The cops kept me, and Trevor, for hours. I guess they had others interviewing Trevor, but me they put in a car so that we could all take a trip to Bullock’s place, where I showed them the haul from the Brentwood’s heist, the room where Angie’d been held, Pockmark and the Barbies shot. Pockmark wasn’t there, but was picked up early in the morning in the ER at Mercy General. There was blood on the garage floor, presumably from where Blondie had shot Trimble before putting his body into the Annihilator.

I told them Bullock, or possibly one of his two henchmen, had put Lawrence Jones into the hospital and killed the Metropolitan photographer Stan Wannaker. Not to get back his film, but to get even for the incident at the auction.

I told them about how I’d bought a car at a government auction that had supposedly, at one time, been loaded with drugs, and how Eddie Mayhew had hoped to pull a fast one on Lenny Indigo’s people by sneaking the drugs out and selling them to a rival organization. About how the only cop I felt I could trust was the last one in the world I should have called, and how Trimble’s apparent moves toward redemption had come too late to make a difference.

There were lots of other details to fill in, but I gave them the broad strokes. And then I called the city desk and said that, after I’d gone home and had a bit of sleep, I’d be coming in.

I had a story to write.

A couple of days later, we had a few people over to the house. Sarah made a chocolate cake. A Betty Crocker mix, with icing out of the can. Angie’s favorite. I wore some more of my new clothes.

Trixie drove in from Oakwood. A few of the people from the paper, friends of Stan’s, came by. Bertrand Magnuson even dropped by, briefly, and took me aside. “If it’d been me,” he said, “I’d have shot that fucker in the nuts instead of the leg.” A detective I’d spent several hours explaining everything to dropped in for a short visit, long enough to grab a piece of cake. It was a low-key affair, no speeches, no toasts, just a chance to celebrate quietly that Angie was okay, and that this whole mess with Barbie Bullock and his gang was behind us.

Trevor Wylie was there, wearing his shades in the house, shadowing Angie as much as she’d allow it. At one point, when they were both in the kitchen, I heard him pressing her to take a short walk with him, to get some air. “Maybe later,” Angie told him.