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arrange a sketch, maybe, of the third man, from the waiter.”
    â€œI want to talk to him.”
    â€œThe waiter? Okay.”
    They stood in the middle of the room, watching people cleaning up from the luncheon crowd, preparing for dinner.
    â€œDoes it look familiar?” Morgan asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOkay,” he said, surprised, “what do you remember?”
    â€œDancing with my father —”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI remember dancing with my father. We came here, just before my teens, a year before he died.”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œMart Kenny was playing. I think he played here for years. My dad always wanted to see Mart Kenny and His Western Gentlemen, we heard him on the radio. But my mom wouldn’t dance with him. She could dance really well but she didn’t think he could, so he danced with me.”
    â€œWas it the same?”
    â€œAs now? It feels like it was, but, you know, memory is fickle. No, I don’t remember being here with Philip. I don’t know, Morgan, it all seems familiar.”
    She paused.
    â€œThe other man. He came before the Champagne … which is a perfect drink to conceal knock-out drops.”
    â€œYou could have been drugged before you got here.”
    â€œMorgan, apparently I didn’t come in staggering … and it seems like I made quite a show when I left.”
    They saw the maître d’ beckoning them from the side of the room. He pointed toward the kitchen.
    â€œHe just came in. Giovanni.”
    They walked through the kitchen to a staff lounge. A tall, lean man with residual acne glanced at them and away, then again. He recognized them as police. Miranda and Morgan both knew instantly that his name was not Giovanni. There was no one else in the room. The man stood upright, confronting them, not belligerently but not intimidated.
    â€œWhere you from?” asked Morgan.
    â€œSienna.”
    â€œYou speak Italian, then? I speak Italian.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he said, “I do.”
    Miranda smiled. Morgan’s bluff was being called.
    â€œGo ahead,” said Morgan. “Speak.”
    â€œWhat do you want?” said the man.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œGiovanni.”
    â€œWhen it’s not Giovanni, what’s your name?”
    The man shrugged. “Malouf. Iqbal.”
    â€œWhich?”
    â€œIqbal Malouf, that’s my name.”
    â€œYou illegal?” asked Morgan.
    â€œA little.”
    â€œHow’s that?” said Miranda.
    â€œMy visa ran out.”
    â€œRecently?” she asked.
    â€œEight years ago. I’m married, I’ve got a kid. He’s a Canadian, in school.”
    â€œYour wife?”
    â€œIllegal. Lebanese, same as me. We met here.”
    â€œAt the hotel?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHave you ever seen me before?” asked Miranda.
    â€œSure, three-four nights ago, table by the wall. Dom Pérignon. You got drunk.”
    â€œDid you know I was a cop?”
    â€œNo. You were some guy’s date.”
    Miranda flinched. “And the others?”
    â€œThe guy who brought you, I don’t know. He was smooth, I’d say computers, maybe a stock analyst. Too calm for a broker. A tax lawyer, maybe.”
    â€œWell, thank you,” said Miranda. “And the other one?”
    â€œNever saw him before. Never saw any of you before.”
    â€œWhat can you tell us about him, the third person?” asked Morgan.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThink.”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWe’re not with Immigration.”
    â€œOh, come on, man. I didn’t see anything. He was just a guy. Mid-thirties, well dressed. He didn’t pay. The other guy paid, the guy who brought her.”
    â€œMe,” said Miranda, exasperated with having to establish her presence again. “We came together, he didn’t bring me.”
    â€œHe paid. Big tip. Not too big, big