eight-thirty, Trotter was fixing his second Glenlivet in his apartment near the summit of the Trump International on the corner of Central Park West and Columbus Circle. Trotter lived so high up he didn’t bother with drapes in the living room—he didn’t want anything to interfere with his view of Central Park. Tonight, banks of low clouds and rain were all he could see. He was pleased to see it was Brubaker. The number on his LED was the cell phone Higgins had given him.

“It’s B,” Brubaker said. It was the code name Trotter insisted on his using.

“So soon?” Trotter could barely conceal the childish excitement in his voice.

“Yes, I got to speak directly with the laboratory’s secretary by posing as a journalist. Couldn’t shut her up. Thought she was doing her boss a favor talking him up. Thinks he’s shy and needs the pub. She even said as much.”

“So she was informative.”