When I pushed open the door of that café tucked away in a Chinatown alley in Marisport, dressed in a cheap T-shirt, scrubbed clean of the stench, carrying a voice recorder and a thumb drive, the alertness on my face froze into absolute stillness.
There were no customers inside. No staff.
The thick smell of blood drowned out the aroma of coffee.
Sitting in the center of the booth sofa was not the officer I'd come to meet.
It was Ivan Klein, dressed in an immaculate white suit without a single stain.
He lounged against the leather cushion, his long legs crossed. In his hand, a silver Zippo lighter flicked open and shut.
Click. Click. The crisp metallic sound ticked through the dead-silent café like a metronome counting down to execution.
On the floor in front of him lay two bodies soa
