Judging from the sound effects, Hardwick had not only taken his phone into the bathroom with him but also managed to amplify the transmission volume. Sometimes Gurney was amazed that the man had survived as long as he had in the stiff culture of the NYSP. He presented such a prickly amalgam of characteristics. A sharp mind and sound investigative instincts were concealed behind a relentless eagerness to offend. His troubled NYSP career had foundered, like many a marriage, on irreconcilable differences and a mutual lack of respect. He had been a feisty iconoclast in an organization that revered conformity and respect for rank. Now this formidable but abrasive character was hell-bent on embarrassing the organization that had divorced him.

Wandering through these thoughts, Gurney found himself staring out the east window of the den as the first gray wash of dawn outlined the crest of the far ridge. The latest sound effects coming from the phone suggested that Hardwick had left the bathroom and was shuffling through a pile of papers.

Gurney pressed the speakerphone button on his own phone, laid it on his desk, and leaned back in his chair. His eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep, and he let them drift pleasantly shut. His brain went into free fall and for a few moments he felt blessedly relaxed, almost anesthetized. The brief intermission was ended by Hardwick’s voice, made harsher by the phone’s cheap speaker. “I’m back! Nothing like a good leak to clear the mind and free the soul. Hey, ace, you still among the living?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, here’s what he gave me. Petros Panikos. Also known as Peter Pan. Also known as the Magician. Also known by other names we don’t know about. He must have at least one passport in a name other than Panikos. He gets around. Never arrested, never detained—at least not under the Panikos name. Bottom line, he’s a free agent, and an odd one. Has gun, will travel, for a price—upwards of a hundred grand per pop, plus expenses. Reachable only through a small handful of people who know how to reach him.”

“Hundred grand minimum definitely puts him at the high end of the hit world.”

“Well, the little man is kind of a celebrity in his world. He also—”

Gurney interrupted. “The little man? How little?”

“He’s supposedly like four-foot-ten. Maybe five-two at the most.”

“Like the Flowers by Florence delivery guy in the Emmerling Oaks video?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Okay. Go on.”