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  Serafi stared out over Lake Michigan. He watched the morning schooners set out on the water. He watched the late-night yachts sway back and forth over the waves, their owners and passengers still asleep from the night before. He watched the fishermen line the shore and the piers below.

  Serafi smoked a cigar and leaned against the glass railing. He tapped the ashes over the side and exhaled the smoke up into the air toward the clear skies overhead.

  Life was good for the former prince who retained the title in name only, and only from his staff and employees, whom he saw as his subjects. Therefore, he demanded that they call him Prince Serafi each and every time they addressed him. The only exception to this rule was his top lieutenant, a man called William Gade, and no one else.

  The only reason Gade was given such privileges was that the man had saved his life once. And now, his savior was given special considerations over everyone else.

  Serafi enjoyed a morning cigar, as he did every morning. This one was Cuban and possibly illegal in the US, possibly not.

  Did the US still have an embargo on Cuba? Or did it not?

  He didn’t know because he couldn’t keep up with trivial things like that. He had no intention of keeping up with trivial things like that.

  Life was short, as he well knew.

  Serafi enjoyed cigars, and he enjoyed morning views, like this one.

  From his penthouse apartment in the Fordham Building, Serafi could see all of Chicago from a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Every room in his two-floor apartment had a clear view of one compass direction or another.

  He had purchased the apartment from some dead movie star’s estate. On the cheap too. He paid five million, US, for an apartment that was worth double that in today’s market. And he’d only purchased it ten years ago, right after the American economy had its biggest stock crash since the Great Depression.

  One of the good things about being a Saudi prince was that he didn’t care about the American stock market. His father had. He remembered that.

  His father cared a great deal because he had a lot of money invested in stocks. But their family had plenty of wealth. So why care about one bad year of stocks?

  From a passerby, Serafi did not look the part of a Saudi royal prince, which technically made sense because he no longer was in the line of succession. That’s what happens when you’re banished from the kingdom.

  Serafi took another puff of his cigar, held it, and exhaled one more time before one of his servant girls, who was nineteen and getting a bit old for his taste, stepped out onto the balcony. She carried a serving tray with a freshly brewed pot of Turkish coffee and one empty, pristinely clean mug—white, as he demanded.

  The serving girl was platinum blonde, dyed that color every week because that was the look that Serafi preferred in his girls. She had blue eyes, also fake. They were colored contacts, nonprescription because she had 20/20 vision, naturally.

  Most of that stuff she didn’t mind. It wasn’t that hard.

  Her lips were puffed out and big. The word that Serafi used to describe them was voluptuous.

  They were fake too. She had them injected with collagen every month to make them appear the way he preferred.

  She hated doing it, but it could’ve been worse. He required one of the other girls to get breast implants. So far, she had not been required to do that may be because she was naturally endowed in that way.

  The serving girl wasn’t American, but she was white and spoke fluent English. She was Ukrainian born, like the other two girls who worked in Chicago with her. They all had the same basic life stories.

  Their country faced hard economic times. Her family was poor. Her father was poor. They were indebted to the prince for choosing their daughter.

  Her father put her in contract with Serafi. She was to be his servant, and in exchange, her family got a monthly stipend.

  At first, it was scary for her. At the age of sixteen, when she first joined Serafi’s entourage, it was a living nightmare. But after a time, it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t like she was abused in a violent way. Serafi had never hit her or any of his servant girls.

  She was designated to his Chicago residence. He had other homes in other locations, none of which were in Saudi Arabia. All of which were Western countries and Western cities: Chicago, New York, Miami, Toronto, London, Paris, and Rome. Those were just the ones that she knew of specifically. She knew he had properties that were more secluded, in the mountains or on lakes. She also knew there were boats. She didn’t know how many and she had never been invited to work on one.

  Serafi didn’t take any of his girls with him when he went out of town. At the same time, she knew that he was never anywhere without one. The way she figured it, Serafi had dozens of servant girls under his employ.

  In Chicago, he had three—her and two others, both younger than her. She was the oldest.

  She tried not to figure out how many he had. She guessed it was more than twenty, maybe even as high as fifty.

  Being nineteen, her biggest fear was what would happen when she got too old for him. He already no longer showed her much attention, not like he had three years ago.

  Serafi stayed in Chicago a lot. He spent a lot of time there. It seemed he spent well more than half of the year there.

  She didn’t understand why.

  It wasn’t because of his business, which she pretended to not hear about anyway. That was one of the first lessons taught to her by the girl who trained her in New York, three years ago.

  Don’t ask questions.

  The less you know, the better.

  Don’t make waves.

  Eventually, she dismissed his business as being the reason that Serafi spent his winters in Chicago.

  She hated the cold weather. It reminded her of home. The snow was overbearing. The wind was severely chilling. And the lake froze over every year.

  But this was her life now.

  She was his servant. In exchange, she had room, board, a salary, and her family was taken care of. Her father was honored. She never thought about escaping. But lately, it was hard not to think about the future because she knew she was getting too old for him. She didn’t know what he did with girls when they got too old.

  The serving girl set the tray down on a stone patio table behind Serafi and began pouring his morning coffee.

  Serafi turned around and glanced at her. She was dressed in American clothes that he preferred: a tight-fitting, sleeveless white top and a tight pair of shorts that left little to the imagination.

  The serving girl wore sneakers, also white.

  He said, “Why those shoes?”

  The girl stood up straight, placed the coffee pot down on the tray before addressing him.

  She kept her head down, didn’t look him in the eyes.

  She said, “Pardon me, Prince?”

  “I asked why do you wear those sneakers?”

  He stared down at her.

  The girl’s height stopped at his chest, but not because Serafi was a foot taller than her, which would’ve made him six-foot-two-inches tall.

  Serafi wasn’t that tall. He wasn’t over six feet tall. He wasn’t over five-foot-ten-inches tall. And he wasn’t over five-foot-nine-inches tall.

  He appeared tall because he wore special Italian-made shoes with special Italian-made lifts in them.

  The serving girl kept her eyes down, staring at the ground.

  The wind blew hard across the deck of the balcony. The gust caused her to shiver.

  Serafi stood straight, walked over and stopped right in front of her. She felt his morning breath hot and smelling of cigars on her face.

  He wore white silk pajama pants and a white pullover fleece top.

  “I asked you a question?”

  “The shoes are for comfort, Sir.”

  Serafi did not reply, but she sensed a frown come over his face.

  For a moment, she thought he might strike her. But he didn’t.

  Serafi star
ed past her at the coffee and the tray.

  Pinched down, snug between the coffee mug and the steaming coffee pot was the day’s copy of the New York Times.

  “I see you remembered today’s paper.”

  “Yes, Prince. Of course.”

  He nodded at her. Then he reached out and touched her chin. He gripped it like it was a lever on a machine and pulled it up, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

  Serafi’s face was hard to see underneath the bristly, thick, black beard he wore. At that range, she saw enough of it.

  Even though Serafi was Arabic, his skin was pale white as if he had never seen the sun. She saw that he wore makeup over his skin—a pale foundation. He colored himself pale on purpose. He avoided the sun on purpose. Anything that reminded him of Saudi people, he avoided like the plague.

  Serafi stared into her eyes for a long, frightening second.

  He said, “You’re growing up.”

  A shiver surged down her spine, which she disguised as just the cold weather around her, but it was fear.

  He said, “I don’t like the sneakers. It makes me think you are preparing to run from me. Is that what you’re doing? You’re planning to run away?”

  “No, Prince. Never.”

  He remained quiet, just nodded and studied her eyes.

  “You know I can tell when someone is lying to me?”

  “I know that, Prince.”

  “Are you lying now?”

  “No, Prince. Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, trying to keep the shivers of fear at bay.

  “Do you love me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He paused a beat and then let go of her chin, of the lever, and stepped back, and puffed once again on the cigar. He exhaled the smoke up and away out of her face.

  “Finish pouring my coffee.”

  The servant girl nodded and smiled a fake smile at him. He couldn’t tell because of her lips.

  She poured the remainder of the coffee and stepped aside.

  Serafi sat down on a heavy stone chair and stuck the cigar into a thick, glass ashtray. He opened the paper, sipped the coffee and read about the day’s news.

  The servant girl walked away.

  Serafi called out to her. She stopped and turned.

  “Get Gade up here. And bring him some breakfast too.”

  The servant girl didn’t call back. She knew better. She walked back and spoke.

  “Mr. Gade is gone.”

  “What do you mean? Did you check his quarters?”

  Gade lived in quarters under the penthouse. Serafi wanted him close.

  She said, “He never came home.”

  Serafi said, “Leave.”

  She turned and left.

  He took his phone out. It was gold plated—the cover, the shell, all of it except for the gorilla glass.

  He pulled up Gade’s phone number and called it, waited.

  Nine hundred forty-nine miles away, Gade’s cell phone rang in an evidence bag, on an evidence table, in Sheriff Shostrom’s head office, in Deadwood.

  Serafi got Gade’s voicemail.

  He said, “You’d better have a good reason for your absence. For not answering. If any other man ignored my call, I’d kill him.”

  Serafi clicked off the phone.

  In the kitchen, a private service elevator door opened and Jack Widow stepped out onto the tile. He had his Glock out, and a round chambered.

  He walked into the most luxurious and gaudy apartment that he had ever seen.

  Everything was gold—the countertops, the floor, the walls, the fixtures—everything. Even the knobs on the two huge stovetops were gold.

  “What the hell?” he said to himself.

  He walked into the kitchen and swept all directions with the Glock. He kept the security badge in his front pocket. It had let him into the private parking garage entrance down in the alley, and it had started the private service elevator he found down there. So far, no guards. But the expensive, high-tech badge made it impossible for anyone but the possessor to get into the apartment, to begin with.

  Widow looked left and looked right.

  He searched the apartment, room by room, until he came face-to-face with a young girl, carrying a tray and wearing some kind of outfit that looked like she was playing a part in a rap music video.

  She froze, stared at him, wide-eyed. She dropped the tray.

  It fell to the floor and bounced on the tile, making a loud metal sound that echoed through the apartment.

  Widow pointed the gun in her face.

  She stayed quiet.

  He was going to ask for Serafi, ask where he was in the apartment, but he didn’t have to because Serafi spoke.

  “Did you break something? That’s gonna cost you, my dear!”

  Widow put his hands up to his lips and told her to shush.

  She nodded.

  Widow stepped close so she could hear him and no one else.

  He asked, “He on the balcony?”

  “Yes.”

  “He alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to live?”

  “Yes.”

  She spoke with a Ukrainian accent.

  “You Russian?”

  “Ukraine.”

  He looked her up and down, the fake eyes, fake hair, fake lips. He asked, “You a slave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Traded to him?”

  She nodded.

  “How young?”

  “Teenager.”

  He lowered the Glock.

  “Go to your room. Get dressed. You got money?”

  “No.”

  “He got cash around?”

  She shrugged.

  Widow reached into his pocket and pulled out the credit cards from Gade. He handed them to her.

  “Take these. I’m sure you can find a way to get cash out.”

  She nodded and stared at him.

  “Whatever you hear, don’t come out on the balcony. Just go to your room, change, and get the hell out of here and never look back.”

  She nodded and smiled and took the cards and ran down the hall out of sight.

  Serafi called out from down a different hall that led out to the balcony.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Widow walked down the hall, out to the balcony. He stepped out and found a short, thin Middle Eastern man smoking a cigar and reading a paper.

  “Who the hell are you? How did you get here?” Serafi said.

  Widow smiled at him and took Gade’s badge and license out of his pocket, tossed them on Serafi’s lap.

  “How did you get these?”

  “I’m friends with Alaska Rower.”

  “Who is that? I don’t understand?”

  Widow pointed the Glock at him.

  “Stand up.”

  Serafi’s eyes went wide. He started looking around, desperately as if someone was coming to save him.

  No one came.

  Serafi didn’t stand up, so Widow grabbed him by the robe and hauled him to his feet.

  He took him to the ledge, to the railing and stared out over Lake Michigan.

  Widow said, “Great view.”

  “I have money, girls, whatever you want.”

  Widow leaned forward with Serafi and looked down over the railing.

  “How far down would you say that is?”

  “What do you want? I have gold.”

  “Looks far.”

  Widow turned Serafi around and stared into his eyes.

  “I want my friend back.”

  “Who? I can help.”

  “Alaska Rower was her name.”

  “Was?”

  “You killed her.”

  Serafi’s eye opened wider than Widow thought possible.

  Widow threw him off over the railing, off the ledge, one-handed. Then he leaned forward and watched as the robed Saudi prince who’d killed his friend went falling to his death on a
street in Chicago.

  Chapter 50

  W IDOW HUNG AROUND the fancy penthouse apartment long enough to shower and find clothes in Gade’s closet that fit.

  He knew it was Gade’s because it was the only room that wasn’t gold.

  The clothes he chose were snug but fit well enough. He found a pair of socks and an expensive pair of jeans and an expensive button-down shirt and a very expensive leather jacket. He also took a pair of shades off the dresser and one Rolex watch. He couldn’t help himself on that one.

  He had to settle with the same boots because Gade’s feet were a size twelve, too small for Widow.

  After he was finished grabbing some new duds for himself, he checked the rest of the apartment and found no one else. He did hear the girl leaving. She wasn’t alone. He heard two other female voices; both sounded like they had been asleep.

  He figured it was the rest of Serafi’s girls who lived in the apartment.

  After Widow was sure that no one was left, he walked through and wiped down everything that he remembered touching and took the service elevator down.

  He kept the ski mask and wore it over his face on the way down and out of the building, same as he had on the way in. That was for the cameras.

  He fired up the Lexus and pulled out of the garage onto the alley.

  There he heard a phone ring. It was Rower’s. He had left it in the cupholder.

  He answered it.

  “Hello?”

  A voice asked, “Is this Widow?”

  “Depends. Who’s this?”

  “I’m Bukowski, Special Agent at the Minneapolis FBI Field Office.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know about Rower.”

  Silence.

  “I heard that you were helping her. That you were there when she died.”

  “She was brave.”

  “She was a damn good agent.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  Widow heard a crack in the guy’s voice, the kind he had heard a million times in the Navy.

  “Losing an agent is hard.”

  “It is.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  Bukowski said, “It doesn’t ever get easy.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Okay. So, what’s next for you?”

  “You’re not gonna ask me to come back. Give a statement?”