He brushed his hand across the front of his jacket to show me his gun. When I didn’t back away, he pulled it out, and I recognized it as a Taurus PT92. Higher-end than I would’ve guessed for a street thug to carry, but maybe he wasn’t just a street thug.

Could this guy be the Matchmaker?

“This is cocked and locked,” he told me. “You know what that means?”

From my experience, that was more a phrase a soldier rather than a gangster might use, and I wasn’t certain he knew what it meant.

“It means it would be prudent for you to put it back beneath your belt.”

“You threatening me? I’m the one with the gun!”

“I’m searching for my friend. If you can help me, help me. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time.”

“And the Matchmaker. You’re lookin’ for him too.”

“That’s right.”

“Who told you ’bout the Matchmaker?”

Vidocq.

Think like Vidocq.

“Someone at work. Someone who’s looking for something unique and memorable.”

“How memorable?”

“Memorable.”

I was making this up as I went along, but it seemed to be working.

The guy glanced over his shoulder toward the porch where he and his buddies had been. It was empty now.

He came toward me, and I braced myself for a fight, but instead, he went to the door of the house, clicked it open, and gestured for me to go inside in front of him.

When I did, he followed close on my heels. “To the left and then down the stairs,” he said tersely. “Go on.”

The only available light in the darkened house was the thin, muted smear of it that seeped through the windows, but it was enough for me to find the stairwell.

Still no sign of Calvin.

Halfway down the stairs, I realized that the man with the Taurus wasn’t following me anymore.

At the base of the staircase, I came to a steel-reinforced door.

I knocked and waited.

When the door finally opened, I was greeted by a man with no nose. The scarring told me it wasn’t a birth defect. Somehow his nose had been removed—and based on the irregularities and jagged scars, it didn’t look it’d been done by a surgeon.

The room had no overhead lights, but half a dozen computer screens emitted a bluish tinge that dimly illuminated the room. The sweet-stark smell of marijuana hung the air. The noseless man cocked his head and eyed me. Flame tattoos curled around his face, and he’d done body modification to create two nubby horns on his forehead. His four lip rings glinted in the blue light of the basement.

“I’m here to see the Matchmaker,” I said.

“Why?”

“I represent someone who has an idea for something very special.”

“Special, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You a cop?”

“I’m a federal agent.”