They turned to see one of the boardwalk girls teetering up the alley toward them, her baby giraffe legs constrained by a micromini banding her thighs together. She had a sweet almond-shaped face framed with straight raven-black hair. She might’ve been eighteen or a precocious fifteen—you never knew with these East Slavic types. She looked very concerned in a wholesome oh-my-gosh way that seemed at odds with her getup.

She said something in what sounded like Turkish—probably Crimean Tatar. Noting their expressions, she switched to Russian. “Are you all right? Was there an accident?”

“Yes,” Candy replied in Russian. “But we’re okay.” She reached over quickly to shut the hatch, but Jaggers stopped her.

Candy looked at him. His button eyes peered back at her, showing no depth.

“No,” Candy said to him under her breath.

Jaggers said nothing but kept his hand on the underside of the hatch lid, holding it open.

The girl drew nearer. “You’re sure you’re not hurt? Do you need me to call someone?”

“No, no, we’re fine,” Candy said. “Thank you, though, sweetheart.”

The girl stopped. They were alone in the alley, just the three of them cast in the slanting glow thrown from a window above. At some point in the past few minutes, night had come on in full.

“We could use a hand with the trunk,” Jaggers said. “I think it got warped in the crash. We can’t get it closed.”

The girl looked confused. But she gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Okay.”

As she started toward them, Candy tried again to yank the rear door closed, but Jaggers held it firm.

And then it was too late.

The girl looked down, saw the tangled body held by the plastic lining, and opened her mouth. Jaggers sealed in her scream with a jaundiced hand, his fist jabbing twice at her neck. He dumped her into the cargo space on top of Setyeyiva’s body and slammed the hatch lid.

Only now did Candy see the slim silver pen clenched in Jaggers’s bloody hand.

The girl rattled against the closed hatch. Wet thrashing. A screech of breath.

The words hissed through Candy’s teeth, cold with rage. “She’s still alive.”

“Not for long.”

Jaggers squatted, dropped the pen down a sewer drain, and rose wiping his hand on the thigh of his slacks. The rattling grew fainter and then stopped.

Candy punched him, a quick jab that snapped his head back on his stick neck. The pain seemed to have no effect. He dodged her cross, countering with a gut shot that doubled her over. Then he laid her low with a leg sweep. As she curled on the ground, sucking for air, he pressed himself on top of her, his slender fingers cinched not too tightly around her neck.