“What tip?”
“I just tipped the waiter.”
“I hope you’re not drinking alcohol on duty.”
“Roger that.” Brodie poured the beer into an iced glass and stared at the effervescence.
Dombroski inquired, “How are you and Ms. Taylor getting along?”
“Her fluency in Spanish has proved invaluable.”
“I’m sure. Meanwhile, don’t complicate your professional relationship.”
“Good advice.”
“Did you fill her in about the murder of Robert Crenshaw in Peshawar?”
“Not yet.”
Dombroski had no comment on that and changed the subject. “I checked with JAG, and they stress that there is to be no field interrogation of the suspect.”
“I’ve already made a note of that.”
“Good.” He asked, “Anything further?”
“Yes… Look, we know that Mercer was in a brothel, probably this one called El Gallinero—the Hen House—so I’m assuming he’s known in this barrio called Petare, in the neighborhood called July Twenty-Fourth—”
“You’re losing me.”
“So if I don’t find him tonight, Taylor and I will do a standard canvass of the neighborhood, using Mercer’s photo—”
“This gang will kill you. Or Mercer will findyou.”
“I’m hoping for the latter.”
Dombroski didn’t reply.
“Anyway, that’s Plan B.”
“Does Ms. Taylor know about Plan B?”
“She suggested it.”
Again, Dombroski didn’t reply; then he informed Brodie, “The two most common elements in the universe are hydrogen and stupidity.”
“Really?”
Brodie could hear Dombroski take a deep breath. Then his boss said, “Do what has to be done.”
“Right.”
“Six days.”
“Copy.”
“Don’t get your partner killed.” Dombroski paused. “You’re responsible for yourself.”
“As always.” He added, “I’m going to bring this son of a bitch back, dead or alive.”
