Carnifice headquarters were what you wanted in your security provider if you were a rich parent or wealthy multinational: enormous Persian carpets floating on polished parquet, desks and cabinets that a lot of rain forest had been hacked down to provide, doors opened by magnetic card or guard only, a beautiful young woman who took you from the guard in the lobby to your destination. It was quite a contrast to Warshawski Investigations, where the lone PI or her part–time assistant brought you into a converted warehouse.

My young escort smiled politely when I commented on the ambience, but when I asked how long she’d been at Carnifice, she said that company policy forbade her answering any questions.

“Not even to tell me the time or the weather?”

She only smiled again and opened Baladine’s door for me. She mentioned my name, perfectly pronounced, to the woman who sat enthroned in the antechamber, then left, although not, to my disappointment, walking backward.

“Ah, Ms. Warshawski. I’ll let Mr. Baladine know you’re here.” The woman’s skin and hair matched her smooth rich voice; the bias–cut dress she wore would have paid the Trans Am’s repair bill and left something over for gas.

The great man kept me waiting twelve minutes—exactly the amount of time that I was late. A perfect system of punishments, no doubt learned in running private prisons around the country. I wandered around the room while I waited, looking at photographs of a lean, tanned man with various sheiks and presidents, and at the exhibits of memorabilia, ranging from a Presidential Medal of Freedom to a mock–up of the women’s correctional facility at Coolis. I was particularly interested in that, since it made escape seem impossible. The back abutted the Smallpox Creek, but there were no windows or gates on that side. Three layers of razor–wire fencing looped around the front.

“Are you interested in prison security, Ms. Warshawski?”

The lean, tanned man of the photos was standing behind me. I turned and shook his proffered hand. He was fifteen years older than his wife, as I’d learned from my afternoon’s research, but looked well able to keep up with her in the pool, or any other arena.

“Only at Coolis, Mr. Baladine—I wondered how a small person like Nicola Aguinaldo could circumnavigate all those fences and guard boxes and so on.”

“Ah, yes, poor Nicola. I understand she faked an illness and was taken to the Coolis Hospital, where it was easier to escape. An unhappy life and, I gather, an unhappy death.” He put a hand on my shoulder and shepherded me toward his own office. “Claudia, can you bring us something to drink? I understand you like Black Label, Ms. Warshawski.”