The Lobby Lounge was half full, mostly guys acting like the man of the moment: big volume, expansive gestures. If they had to stop grinning to take a drink, they would do something interesting with their eyebrows—one up and one down—trying to seem canny but charming. Everyone looked red-carpet-ready, except Beauden. Here he was in torn cargo pants, a zippered camouflage windbreaker, a week’s worth of beard, and his hair in a ponytail. He’d lost his left foot to an IED outside Kabul, and his crutches were leaning up against the arm of his chair. He resembled a pirate catapulted into the modern era, doing his best to fit in.

‘You didn’t have a change of heart on the drive down, then?’

Vincent said, ‘Change of heart about what?’

‘Well. Are you planning to tell the cops any of this? Missing bodyguards and phone calls from lawyers?’

‘Not sure yet.’

‘Right. I think we’ll call that a no.’ He raised his bottle at a waiter across the room and said, ‘Who even knows you’re down here?’

Vincent said, ‘You. And whoever Erin’s told.’

‘Oh, she’s Erin already? I figured one day in, she’d still be a Ms Jones.’ Then with a smile: ‘You’re not trying to line her up as a Mrs Vincent?’

Looking pleased with himself as he stretched his good leg out. There was a hiking boot on the end of it. Vincent imagined the Beverly Hilton didn’t see attire of this kind too often.

‘No comment? How close am I?’

Vincent said, ‘Give it a rest. Christ.’

Beauden said, ‘You remember I had to bend your arm to take this job?’

Vincent said, ‘Yeah. And?’

‘Well, now you’re acting like it’s your life’s calling or something.’

The waiter set a fresh beer down on a napkin. Beauden picked it up and drank it down below the shoulders, keeping one eye on Vincent past the bottle. Vincent waited. He figured if they hadn’t been to war together, Beauden would be a lot more polite—just because they’d been through a situation or two, he felt he had a licence to sit there and be smart with him. He wondered what he’d have to go through—how many people he’d have to kill in a single day—before Beauden thought decorum was warranted.

Beauden said, ‘Okay, look,’ and spread his hands, the bottle hanging by the neck between two fingers. ‘All I’m getting at’—quieter now—‘if you’re going to hold something back, you need to keep in mind obstruction’s a reasonably serious enterprise.’

‘I’m not obstructing anyone.’

‘No, but you’re withholding information. Murder investigations, they don’t fuck around. Speed matters. I read it in Michael Connelly. So you’ve got to weigh up whether you’re making more trouble than you’re solving.’