Coyle opened his locker. He smelled the sleeve of his shirt and was hit with an odor of something like sour milk. He hadn’t changed since Sunday. He pulled off his shirt and threw it inside the locker. In the locker mirror, he turned his naked upper body in profile and saw his weak chest and thin arms. He flexed his right bicep, which made an almost imperceptible rise in the upper arm. He looked around the room to make sure no one had seen him. In the bottom of the locker, he found a fresh shirt like all his others—a severely wrinkled oxford with button-down collar. He put it on and, leaving it untucked, walked back to the dark team room.

At his desk, he stared again at the alphabetical list of names on the motor vehicles website. Something flashed across his memory. The parking sticker on the bumper. He looked again at the surveillance photo. The parking sticker read “San Francisco Residential Parking Permit.” The motor vehicles database did not list addresses. Finding the San Francisco owners among the remaining fifty-four names would require fifty-four separate searches. He looked at the list again. The first owner was a male named Banerjee, Victor.

Coyle leaned back in his chair. It’s a start, he thought.

(ii)

(WEDNESDAY, 1:40 A.M.)

The furniture in the living room of the San Francisco condominium had been cleared to the walls. Victor and Russell bounced on the balls of their feet in front of each other. They both wore large boxing mitts. Victor shot his right leg high and kicked at Russell’s head. Russell blocked the kick, swiveled round, and clipped Victor’s neck with an elbow.

“Who’s better at this…thing?” Thackrey sat at the kitchen counter with a highball glass of wine.

“Muay Thai,” Russell said. “It’s not about winning. It’s about staying fit.”

Russell hit Victor with two quick punches. Victor rotated his hip and used his left shin to kick Russell.

Thackrey winced. “Anything’s legal?”

“The art of eight limbs.” Victor bounced a few steps away from Russell. “Fists, elbows, knees, and feet. Most effective of the mixed martial arts.” Victor jumped forward and kicked Russell with his right knee. Russell punched at Victor’s head. They broke and backpedaled away from each other.

Russell danced toward Thackrey. “Your turn. We’ll teach you.”

Thackrey raised his hands. “No, thanks. I don’t believe in violence.”

Victor snorted. “Your ex-girlfriends would be surprised to hear that.”

Thackrey glared at Victor. “Let’s just get back to work.”

Victor and Russell pulled off their mitts and shoved the sofa and chairs back into place.

Thackrey lay on the sofa, with the glass of wine resting on his chest. “The first time I met Elise, we hit it off.”

“At a party, wasn’t it?” Russell sat cross-legged on the floor with a notebook computer propped against his knees.