“They don’t want to tell me much. I’m not, you know, family.” He shook his head angrily. “I’m just the faggot friend, the only one who’s even fucking here. But they did tell me that the knife punctured his lung, among other things. They said something about his lung filling up with blood. I spoke to him, like, yesterday. He phoned me. We were going to get together this Friday night, go to a club or something. He mentioned you, that you were some reporter?”

I nodded.

“And that you were hanging out with him. He had good things to say about you.”

I half smiled. “He’s a good guy.”

Kent swallowed, turned away so I wouldn’t notice his chin quivering. I gave him one of my own business cards. “If you need anything, or can let me know how Lawrence is doing, please let me know. That has my work and home numbers on it.”

Kent took the card without looking at it and slid it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Okay,” he said. “I thought, once he was through being a cop, there’d be less chance of this kind of thing happening. Working for himself, not chasing people down alleys, how could something like this happen?”

“It happened at his apartment,” I said. “Someone came looking for him, most likely these people he’d been investigating. They killed another detective a couple of nights ago.”

Kent took that in, said nothing.

I said, “You have any other idea who might have it in for him?”

He shook his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Lawrence is a good guy.”

The sliding glass doors to the ER parted and in strode Detective Trimble. Kent caught a glimpse of him and turned away, muttering, “Oh, great. Our hero has arrived.”

“What?” I asked. “You got problems with Trimble?”

“I know the history,” he said. “Lawrence nearly died a few years ago because of that asshole. Look, if I find out anything, I’ll give you a call, okay?” And he walked over to one of the vinyl and chrome waiting-room chairs and took a seat, studying the pile of outdated magazines on the small table next to him.

Trimble strode past me, nodded, and kept walking in the direction of the operating rooms.

It was about one in the morning when I got home. The Camry was in the driveway, pulled up close to the garage. Angie had returned from Oakwood some time ago, I guessed, considering that Sarah had spoken to her when she phoned home from the retreat. I wondered whether my daughter might still be up, but when I came in and did a walkabout, it was clear that both she and her brother were asleep. All manner of interrogations could begin tomorrow, should I choose to conduct them.

I phoned Sarah from the kitchen phone.