The knocking became pounding. Something as hard and heavy as a carpenter’s hammer was striking the door.

The girl pulled the green shade an inch and a half to one side and peeped out. After a moment she unlocked the door and stood aside.

The man who entered was both tall and wide, nearing middle age. Cassie gasped, “Scott . . . ?”

“Who’s that?” His voice was deep and a trifle raspy.

“A—a certain man I used to know. A gentleman. Or I thought he was.”

“Not my name, Miss Casey. You ready?”

The girl said, “She’s gotta pay for this.”

The man who looked so much like Scott leveled his left forefinger at her. It was an unusually large forefinger. “You shut the fuck up,” he told her.

His car was roomy, cheap, and new. A good portion of the dash taken up by what looked like a computer screen. A remote keyboard occupied the passenger seat until Cassie moved it.

“Fasten your belt, Miss Casey.”

She did. “You know my name. That’s the second time you’ve used it.”

He started the car.

“Since you know my name, I think I ought to know yours.”

“Scott.” There was little traffic this time of night, and “Scott” jammed down the accelerator.

“You’re not Scott. You look kind of like him, but you’re not him. It’s not really that close.” Cassie craned her neck for a look at the numbers flaming before him: 40, 50, 60 . . . She tightened her seat belt. “You’re a cop, Scott.”

He glanced at her.

“This car and the way you drive it. The whole bit. That girl wouldn’t have unlocked the door for Jacob, Jack Pot, and Joan of Arc; but she unlocked it for you because you showed her a badge.”

“You new in town?”

“Does it matter?”

“You’re not a cop.” The car swerved right to pass a speeding cab. “I’d know you. If you’re a grifter, you’d have to be new. I know the local gals. High class. Red hair. Forty?”