The street they turn into isn’t Fifth Avenue, or even Gramercy Square. A few discreet, CCTV-secured, glass-fronted entrances lead into doorman-less vestibules. On the opposite side of the street more Chinese printers, restaurants and a beauty parlor squeeze into narrow shopfronts. But when they get into the building Miss Aubert directed Eric to, Brad can see he’s misjudged the kind of residences these are. The hallway is marble and chrome, and the paintings on the gleaming walls are all originals.

They take the elevator to the penthouse level on the tenth floor. The man who had answered the door buzzer told them to just get into the elevator and get out when it stopped. He would summon it to the correct floor from his apartment. Brad glances at the keypad. There’s no tenth floor on it, but a small sensor that, he guesses, reads some kind of fob key or keycard.

The elevator comes to a smooth halt, and they step out into a short corridor, with one door at the end. Someone stands in the open doorway, waiting for them. Brad appraises the man. He’s about his own height, and the shoulders, clad in a crumpled gray T-shirt are very broad. He wears black sweatpants and no shoes. His dark, curly hair looks disheveled, as if he’s only woken up. Brad’s eyes linger for a moment on the man’s face. He looks familiar, but that’s not what makes Brad take note. The man looks unwell. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he’s very pale.

But Brad dismisses his initial guess—the man doesn’t act drunk.

“Hi, I’m Damien,” he says, holding out a hand. “Thanks for coming.” His voice is low and dark, and Brad thinks of all the cigarettes it must’ve taken to get it that way. But there’s something else, a tremor, a tightness, as if it costs Damien a lot of self-control to speak at all.

Eric shakes Damien’s hand, then Brad does as well. He can’t smell any liquor, but Brad is still convinced something isn’t right with the guy. Damien’s hand feels very warm in his.

And Brad now realizes who Damien is. He has watched Gaukur only a couple of times—with his hours, Brad rarely has the opportunity to follow a TV show. But he remembers being impressed with Damien Thomas’s presence on screen as Bard the Viking, and with his physical appearance during the bare-chested fight scenes. Unsurprisingly, the reality doesn’t live up to the on-screen fantasy. Right now, Damien looks more drowned rat than leading man.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Damien says, waving them inside. “It’s…well, she got spooked, I guess. Up here.” He leads the way up a narrow mahogany staircase. Going up the stairs is dark and claustrophobic.

They emerge into an open-plan living cum dining room, with the kitchen taking up the back part of the space. Brad looks around. This place could fit three times into his own downstairs living space. In Manhattan, you pay for location, though Brad fails to see the appeal. A Chinatown address, though central, is no sales pitch for him.

“Viv.” Damien goes over to the sofa where a blonde woman sits with her hands folded in her lap. “The detectives are here.”

“Oh!” The woman straightens up. “Finally!”

Before Brad can say anything, Eric strides past him with his hand outstretched. “Miss Aubert? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Call me Vivienne,” she says, looking at Eric from under her lashes.

Brad raises an eyebrow. Eric’s eagerness is kind of sweet. Brad suppresses a grin and lets his junior partner take the lead. For a greeting, he nods his head when Vivienne’s eyes flick toward him. He takes out his notepad and holds it against his thigh.

“Have a seat.” Damien, who looks shaky on his feet, points at the armchairs facing the sofa. Eric takes the one across from Vivienne, and Brad walks around the group to sit in the chair next to Eric. Damien sinks into the sofa with a wince, and Vivienne snatches up his hand and holds on to it hard.

Eric focuses on Vivienne again. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

“I…I was followed, from the airport.” Vivienne pulls Damien’s hand more tightly into her lap. He shifts to accommodate her and not have his elbow dislocated. To Brad, he looks worse by the minute, gray and clammy and like he’s about to be sick. Vivienne noticed nothing and continues, “There were two men. I think they were on my plane. They followed me from the luggage hall and got into a cab right behind me.”

As she launches into a disjointed tale about a cab following her all the way to Damien’s house, Brad watches her. He knows already that she’s lying and pays scant attention to the words. On his notepad he writes only one word. Why?

She puts on a good show. But then, Brad thinks, she’s an actress. He remembers seeing her last film. She was okay in it. It was a dark and twisted love story; Brad doesn’t remember much of the plot. But the performance she delivers now reminds him a lot of what she did on-screen.

Since Eric hangs on her every word, Brad allows himself to study the rest of her. Even with her too aquiline nose she’s very beautiful, Brad can objectively confirm. And she uses it to good effect. Her legs are demurely closed, leaning against the sofa at an angle to show off her calves. Every so often, she glances at Eric from under her lashes, her look the perfect imitation of the damsel in distress. But her shoulders are tense, and her back is rigid, and Brad is sure this is to help her concentrate on her improvised script rather than a sign of true upset.

Brad also keeps an eye on Damien. His expression is one of puzzlement. Clearly, he also wonders what kind of game Vivienne is playing.

When she stops talking, Brad focuses back on Vivienne. She gives him a nervous smile. He doesn’t smile back. Her eyes narrow, and her face is no longer sweet and beguiling. For a moment her eyes on Brad’s are cold and calculating.

“Why didn’t you go to the police at the airport?” he asks without preamble. “When you noticed those men?”

Eric turns and frowns at Brad, but Brad ignores him.

“I—” Vivienne begins.

“Or in the cab,” Brad interrupts her on purpose. “You could’ve asked the driver to take you to the nearest police station.”

“I…I was scared,” Vivienne says, flustered. “It didn’t even occur to me.”

“I see.” Brad leans over his notepad and pretends to write on it. It tends to unsettle people in an interrogation. The thought of being judged, Brad has found, makes those not forthcoming with the truth especially nervous.

Eric leans forward. Brad is sure he’ll get a reproachful look, but Eric keeps his eyes on Vivienne. “Ma’am, can you describe the men?”

As Vivienne rattles off some nondescript details about her alleged pursuers Brad counts to ten in his head. He’s angry with that woman, and with Eric for buying into her story so easily. His gaze drifts to Damien again, who rubs his eyes. Brad frowns. The man looks like he should see a doctor, or at least lie down. Brad suppresses the urge to offer his help or words of comfort. It’s not his place, and anyway, once they’re done here, his girlfriend can take charge of him.

Brad glances around again. It’s a nice enough space, with oil paintings and some photographs on the walls, and high-end furniture. But it doesn’t appeal to him. The space is too small, and even through the closed terrace doors Brad can hear the faint sound of the incessant Manhattan traffic.

“Thank you very much, Miss Aubert,” Eric says when he has taken down the descriptions. “I’m not sure how much help we can be, but we’ll try our best.” He gets up.

Vivienne stays where she is, but Damien struggles to his feet. Brad gestures at him to sit down again. “We can show ourselves out.”

“Thank you, detectives,” Damien says and sinks back onto the sofa. He takes Vivienne’s hand again. She looks up at them, her eyes wet, her lip quivering. Brad suppresses his irritation. She’s a good actress, but he’s not fooled.

They walk back down the mahogany staircase, Brad in the lead. They don’t speak in the elevator, but when they regain the street Eric lets out an explosive breath. “Strange pair, those two,” he says.

“Good at their job, though,” Brad mumbles. “At least she is.”

Eric glances at him but doesn’t comment. He seems to know what Brad means.

They’ve been played, but Brad has no idea for what purpose.