“Ah, you don’t have to pay me back,” his son-in-law said, grim-faced. Then smiled. “Give ‘em to Faust instead.”

Middleton laughed.

They left the diner and walked Kaminski to a hotel up the street. Middleton gave her some money and told her to check in and stay out of sight until they called.

“I want to go,” she protested.

“No, Felicia.”

“My uncle’s dead because of this man.”

He smiled at her. “This isn’t your line of work. Leave it to the experts.”

Reluctantly she nodded and turned toward the hotel lobby.

Middleton climbed into the driver’s seat of Perez’s car and together the men sped over streets that grew progressively rougher as cobblestones showed through the worn asphalt.

He said, “The delivery was to Four Thirty Eight West Ellicott Street. It’s about a mile from here.” Middleton then glanced to his right. Perez was shaking his head, smiling.

The father-in-law squinted in curiosity. “What?”

“Funny. You and your friends.”

“Who? Lespasse and Nora?”

“Yeah.”

“What about them?”

The voice was now sharp with sarcasm. “Supposed to be so fuckin’ good at your job. And here you are, chasing down a bum lead.”

“What’re you talking about?”

The Beretta appeared fast. Middleton flinched as he felt the muzzle against his neck. His son-in-law took the Glock, tossed it in the back, along with Middleton’s cell phone. Then he undid his father-in-law’s seatbelt, but kept his own hooked.

“What’s going on?” Middleton gasped.

“The gas delivery system was shipped to Virginia, not Baltimore. We drove it up. Whatever’s on Ellicott Street, it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“Us?” Middleton whispered. “You’re with them, Jack?”

“’fraid so, Dad. Turn right here. Head to the waterfront.”

“But—”

The black automatic prodding Middleton’s ear. “Now.”

He did as he was told, following directions to a deserted pier, lined with old warehouses. Perez ordered him to stop. The pistol never wavering, he directed Middleton out of the car and pushed him through an old doorway.

Faust glanced up as if they were guests right on time for a party. In overalls, wearing thick gloves, he was standing at a cluttered worktable littered with tools, tubing and electronic or computer parts. A pallet of gas tanks was nearby. There were 50 or so of them. “Danger—Biohazard” was printed on them in six languages.

Faust gave a fast appraisal of Middleton. “Search him.”

“I already—”

“Search him.”

Perez patted him down. “Clean.”

Middleton shook his head. “I don’t get it . . . Jack shot Nacho.”

Faust grimaced. “We had to sacrifice the greasy little prick—so you’d believe Mr. Perez here and give us the real musical code. I doubted you’d be honest with me back there.”