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address either.
    “There must be a trace of him somewhere,” Williams said. “Except if he’s improved in that domain.”
    “What do you mean, improved?”
    “Carter is so confident in his escape skills that he usually doesn’t bother to really erase his traces,” Williams explained.
    “Weird,” Cowley reacted. “Maybe he’s not actually in New York,” she tried. “Maybe he was just dropping by for that auction sale.”
    “That’s not like him either,” Williams contested.
    “You seem to know him a lot,” Cowley noticed suspiciously.
    “I’ve been confronted to him in the past,” Williams said. “And as I was never able to catch him—and keep him—I started doing research to know him better in the hope of predicting his moves.”
    “Good initiative.”
    “Yep, but it hasn’t really paid off,” Williams regretted.
    “Where did you do that research?” Cowley asked.
    “Mostly asking a former FBI agent who had worked on his case. And with some of Carter’s friends,” he exposed as if filling a form. “But that was quite a while ago, I don’t know where those people are now.”
    “Except for one.”
    “Who?”
    “Rafael López,” Cowley said as if it was obvious.
    “Yep. He’s a bit angry at me, so I don’t know if he’ll talk, but I can try.” Williams pulled his jacket back on. “Keep trying to track the ruby. See you later.”
    **
    Following Cowley’s advice, and as he often did when it came to knowing about Carter’s whereabouts (because she kept an analytical mind while he tended to get fast angry or annoyed), Williams headed for Lower Manhattan and the pub where López worked. As soon as he walked in, he knew something was wrong. He sat at the bar and waited. Waited for a long time. López eventually showed up in front of him.
    “Hello,” he said in a low voice. “What can I get you?”
    “What’s wrong?” Williams asked. “I’m used to seeing you a lot more cheerful than that.”
    “I have… personal problems,” the bartender answered under his breath.
    “I can help, you know,” Williams offered.
    “I don’t think you can.”
    “I—”
    “Are you gonna drink anything?” López interrupted. “My boss doesn’t like it when people come here only to talk to me.”
    “Sure, give me a beer,” Williams complied. He waited again while López poured the drink. “Tell me what’s going on,” he said when his friend came back to him. “I know you,” he continued because López wasn’t answering. “And I know the difference between a little personal problem and an oh-my-god-I’m-in-deep-shit problem. So talk.”
    López raised his eyes to meet Williams’ hard look. The cop instantly saw that López had been crying.
    “I’ve been threatened,” López said. “A woman. She asked for Reese. And because I didn’t give her what she wanted, she said she would destroy the pub.”
    “What did she want to know?” Williams asked.
    “She was just looking for Reese,” López answered in a voice so low that Williams almost had to read on his lips. “But she was so scary and looked so determined to kill Reese that I didn’t want to risk giving him up. I know he can defend himself, but… you know.”
    “Hm…” Williams reflected. “And had you ever seen her before?”
    “No. Never.”
    “What does she look like?”
    “Blond, brown eyes. Dressed entirely in black. She wore a lot of rings.” That description rang a bell, but Williams didn’t have time to ponder it. “She’ll be here any minute now,” López said. “You shouldn’t stay here.”
    “Of course I’ll stay. I’ll go sit over there and watch her moves. I’ll be ready in case she tries anything,” Williams promised.
    A blond woman corresponding to López’s description soon walked into the pub. She stretched her hand toward the bartender. López shook his head slowly. Williams got up. His eyes widened when he saw how fast the woman had pointed the gun at him.
    “No!” López shouted.