“Sorry about the rug,” I said.

He pointed at the vomit. “Father Gabriel, when he was in his cups, used to do that quite often. If I remember right, that’s why we picked that color pattern.” He smiled. “Delia’s making up a bed for you now.”

“Thanks, Father,” I said, “but I think if I can walk to the bedroom, I can walk across the street to my own place.”

“That mugger might still be out there.”

The paramedic picked up his bag from beside me and said, “Have a good one.”

“It’s been swell for me too,” I managed.

The paramedic grimaced and gave us a little wave before letting himself out the side door.

I reached out my hand and Pastor Drummond took it, pulling me up. I said, “I wasn’t mugged, Father.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Angry husband?”

I looked at him. “Father,” I said. “Please. You have to stop getting illicit thrills from my lifestyle. It has to do with a case I’m on. I think.” I wasn’t even sure. “It was a warning.”

He supported me as far as the couch. The room was still about as stable as quarters on the Titanic. He said, “This is some warning.”

I nodded. Bad move. The Titanic overturned and the room slid sideways. Pastor Drummond’s hand pushed me back against the couch. I said, “Yes. Some warning. Did you call the police?”

He looked surprised. “You know, I didn’t think of it.”

“Good. I don’t want to spend all night filling out reports.”

“Angela might have, though.”

“You called Angie?”

“Of course he called me.” She was standing in the doorway. Her hair was a wreck, messy strands hanging over her forehead; it made her look sexier, like she’d just woken up. She was wearing a black leather jacket over a burgundy polo shirt that hung untucked over gray sweatpants and white aerobic sneakers. She had a purse you could hide Peru in, which she dropped on the floor as she crossed to the couch.

She sat beside me. “Don’t we look beautiful,” she said, her hand under my chin, tilting it upward. “Jesus, Patrick, who’d you run into an angry husband?”

Father Drummond giggled. A sixty-year-old priest, giggling into his fist. Not my day.

“I think it was a relative of Mike Tyson,” I said.

She looked at me. “What, you don’t have hands?”

I pushed her hand away. “He had an Uzi, Ange. Probably what he hit me with.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m a little anxious. I didn’t mean to snap.” She looked at my lips. “This wasn’t done with the Uzi. Your temple, maybe. But not the lips. Looks like a speed glove to me, the way it tore the skin.”

Angie, the expert on physical abrasions.

She leaned in close, whispered. “You know the guy?”

I whispered back. “No.”

“Never saw him before?”

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?”

“Angie, I wanted this, I would’ve called the cops.” She leaned back, hands up. “OK. OK.” She looked at Drummond. “OK if I take him back to his place, Father?” “It would make Delia’s day,” Drummond said.