“Any word on Maxwell?” Dante asked.
“We’ve turned up a couple more wives. This guy’s a regular Casanova with older women, Mr. Dante. And clever in a stupid way. He never lets them get a good picture of him. We’ve had some wedding photos come in—he’s always moved or got something in front of his face.”
“I don’t see where that matters, Max. I met the man. I know what the bastard looks like.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Dante. This guy’s got one of those anonymous faces—with a bit of chameleon thrown in. His wives—the number we’re turning up is climbing as we speak—can’t even agree on how tall he is.”
“That’s ridiculous! He’s—” Dante stopped as the colorless, handsomely vague face of his aunt’s cheating husband eluded him. “Son-of-a-b***h, Max. You’re right. I have no clue how tall he is.” He
