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SIXTEEN

I REMEMBER HIS EYES more than anything. Probably because that’s the only part of his face I ever saw.

By the time he hired Howard Shimkus (and, by extension, me, as Howard’s young associate) to be his lawyer, Silas Renfrow had been taken into custody by federal authorities as part of the investigation into mob boss Michael Cagnina. He had had plastic surgery to alter his facial features. And he didn’t want anyone — not even his lawyers — to see his new face.

The whole thing was cloak-and-dagger. “Unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” said Howard, a highly respected attorney with twenty years’ experience prosecuting and then defending white-collar and violent criminals.

We were picked up in downtown Chicago by undercover federal marshals and placed in the back of a van without windows. We didn’t know where we traveled, only that it was two hours away from downtown. We were led directly into a building, presumably an old government office reinforced to house important government witnesses.

Inside, it was a fortress, with concrete barriers, remote-locking doors, bulletproof glass, and federal marshals armed with rifles and automatic weapons.

We were led past a series of cells, which we were told were empty, before we reached the one housing Silas Renfrow. The door was solid metal with a single slot, a long rectangular peephole at approximately waist level, so guards could see Silas’s position inside the cell before entering, preventing an ambush.

Two chairs were put out for Howard and me just outside the cell, with a desk in between.

“This isn’t private enough,” said Howard to the marshal.

“It’s what your client wanted,” the marshal snapped.

I looked at the opaque metal door, then the rectangular peephole, where I saw a pair of eyes, ocean blue, looking back at me. I almost jumped in my seat.

“I know Howard already,” said Silas from behind the door. “What’s your name?”

His voice sounded robotic: he was using a voice-altering microphone, as if this whole thing weren’t surreal enough.

“Um, hello, Mr. Renfrow, I’m Marcie Dietrich,” I said. “I’m an associate of Howard.”

“My compliments, Howard,” he said, his blue eyes turning to Howard, one eye winking. I was eye candy, in other words, not a serious attorney. The curse of any young female lawyer trying to break in.

Howard said, “Nice to see you again, Silas.”

But Silas’s eyes were back on me. “Marcie, tell me what you know about me.”

I wasn’t expecting to do much of the talking. But I’d surely done my homework.

“You’re Michael Cagnina’s reputed assassin,” I said. “You’ve been accused or suspected in the alleged murders of —”

“No, no, no,” he said. “You can do away with ‘reputed’ and ‘accused’ and ‘suspected’ and ‘alleged.’ Everything they say about me is true.”

I glanced over at Howard. But the client was directing the questions to me, so it was up to me to answer.

“How many people have I killed, Marcie?”

I swallowed hard. “Fourteen,” I say. “Fourteen that they know of.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Excellent qualifier. Fourteen that they know of. Do you want to know what the real number is?”

However intimidated I felt, I couldn’t back down. “If you’d like to tell me,” I said.

“Thirty-two, Marcie. I’ve killed thirty-two people. Do you know what I felt about those murders? Each and every one of them?”

“Silas,” said Howard, reasserting himself, “why don’t we —”

“I’d like an answer to my question,” said Silas. “And then we can proceed as you wish, Howard. Marcie? My question.”

I looked into those piercing eyes, focused on me. In that moment, I felt like I could see him better just by looking at those eyes than if I’d been able to study his entire face.

“Nothing,” I said. “You felt nothing.”

His eyes narrowed a bit. I was pretty sure he was smiling.