Free Red Glove by Holly Black Page B

groan and slump into my desk chair, then realize I am sitting on a stack of papers. I pull them out from under me.
    “So, what are we looking at?” I ask them, peering at what I’m holding. There are pictures clipped to the files, a bunch of tough-looking guys clearly getting their picture taken because they were busted for something. And then, candid shots of those same guys drinking coffee in cafés or reading the paper on the balcony of a hotel, a woman in a bathing suit beside them. Surveillance shots.
    “There are six victims here,” Daneca says. “All workers.”
    “All dudes,” puts in Sam.
    Daneca stretches, grabbing one of the pages. “Giovanni ‘Scars’ Basso. He’s in the real—and fake—amulet trade. Was apparently shorting some people money. As far as the Feds know, he didn’t work directly for Zacharov. Probably did deals with a bunch of the families. No body. No nothing. One night he was just gone.”
    “So we don’t even know that he didn’t just skip town,” says Sam.
    “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe they all skipped town.”
    “Together?” Daneca asks Sam. “Like now all six of them are living in a villa in the south of France like in a wacky TV sitcom?”
    Sam shakes his head sadly. “Okay. Admittedly, probably not.”
    Daneca shuffles. “Guy number two—James ‘Jimmy’ Greco. He ran an illegal gambling operation—Hey, kind of like you, Cassel.”
    I make a rude gesture halfheartedly. I am sure the federal agents don’t want me sharing these files with civilians, especially ones they have no legal reason to harass. Even though I am still annoyed with Daneca and Sam, that knowledge gives me some measure of satisfaction. Anything that pisses off the Feds can’t be all bad.
    Daneca smiles. “Greco was a luck worker, so no surprises there on his choice of profession. No idea how he crossed Zacharov, since he was a big earner. Then, bam. Taken out. Last seen passed out in a bar in Philadelphia.”
    It seems easy to imagine that hit. Greco stumbling, carried out on the shoulder of someone claiming to be a friend. Maybe someone who was a friend. Tip to the bartender. Killed in the car.
    Or the killer was a woman, pretending to be his girlfriend, his wife. Even better. Maybe even a last drink, with a little something to make him sleep. Flash of her red gloves.
    Nothing the Feds haven’t already considered, I’m sure.
    “That brings us to Antanas Kalvis. Ran a pretty high-end call girl service out of Newark along with his wife.” Daneca likes playing detective. It’s just a game to both of them, a murder mystery with fancy props. At the end you guess it was the butler with the candlestick and turn over a card to find out if you’re right.
    “They ran it together?” Sam asks.
    “When I picture pimps, I picture fur coats, wide lapels, and no fixed address,” I say.
    “Yeah, because all criminals are like in the movies,” Daneca snaps. Maybe she’s taking it more seriously than I thought. “Kalvis was an emotion worker. Ugh. That’s just so gross. Anyway—”
    “You said he was married, right?” I say, interrupting her. “How did he go missing without his wife knowing anything about it?”
    She flips over a couple of pages. “Actually, it’s really creepy. He disappeared from bed. Like, right next to her. So either that’s true or Mrs. Kalvis was in on the hit.”
    I’m warming to the idea of a murderess. I imagine her posing as one of the call girls—maybe in distress—and arranging an emergency meeting with Kalvis. He slips out of bed without waking his wife.
    Or maybe he was sleepwalking. Right into Philip and Anton’s waiting arms. Then someone like me makes the body disappear.
    Or maybe I did. Maybe it was me.
    “It sounds like the wife was covering up,” Daneca says speculatively. “We could start with her. Maybe you know someone who knows someone who could ask—!”
    “Cassel? Is something wrong?” Sam scoots to the edge of his bed.
    “No,” I say,