Page 69 of Nobody's Hero

‘White. About five ten. Mid-forties. Balding. Normal-looking, I guess. Type of guy you wouldn’t look twice at. Which would be a mistake as he’s one of the most dangerous men in the world. I know when we met with him no one ran their mouth. You don’t disrespect a dude who knows a hundred and one ways to stop your clock.’

‘Distinguishing features?’

Cunningham looked at the table. Seemed like she was concentrating. ‘His teeth,’ she said eventually.

‘What about them?’

‘They’re rotten. All brown and uneven and chipped. Looked like he went to a Brit dentist.’

‘Hey,’ Margaret said.

Koenig didn’t respond. Bad teeth weren’t uncommon with people serious about protecting their privacy. Dentists took X-rays. Photographs. They occasionally took blood. Koenig had once used a half-bitten apple to confirm a perp’s identity. Took it from him in a diner, had it checked against his dental records, and arrested the guy that night.

‘And the girl?’ he said.

‘Skinny cold-hearted bitch,’ Cunningham replied. ‘Bunch of tattoos on her arms. Look real, not fake.’

‘What kind of tattoos?’ he asked. ‘Tribal? Portraits? Japanese? Black and grey or colour? Professional or the kind done in prison?’

‘Like the old ones sailors used to get,’ Cunningham said.

Koenig thought she meant traditional tattoos. Bold black lines and bright primary colours. Lots of anchors and women wearing oyster-shell bikinis. Roses and playing cards. They’d gone out of fashion in the 1950s but had seen a surge in popularity recently. Retro.

‘Are they covering scars?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Anything else?’

‘A brown birthmark.’ She touched her left cheek. Pushed her fingers up to her temple to show where it was. ‘It’s gross, like someone’s flung mud at her face. Shaped like Italy. Didn’t seem self-conscious about it, though. Guess no one was gonna laugh at her. Not twice, anyway.’ She paused. ‘I know it’s Hobbs who does the wet work, but that Harper Nash was scary as hell. A real psycho. When you find her, look in her eyes and tell me I’m wrong.’

‘That bad?’

‘When I was a kid, I wanted to be an artist,’ Cunningham said. ‘Problem was I couldn’t draw for shit. I kinda fell into the NYPD. They were recruiting and I didn’t have a job. But that girl . . . you just know killing people is what she’s always wanted to do.’

‘If you do what you love for a living, you’ll never work a day in your life?’

‘Exactly.’

‘How do people make contact with them?’

‘They don’t. Strictly by referral. And if you think they’ll accept one now, you must be stupider than you look. They’ll know we’ve been picked up, and they’ll assume we’ll be looking for things to trade. Anyway, I heard they hadn’t taken on a job in two years. Big contract.’

Draper and Koenig exchanged a glance. Carlyle looked worried. Margaret yawned. It ended with a small hiccup.

‘OK,’ Koenig said. ‘How doyoumake contact with them?’

‘We had set times. Two of us would go to a bar and wait.’

‘Which bar?’

‘It changed, but it was always here.’

‘New York?’

‘Well, it ain’t in the MDC. Of course New York.’

‘Talk me through it.’