I follow the cable across Vic’s desk and unearth the phone beneath a pyramid of ledgers. There’s no one at the number I’m calling. Of course not, it’s my own number. I count the rings until my answer machine cuts in, then punch in my password.

One message.

Hey, guy. Doorman guy. Listen, you probably don’t remember me, you get schmucks all the time, right? Kee-rist almighty, I hate machines. Okay. Anyway, listen . . . Oh, this is Jaryd Faber, by the way, the lawyer you ejected last night. Deservedly so, I might add. I got your number from Vic, and the thing is that I enjoy Slotz, the club, shithole though it may be. Passing a few hours with the cards and the babes. I don’t want to give that up, so I just wanted you to know that I smoothed things over with Vic, what a prince, and I’m back in. In case you see me before you see him, no need to throw a punch. What do you say, let bygones be bygones? Live and let live. Maybe I can buy you a drink or a new suit. Okay? We straight? No hard feelings. I hate saying fucking sorry for anything, but there it is. Accept it or not, you should be fucking delighted by the way, if you knew who I was and what I could do to you. Kee-rist almighty.

Then the tape runs out and there’s a beep.

Kee-rist almighty beep.

I hold the phone at arm’s length, like it’s lied to me.

Sofia heard my answerphone. Faber was never at the apartment. I set the cops on the wrong man.

He was the right man for the cops, says Ghost Zeb. Just the wrong man for killing Connie and trashing your place.

And he’s dead now. It’s my fault.

No arguing with that.

So who did kill Connie? Who wrecked my apartment?

A shadow falls across my face and I look up.

‘Well it’s about time,’ says Irish Mike Madden. ‘I’ve been chasing your pale arse all over town.’

CHAPTER 12

Irish Mike stands framed by the doorway, like it was built for the purpose. He is a big man, huge, with whiskey veins popping in his nose and cheeks. His teeth are crooked and cracked from a hundred bar fights and he smiles broadly, displaying them like medals. He sports a soft fisherman’s cap, worn rakishly to one side with a shamrock pin on the peak. And when he speaks, his accent is more Hollywood Irish than a living dialect.

Irish Mike. A Mick who has never been to Ireland. An immigrant who never emigrated. A plastic Paddy who learned all he knew about the old country from grandma’s stories and Boy’s Own.

‘Daniel McEvoy,’ he says gently, shuffling into the room, like a crooner about to break into a number. ‘A hard man to find.’