“A skeleton of a murder victim,” I added. “I could give you the address, but you can’t say where you got it from.”

Deb looked unenthusiastic. “Is it in the numbered streets?” she said with a whine. “Some drug nobody? ’Cause I think I hit my annual quota on bodies in that zip code back in May.”

I looked to Remy. “She’s not the right person for it.”

Deb looked insulted. “All right,” she said. “Hand it over.”

“I’m not sure you’re tough enough,” I said.

“Moi?” Deb looked shocked.

“This one could get political,” Remy said. “I mean—let’s say the person you have to investigate is in this room. A bigwig. Tight with the police. You sure you got the salt for that, Deb?”

“And the pepper, Detective Morgan,” she said confidently.

I took a pen out and asked for her hand. Wrote the address on Penescue on the crook above her thumb.

“Two years ago,” I said. “That’s when the story starts. Find out who lived in number one. But the real story is who owns the building.”

“Who owns it?”

“You gotta work a little here,” I said.

“The question is,” Remy jumped in, “could the owner have known there’s a body under his building? Is he connected to the man who died? And, Deb,” Remy said. “Word is that the skull’s got a bullet hole through it.”

Deb’s eyes were full moons, and she stared at the address written above the crook of her thumb.

“This is in North Heights,” she said. “Not the numbered streets.”

“You probably got an hour or two lead on the others.” I pointed around. “If you’re quick, you could research the story and be back here for an interview with the right person by dessert.”

Deb turned and scampered off.

Gattling came back then and wheeled Remy into the ballroom. Found us a table off to one side with a few empty chairs, which I pushed out of the way for my partner.

The lights came down then, and the place went quiet. The mayor walked up onto the stage and took a sip of water.

“Tonight is one of my favorite nights,” Mayor Stems said, standing at the podium in a black tux. “Because I get to honor the real heroes who live and work in our community every day.”

I looked to Remy, knowing it would be a long night. She held up her wineglass, toasting my water. “You picked the wrong year to quit drinking, partner.”

We sat there, Remy and me and Gattling, enjoying a meal without having to say a word. The chief awarded Rookie of the Year to a kid who grew up in the numbered streets but made it out without falling to gangs or drugs. Then there was the award for the fireman. Good guy, it turned out. You could tell from his speech.

Then a series of rich men went up onto the stage and urged other rich men to take out their checkbooks. Literally. Like take them out, write checks to charity, and pass them to your nearest waiter. Which they actually did.