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Graeber took the keys from the guy’s pocket and found the one he needed to open the vehicle door. There were two vans inside. Both were black. One was a few years old and displayed the kind of dents and scuffs that accrue during a life spent earning a living. The other looked almost unused. The first was empty. The second had an air-conditioning unit on its roof and its cargo area was fitted out with full length roll-out racks on both sides.

The far end of the space was set up as a mechanical bay. There were three giant toolboxes on wheels along the wall. Oil stains on the floor. And a hoist attached to a girder on the ceiling with chains hanging down for removing engines. The cogs looked seized and rusty like they hadn’t seen much action for many years.

Graeber reversed both vans out into the courtyard and then watched the guy from the Cadillac while they waited for him to regain consciousness. Emerson searched the office, which was walled off in the remaining quarter of the building’s first floor. He found all the usual administrative stuff. A calendar on the wall. A computer on the desk. Paperwork and stationery items in the drawers. But nothing that gave any insights into the confidential side of the guy’s business. The only thing of interest was a pod-style coffee machine on a low file cabinet. Emerson used it to make a mug for himself and another for Graeber.

—

When the Cadillac guy woke up he was naked. He was on tiptoes in a pool of congealed oil. His arms were above his head, cable tied to the chains from the engine hoist. A barrel he had never seen before was standing in front of him, just too far away to kick. There was a ladle on top of it. The kind they use in restaurants. The guy was silent for a moment. He stayed still. Confusion creased his face. Then anger took over. He yelled. He yanked on the chains. He tugged them from side to side. He kicked out in all directions. But all he did was hurt his wrists and skin the balls of his feet.

Emerson heard the racket and came through from the office. He waited for the guy to settle down, then said, “You’ve probably figured this out for yourself by now, but we’re not interested in you delivering anything for us.”

The guy’s eyes opened wide. “What are you interested in?”

“Deliveries you made in the past.” Emerson opened the phone he had taken from the guy in St. Louis and called up the photograph of Carpenter. He held it out for the guy to see. “Specifically, deliveries you made for this man.”

“What about them? I picked up a container. Usually just one. Took it to a place in New Jersey.”

“Where did you pick up these containers?”

“It varied. One of five locations. I got told which one the day before. They’re all within an hour of here.”

“You knew what was in the containers?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. They didn’t tell. But I’m not stupid. I guess I had a good idea.”

“Good. Now, Carpenter. How do I find him?”

“I don’t know.”

Emerson opened the barrel, took a ladleful of its contents, and poured it on the floor about eighteen inches from the guy’s feet.

The guy wriggled his toes farther away. “What’s that?”

“Something to focus your mind.” Emerson took out a box of matches, struck one, and lit the little creamy puddle on fire. “Another name for it is napalm.”

Emerson took another ladleful from the barrel and stepped toward the guy. Who started to hop on the toes of one foot. His other leg was raised, ready to kick if he got the chance. Emerson flung the gel. It landed and spread out across the guy’s crotch and thighs.

The guy screamed.

“What?” Emerson said. “I haven’t lit it, yet. Tell me how to find Carpenter.”

“You can’t find him. No one can. He disappeared, like a month ago. I tried to reach him myself but I couldn’t. He’s gone. History. No more.”

“Other contacts in his organization?”

“He was the only one. It was a security thing.”

“That’s a shame. It means you’re no use to me. You’re just a piece of annoying trash. And we all know the most environmentally friendly way to dispose of trash.” Emerson took out another match.

“Wait! Listen. Three weeks ago, maybe four, a new guy came on the scene. He only interacted remotely, and he said he represented a different supplier, but I think it was the same one.”

“Why?”

“The guy already knew the kind of bona fides I would want. They came through real quick. It was the same product. The same containers. The same destination. There’ve been two pickups so far. Both places the old organization used. A third pickup is scheduled, and that’s at another place they used. You tell me—coincidence?”

“This is just dawning on you now? You weren’t suspicious before?”

“Why would I care? I figured they must have a reason for this new name. New identity. Maybe someone was muscling in. Maybe they’d had quality issues in the past. Needed a fresh start. As long as there was regular work, good money, and no feds, I was happy.”

“The third pickup that’s scheduled. When is it?”

“Today.”

“Time? Place?”