She stepped toward him, toward the danger, never shying away from it, and said, “And you also run an auto salvage and repo business that doubles as a narcotics delivery service. Or am I confusing you with a different Ginger.”

He smiled and said, “I feel that you may be misinformed and ignorant of a good many things, young lady. But let’s discuss this further in my office.”

He motioned toward the stairs. The Australian went up first, opened the door for her, and gave a cordial bow.

“A true gentleman,” she said.

“I do my best.”

Felix was on their heels. He entered with two additional men and locked the door to the office behind them. Red oak beadboard covered the walls, and the space contained a full bar, a conference area, pool table, and a clear glass desk facing outward from the back of the room. The warehouse beneath their feet may have been filled with the smells of dust and rust, but Ginger’s office smelled of leather and liquor.

She admired the space for a second and then said, “Business looks to be going well.”

As she turned back, she saw a flash of movement from Felix Ginger. He struck her hard and fast in the gut. She doubled over in pain, fighting for air. Then the crime boss stepped forward and whispered in her ear, “No one comes into my house and insults me. I don’t care that you’re a woman or that you’re a cop. You have thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn’t kill you and make sure that no one ever finds the body.”

“You can’t kill me without bringing heat down on yourself,” Isabel said.

“What’s my name?” the crime boss said.

“Felix Ginger.”

He struck her again, and she resisted the urge to fight back, knowing it would only make things worse.

“My friends call me Felix. What name do they call me on the streets?”

Isabel was still fighting to refill her lungs with oxygen. She placed her palms on her knees and drank in deep lungfuls of air. She held up her index finger, as if to show that she could not yet speak. In truth, she was stalling for time. Time to think. Time to figure out how to keep from getting herself killed.

“They call you Angel.”

“Because I’m so kind and beautiful?”

“I think it’s more like the Angel of Death.”

“Exactly, do you know how I received that name?”

“I don’t really care.”

He struck her again and said, “Josef Mengele was the original Angel of Death. He was an officer and physician at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp. When I was growing up on the streets of Munich and cutting my teeth with the local gangs, I became known as a bit of a butcher myself. I used to toss people into dumpsters and throw in tear gas until they told me what I wanted to hear. But then my techniques continued to evolve. I started filling the dumpsters with hungry rats and tossing my enemies inside. It was hard for a black man to make his mark in the underground in those days. In order to set myself apart, I needed to have flair. So I encouraged it when people started referring to me as the Black Mengele and the Angel of Death. Eventually, it was shortened to simply Angel, but people still realize the kind of angel I am and show me the respect I deserve.”