“I did learn that they’re licensed in New York, Jersey, and Connecticut, which tells us that Barbara Miller is probably not in Boston.”

“Or Philadelphia,” Ted said.

“What’s next?”

“I’m going into the city to stir things up a bit—without getting beat up. It’s time I got my ex to face up to a few things. I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

He had another call to make. To his best man.

“Ted?” Carter said. “My man. It’s not my birthday and it’s not Christmas, so why is my old friend calling me? Getting married again?”

“Not anytime soon, Carter. What about you?”

“Getting married? Not on your life. I just heard from Petey. Fusco? Getting divorced. I was his best man, too. That makes me three for three. So, what can I do for you? Hey, come to London sometime. It’s always raining, the beer’s warm, and when you ask for ice in your drink, you get one cube. Otherwise, I love it.”

“How about we meet up somewhere warm where the drinks are frozen and the sun shines? I need some information. About a guy.”

“Sure, if I can. Who’s it?”

“A Russian. Sokol Orlov. Worked at Blandon.”

“Oh, yeah. In one word, bad news.”

“Why am I not surprised? Do tell.”

Mohammed had found a place to grab an early lunch. Though he’d finished it before returning to pick up Ted, the aroma lingered. Ted had skipped breakfast and was overwhelmed by the cornucopia of scents in the car. Lamb, stewed tomatoes, onions, and a laundry list of spices, some of which he recognized and others, exotic or subtle, which wafted by unnamed.

“What is that I’m smelling?” he groaned.

“Saltah.”

“Okay, so that’s what it’s called. What’s in it?”

“Lamb and . . . I don’t know what you call it here. Weeds.”

The food was gone; only the maddening smell remained. “I want to go to Manhattan.”

“Oh, good. I have a brother who went to Manhattan once.”

“I have to call up, Mr. Molloy.” The doorman recognized him, though it had been a decade since Ted had last passed through this marbled lobby.

“I understand, Osvaldo.” Ted would have preferred to appear at Jill’s door unannounced. “How’s your boy?”

Osvaldo’s younger son had obtained a full-ride basketball scholarship to Georgetown. But that had been many years ago.

“He’s clerking for a federal judge; thanks for asking. Let me ring Miss Fitzmaurice.” Though twice married and in her midthirties, Jill would always be addressed as Miss.

Ted felt uncomfortably at home, as though he could pick up his mail, check for packages, and head directly to the elevators, hitting the button for the sixth floor. Of course he could do none of those things without permission.