Not a word Jacob Swann used much—well, ever—but he decided, yes, it was. And so was she. The ropey straps of the bikini bottoms dangled down, ready to be tugged. Her flip-flops revealed blue nails and she wore gold rings on both her big toes. They matched the hoops in her ears. A complicated assembly of gold bracelets as well.

Annette sized him up too and would be recalling his naked physique, muscular, thin waist, powerful chest and arms. Rippled. He worked hard at that.

She said, “I had plans but…”

The sentence ended in a new smile.

As they walked to his car she took his arm. He escorted her to the passenger side. Once inside she gave him directions to her apartment. He started the engine but before he put the car in gear he stopped. “Oh, I forgot. Maybe I didn’t call but I brought you a present.”

“No!” She keened with pleasure. “What?”

He extracted a box from the backpack he used as an attaché case, sitting in the backseat. “You like jewelry, don’t you?”

“What girl doesn’t?” Annette asked.

As she opened it he said, “It’s not instead of your fee, you know. It’s in addition.”

“Oh, please,” she said with a dismissing smile. Then concentrated on opening the small narrow box. Swann looked around the street. Empty still. He judged angles, drew back his left hand—open, thumb and index finger wide and stiff—and struck her hard in the throat in a very particular way.

She gasped, eyes wide. Rearing back and gripping her damaged neck.

“Uhn, uhn, uhn…”

The blow was a tricky one to deliver. You had to hit gently enough so you didn’t crush the windpipe completely—he needed her to be able to speak—but hard enough to make it impossible to scream.

Her eyes stared at him. Maybe she was trying to say his name—well, the cover name he’d given her last week. Swann had three U.S. passports and two Canadian, and credit cards in five different names. He frankly couldn’t recall the last time he’d used “Jacob Swann” with somebody he hadn’t known well.

He looked back evenly at her and then turned to pull the duct tape from his backpack.

Swann put on flesh-toned latex gloves and ripped a strip of tape off the roll. He paused. That was it. The spice the nearby cook had added to the fish.

Coriander.

How had he missed it?

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

THE VICTIM WAS ROBERT MORENO,” Laurel told them. “Thirty-eight years old.”

“Moreno—sounds familiar,” Sachs said.

“Made the news, Detective,” Captain Bill Myers offered. “Front page.”

Sellitto asked, “Wait, the Anti-American American? What some headline called him, I think.”

“Right,” the captain said. Then editorialized bitterly: “Prick.”

No jargon there.