Identification of the second victim wasn’t established, might never be, as if anyone wondered. The government of Sranil had lodged a formal complaint regarding unauthorized entry to the hangar, demanded immediate return of the plane, the crates, the dark-haired skeleton. Invoking diplomatic privilege and bringing in a supporting army of faceless men and women from the State Department.

“Must be my lucky week, Sturgis,” said the chief. “I get to see you twice.”

“I’m the lucky one, sir.”

The chief touched his rear. “Feels nice to be licked. So in come the ill-fitting suits with their small-print weapons. We get the female skeleton, the rest goes back to sutma-land. Do I look upset, Sturgis?”

“No, sir.”

“Diplomats are amoral, rim-jobbing worms, not worth my time. If the president called, I’d tell him the same thing.”

“I’m sure you would, sir.”

“Think about elections, Sturgis: Some sociopath spends hundreds of millions of dollars for a six-figure job. That’s some serious psychopathology, right, Doctor?”

I smiled.

The chief said, “He thinks I’m kidding. Anyway, to hell with the Feds, to hell with the sultan, to hell with that filthy lucre Teddy was stockpiling. Lot of good it did him. Though I guess I can’t blame the sultan for not wanting to be bankrupted by all that spending.”

Milo said, “And Dahlia?”

“Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe they don’t like blondes in Sranil.”

“So we’re finished.”

“With international affairs, we are, and the clock’s still ticking on the turret murders. Twelve more days, then off you go to Southwest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me, just row like a galley slave.”

CHAPTER

36

Days passed. A week. Milo resigned himself to Southwest Division.

“Used to be a rib joint there. Meanwhile, I’m eating healthy.”

Today, that translated to triple portions of lamb and unlimited vegetables from his personal buffet at Moghul.

The woman in the sari refilled iced tea as if she were paid by the pitcher.

“Guess what,” he said. “One of the prime gunrunner suspects is the nephew of Councilman Ortiz and Ortiz is the oily sludge in His Munificence’s tap water.”

“Politics,” I said.

“Whatever he claims, he’s one of them.”

The door to the street opened. A midsized, bespectacled man in a dark green hoodie, jeans, and sneakers stepped in, walked straight toward us without hesitation.

Late twenties, shaved head, sharp cheekbones, rapid, purposeful stride.

Telltale bulge under the sweatshirt.

Milo’s Glock was out before the guy got ten feet away.

The woman in the sari screamed and dropped to the floor.

The man’s eyes saucered behind thick lenses. “What the—Oh, shit—sorry.”

“Hands on head, don’t move.”

“Lieutenant, I’m Thorpe. Pacific Division?”

“Hands on head. Now!”