As the cruiser pulls away, she realizes she still hasn’t seen Petry. That squirmy, slimy sonofabitch. He must’ve known what was happening and found a way out. She should’ve known he’d slip the noose.

Holger meets back up with Atlanta, tells her, “You did all right.”

“I guess.”

“This was a big operation. Not pro league, but one rung down. Might let us trade up and catch some even bigger fish.”

“Dang, this thing has leagues?”

Holger nods. “Amateur. Semipro. Pro. Big money at the top.”

“That’s scary. And a little bit sick.”

For a moment, Holger just looks old and tired. Like this is all she sees and it’s the cross she bears, a cross that weighs her down and pushes her closer to the earth day after day, year after year. She finally says, “It is, and sometimes it feels like you’re just kicking sand at the tide. But we did good today, thanks to you.”

“Will it make a difference?”

“It will.” But the way she says it, Atlanta’s not so sure. “Anyway, now that we’re wrapping up I should get you out of here. Thanks for waiting. You made us kinda busy.” She smiles.

“I’m ready to go home.”

“You mind coming by the station first? Make your report? I want to tie up all the loose ends on this thing.” Way she looks at Atlanta, there’s a flash of something: suspicion? Irritation? Straight-up confusion as to why a girl like her is here at fights like these? “I’ll be quick about it. Better to pull the Band-Aid off fast than rip it slow.”

Atlanta hesitates—she really is ready to go home. But she nods. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll get someone to take you, and I’ll be along soon enough.” Holger starts looking around, then her eyes fall on someone over Atlanta’s shoulder. “Petry! Petry, hey, c’mere.”

Petry.

Atlanta’s blood goes ice cold.

And here he comes. Petry. In full uniform. He comes over, takes no obvious notice of Atlanta. He’s all business. “Detective. What’s up?”

“Can you take Miss Burns here back to the station? I want to get through the paperwork. We get that started, we can start making the case.”

Atlanta feels like she’s got a string of firecrackers under her feet. No. Not him. She runs through the possibilities, plays a series of minimovies in her head, like the one where Petry drives her somewhere you can’t find on any map and puts a bullet in her head, bang.

Whitey’s feeling it, too. Staring up at Petry. Licking his chops.