The Hardest Thing

us, and the considerable resources of Parker-Rendell at our disposal, and if between us we couldn’t produce Julian Marshall in court to face at least some kind of indictment the following morning—well, there’s always welfare.
    “What does Marshall want more than anything?”
    I sat at the head of the long, polished oak table, my back to the vastness of nighttime Manhattan on the other side of the glass wall.
    “Money,” said Jack Rendell. The cops nodded.
    I waggled my hand. “And what does he love almost as much as money?”
    There was a certain amount of coughing from around the table. Martin Kingston seemed suddenly interested in his coffee cup, and Jack Rendell scanned the ceiling.
    The cops looked baffled.
    “Ass,” I said. “Young American ass, to be precise.
Preferably blond.” Jody had bleached his hair, hadn’t he? “And if we assume that he’s still somewhere in New York, then I’d guess he’s not going anywhere until he’s had one last piece.”
    “What are you suggesting?”
    “Where do guys like Julian Marshall go to find company these days?”
    “Nightclubs?” said one of the cops. “Bath houses?”
    “No way. He’s too old for clubs and too recognizable for the baths. Anyway,” I said, remembering what Jody had told me, “it’s all online now. Right?”
    Jack nodded. “So what are we going to do?”
    “We’re going fishing,” I said. “I need an Internet connection and someone who knows how to use the damn thing. And I need you to find me a blond.”
    “Oh, sure,” said Jack, putting his hands behind his head. “It’s that easy. We just go out into the street and pick one up.”
    “Actually,” I said, “I was wondering if the NYPD might help us out. Guys?”

    It looked to all intents and purposes like a standard lineup, until you saw their faces. Then it looked more like a casting call for an Abercrombie & Fitch campaign. There were six of them standing at ease, all of them in their twenties, all of them in fine physical shape, all of them blond. Some—those who were lucky enough to be on duty when the call came—were in uniform. Three were in civilian clothes, and one of them looked as if he was still in his pajamas, with trainers and a fleece hoodie thrown on.
    We were at the 5th Precinct, Martin Kingston, Jack
Rendell, a station sergeant and me, sitting behind a one-way mirror.
    “I’ll take ’em all,” murmured Martin, and I could tell from Jack’s frequent clearing of his throat that he was thinking the same. The sergeant didn’t turn a hair. Fat and in his fifties, with a wedding band and a seen-it-all-before expression—setting up a cute blond sergeant for a sting was all in a night’s work.
    All six were handsome as hell. I wondered who exactly was in charge of recruitment these days and wanted to shake that person’s hand.
    “I’ll have to ask them to take their shirts off.”
    Jack put his hands over his face.
    “Why?” asked the sergeant.
    “Because Marshall has a type.”
    The cop shrugged and switched on the intercom. “Okay, guys. Shirts off.”
    There was a certain amount of laughter and horseplay, but within sixty seconds I had six topless blond cops in front of me. I’ve had tougher assignments.
    “Okay. One, three and four, you can go.”
    “Are you crazy?” whispered Martin. “I mean…well, number three in particular…”
    “I’m sure you can get their names and numbers from the front desk,” I said. “The point is, they’re hairy.”
    “Yeah, exactly.”
    “And Marshall likes ’em smooth. Jody shaved and plucked and god knows what else.”
    And then there were three.
    I pressed the button on the intercom. “Hey, number five.”
    “Sir?”

    “How tall are you?”
    “Five eight, sir.”
    “You can go.” He actually looked crestfallen; I had to wonder what exactly their superiors had told them about the job they were “volunteering” for. Jack Rendell made a little groaning noise; I think I’d just eliminated his favorite.
    “I’m going in to talk to them.”
    “Should I come too?” asked Martin, sounding hopeful. I thought on the whole I’d be better on my own. If either of the boys got a look at the front of his pants, they might lose their nerve.
    The room was brightly lit with overhead fluorescents and smelled pleasantly of warm young men.
    “We don’t have very much time,” I said in the tone that I’d used in a thousand military briefings, “so I’m going to speak directly. Is either