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“Hope I was worth the wait,” he said, and held the door for me.

I hailed a cab on Lex and rolled the window down. We pulled away from the curb and a diesel wind rushed in at me. I thought about what Paul Gargosian had told me. Joseph Cortese seemed to be the closest thing to an actual friend of Danes that I’d come across so far. Except that I hadn’t really come across him, as he’d been dead for going on six months.

That six-month period couldn’t have been a pleasant one for Gregory Danes. Cortese died; Sovitch stopped coming around; a custody battle erupted with Nina Sachs; and Turpin had shown up at Pace-Loyette with a mandate to settle the claims that Danes wanted to fight. Not an easy time. Who could blame the guy for going away? Who could blame him for not coming back? I thought about how I might find Cortese’s nephew, but I was tired and my mind kept wandering to Neary and Pflug.

The phone was ringing as I came through the door. It was Neary.

“I found him,” he said.

“Where?”

“Here, in town.”

“Is he willing to meet?”

“He said he’d be more than happy to. He even invited us to his rented conference room.”

“When?”

“Six o’clock this evening,” Neary said. I wrote down the address.

“Doesn’t sound like it was too hard to get hold of him.”

“I just called the numbers on his Web site.”

“Was he surprised to hear from you?” I asked.

“Not even a little.”

I met Neary in front of an undistinguished glass box on Park Avenue and 38th Street. We signed in and rode up together in silence. The company that provided Pflug with his New York address occupied the entire twelfth floor. The reception area was windowless and softly lit. The magazines were plentiful but out-of-date and the plump furniture was slightly shabby, and it looked like the business-class lounge of a failing airline. But for two receptionists preparing to leave, the room was empty.

They were making final adjustments to hair and makeup when we came in, and they eyed us warily. The short redhead with the diamond chip in her nose buzzed Pflug and led us to a conference room.

“It’ll be just a minute,” she said, and left us alone.

I sat in a scuffed leather chair at the long scuffed conference table and took a few slow breaths to bring my heart rate down. I looked out the window at the dim view of 38th Street. Neary sat across from me.

“I should do the talking,” he said.

“Sure.” I kept looking at the view.

“You should mostly just sit there.”

“Sure.”

“And not say much.”

“Uh-huh.”

Neary looked at me and sighed. Five minutes later the conference room door opened and Pflug walked in.

He was a lanky six-two, and there was a lot of elbow and knee in his gait as he shut the door and moved to the head of the table. His khaki shirt had epaulets and many pockets, and his olive-drab pants were held in place by a wide leather belt, adorned near the buckle with the brass end of a shotgun shell. His long head was topped by a brush of salt-and-pepper hair, and his sunburned face was meaty, and acne-scarred on one side. He pulled out a chair and folded his long arms and legs and sat. He looked at us with pale eyes and showed a lot of horsy teeth when he smiled.

“Tom, John, what can I do for you gentlemen today?” His voice was deep and theatrically haughty, like a bad Bill Buckley impersonation. He tapped at the side of his pockmarked nose. Neary looked at me and I said nothing.

“Mr. March is my client, and he would like to know why you’ve hired people to have him watched.”

Pflug turned to me and grinned and shook his head. “Where does this come from, John? What could I possibly know about this?” He spread his large hands in staged confusion. I said nothing.

“He’d also like to know what your interest is in Gregory Danes,” Neary said.

Pflug’s toothy smile got larger and more disingenuous. Again he turned to me. “As a matter of professional curiosity, John, do you discuss your cases with just anyone who comes in off the street? Not that I know anything about this Danes, mind you, or about people following people; I’m just curious. Is that all it takes for you to bend over, John- just someone asking?” His pale eyes locked on mine and sparkled like broken glass. I stayed quiet.

Neary cleared his throat. “Mr. March recently received some photographs of a threatening nature. We have reason to believe you sent them, and we’d like to know why.”

Pflug’s smile stayed wide, and he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Well, I guess everyone’s got a right to their beliefs, even here in godless New York City. But belief is one thing and fact is quite another. Now, what was in these photographs that could be so threatening to a strapping fellow like you, John? Or are you just the nervous kind, perhaps, the kind that scares easily? I suppose that’s no surprise, considering what you’ve been through, upstate and all. I suppose that’s enough to leave anyone a little… skittish.”

Neary rapped on the table. “Hey, squire, over here,” he said.

Pflug turned his head slowly and smiled at Neary, but when he spoke it was to me. “Is that why Tom has come along today- because you’re easily frightened?”

“Those photos could constitute harassment, Pflug,” Neary said. “Maybe worse, with a sympathetic prosecutor. And this little display doesn’t help. But we know you’re just a hired man. Let’s talk about who put you up to this.”

Pflug smirked. “That was probably more effective when you were with the Bureau, wasn’t it? It’s easier when you’ve got a badge.” He turned back to me. “So what was in those frightening photos?” I took another deep breath and let it out very slowly. I pursed my lips but kept quiet.

Neary shook his head and changed tack. “What are you doing in New York, anyway? From what I heard, you work out of Virginia- in your garage or something.”

Pflug didn’t like that. His brow wrinkled momentarily and his thin lips curled in a scowl, but he recovered quickly.

“You know, I ask myself the same question: What are you doing in this city, Jeremy? Between the foreigners and all the domestic whiners and complainers, I feel as if I’m in another country when I come here. Lord, I feel as if I’m on another planet. I don’t know how you stand it. But hang on- you’re actually from here, aren’t you, John? You actually grew up here. Well, maybe that explains it.” He showed me more teeth, and his eyes found mine again.

“You don’t like leaving the country?” Neary asked. “Then what’s with all the foreign-correspondent CIA bullshit on your Web site? Or is this Long Island lockjaw routine the bullshit part?”

Pflug’s eyes narrowed and his face clouded with brief irritation. “Your friend is taking us away from our conversation, John. Let’s get back to those photographs. Maybe if you’d tell me what was in them, it would stir some memories.”

I nodded slowly.

Neary rapped on the table again. “Look. We know you’re interested in Danes, and you know we are, too. Maybe we can cooperate here.”

Pflug laughed. It was loud and braying, and it went on too long. “Well, that’s very generous,” he said finally. “But I don’t think I could hold up my end of the bargain. I’ve got nothing to say about this Danes, and- truth be told- I’m not really a very cooperative fellow. At any rate, I don’t think John here has his mind on that business anymore. I think he’s got his mind on those photographs.” He turned to me again. “Now, how about telling me a little about what was in those pictures. There was nothing of a personal nature, was there? No pictures of you and that Chinese girl of yours? Because from where I sit, that would be rude.”

I looked at Neary. “This is pointless.” I sighed. “He isn’t going to help himself.” I shook my head and got up from my seat. Pflug laughed loudly and stood up too, and as he did I whipped my right forearm into the side of his head. He went backward over the top of his chair and came down loud and hard, and before I could do anything else Neary had his hand on my chest. I leaned against it for a moment and then stepped back. My heart was pounding and adrenaline was careening through my veins.