“What gunshots?” Cutler said. “Oh, you must mean the truck backfiring outside the building.”

St. Vincent could not hold back a grin. “Excellent job,” he said.

Cutler, keeping his expression neutral, thought, I am sick to death of cleaning up after him. The messes he leaves behind are extraordinary. “What were you doing at that woman’s apartment anyway?”

“The less you know,” St. Vincent said.

“Indulge me, this one time.”

“Teaching Whitman a lesson.”

Cutler frowned, shaking his head. “That was a mistake.”

“Opinions are like assholes: everyone has one.” St. Vincent’s eyes lit up. “She was one of his sexual partners—one he valued quite highly.”

“Whitman’s my man. If he needs to be taught a lesson I’ll be the one to do it.”

St. Vincent stared at Cutler, thinking, You don’t have the balls to punish Whitman; you’re dead afraid of him, but he revealed none of this; Cutler was still of use to him on matters such as this, when he could not allow his NSA people to be involved. “Someone else was in the apartment—the person who shot me. Did you find any trace—”

“Have you lost your mind, man? Taking a risk like that just to satisfy some sense of—what?”

“Justice,” St. Vincent said with a menace Cutler could not mistake.

“Your beef with Whitman is personal. I don’t know what he did to you, but there is no justice in this world, Luther. You, of all people, ought to know that.”

St. Vincent’s eyes glittered with the pain. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson, King?”

Cutler shook his head. “No, I just—”

“Don’t make me regret hiring USA. These sideline assignments you’re given are part of the deal. Your words of wisdom are not.”

Cutler, wanting to slam St. Vincent in the face, watched him resettle himself against the pillows like some potentate. Just wait, he thought. Your time is coming. I have Lindstrom, and you won’t get him back until I’m repaid for all the humiliation you’ve dumped on me.

“You didn’t answer my question,” St. Vincent said. “What about the person who shot me?”

“What about him?”

“No sign?”

“Give me a description.”

Someone in a black latex hood? St. Vincent thought not. “I can’t. Only a couple of lamps were on. I was concentrating on the whore. It all happened too fast.”

“Vengeance leads to tunnel vision,” Cutler said with obvious contempt. “Some cop you’d make.”

Keep going, St. Vincent thought. I’m taking note of every insult you throw my way. “What about Lindstrom? He’s disappeared.”

“Didn’t you tell me you had a tail put on him?”

“The tail’s missing, too,” St. Vincent said sourly. “Find them both.”

“I’ll do my best, as always.”

“What about my boss?”