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“What kind of more?” Margaret asks, sitting up straighter, her professional caution giving way to curiosity.

“That remains to be seen,” I say, leaning forward. “Was Jeanne seeing anyone recently? Someone new, someone different?”

Margaret hesitates, then sighs. “There was someone. She wouldn’t tell me much about him—just that he was from somewhere in Europe. Eastern Europe I think.”

I feel Callahan tense beside me. “Russian?” he asks.

“She never said specifically. But she started seeing him about a month ago. Just after Christmas. Would come home late, wearing clothes I knew she couldn’t afford on a nurse’s salary. Expendable income isn’t really our bag, you know.” Margaret’s mouth tightens. “I told her to be careful. Men who shower you with gifts usually want something in return.”

“Did you ever meet him?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“No. He never came here. Always picked her up on the corner, or they met somewhere.” Margaret stands, moving to a small writing desk in the corner. She returns with a small item in her palm. “I found this in her coat pocket after she…after they found her body.”

She places a matchbook on the coffee table between us. The red cover bears a simple clover embossed in gold, with no address or other information.

“She’d been going to this place,” Margaret continues. “Crimson Clover. Some kind of exclusive club in San Pedro. I only know because she mentioned it was near or in Shanghai Reds—we used to go there sometimes during the war to meet sailors. Said it was hidden, that you needed to know someone to get in. She felt all la-dee-da about it.”

Callahan picks up the matchbook, turning it over in his hand. His fingers are steady, but I can sense the tension radiating from him—the controlled excitement of a hunter finding a trail. This is him in his element and I can’t look away.

“Did she mention anything else?” Callahan presses. “Any names, places, strange occurrences?”

Margaret pauses, considering. “She did seem…different the last few weeks. More secretive. And there was one odd thing—I saw her carrying a vial of her own blood.”

I stiffen.

“Herblood?” Callahan echoes.

“She said her new friend was fascinated by her rare blood type. Into that horoscope hocus-pocus I guess. I told her it was bizarre, but she laughed it off. Said it was just an eccentricity.”

My stomach turns. It’s possible the Ivanovs weren’t just selecting victims with AB negative blood—they were collecting samples, perhaps testing compatibility for their ritual.

“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Two nights ago. She dressed up, said she was meeting him at the club.” She nods at the matchbook. “She seemed excited. Almost giddy. Said he was introducing her to people who could change her life.”

Change her life? End it, more like.

“Thank you, Ms. Wilson,” Callahan says, standing. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Will finding this man help catch Jeanne’s killer?” she asks.

Callahan meets her gaze directly. “I believe he is Jeanne’s killer.”

Her face pales. “Oh dear. Well. You better make him pay.”

“We intend to,” I promise, anger rising in me like a tide. Another woman used and discarded by the Ivanovs, another life cut short for their arcane purposes, ones that we still don’t understand.

As we leave the apartment, Callahan swears under his breath, then touches my arm lightly, directing my attention across the street. A black sedan is parked there that wasn’t present when we arrived. Two men sit in the front, faces obscured but postures unmistakably alert.

“We’ve got company,” he murmurs as we descend the stairs.

My heart sinks. Isn’t anywhere safe now? “Who this time?”

“Most likely Cohen’s goons.” His hand rests at the small of my back, guiding me toward our car. “Walk normally. Let’s not tip them off that we’ve spotted them.”

We reach Callahan’s Oldsmobile and climb in, his movements deliberately unhurried as he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. In the side mirror, I see the sedan start up and follow at a discreet distance.

“They’re not even trying to be subtle,” I observe.