“We’re set up to do it now, if you’re ready,” says Bobby.

“I guess I’m ready. Or ready as I ever will be.”

Shit. This is exactly the kind of thing I wanted to be involved with. Why the hell am I so frightened?

Blumenthal seems pleased. He’s even got a trace of Bobby’s enthusiasm.

“No point in waiting,” says Blumenthal. “Strike while…” He and Cilia high-five each other. Blumenthal doesn’t even finish the cliché. And nobody offers me a high five.

Bobby hands me his cell phone and says, “Okay, take a look at the outline we wrote for you. We’ve put together a kind of a rough script for you. I think that’ll help you with Orlov…Just press 5-2-2-3.”

I press the buttons. A script appears. I read from it out loud. “Hello, may I please speak to Fyodor Orlov? This is Lucy Ryuan calling.”

Then I look up at my two new police partners.

“I love your opening line,” I say. My voice drips with sarcasm. “Sharp. Original. Insightful. We’re off to a really good start.”

Chapter 47

Chapter 47

THE SCRIPT IS IN my estimation a fairly foolish masterpiece of wishful thinking. Sentences like:

Don’t be impatient, Mr. Orlov.

Yes, it is a good idea—no, great idea.

It’s been a real pleasure talking to you.

Finally, I say, “Let’s go do this quasi-entrapment thing before this script makes me change my mind. It sounds like it was written for Barney the dinosaur.”

“Who?” says Blumenthal. I assume the man is not a father.

Bobby Cilia says, “Okay, let’s get started.” Then he adds that we’re going to make the phone call from Blumenthal’s office. But apparently not before three more people are added to the audience. Cilia and Blumenthal invite an annoyingly pretty FBI agent named Oriana; a plainclothes detective whose name is Chub-o for reasons that are fairly obvious; and a middle-aged black guy whose facial expression says, Done it all, seen it all, nothing can surprise me. His name is Fred, and he wears bright green clip-on suspenders. I think the suspenders are meant to be a fashion statement.

And of course there’s me. And I’m still nervous as shit.

I ask Bobby Cilia for a Diet Coke. He brings me a regular Coke. “The sugar will be better for you.”

Why the hell does every man in New York know what’s better for me?

The phone makes a noise.

“You’re getting a text message,” I say to Bobby. After all, it’s his phone.

“Just answer it,” Blumenthal says.

I read it quickly. Fortunately, I read it silently.

LUCY, IT’S GOING 2 GO GREAT. LB