I stood, scraping the legs of the metal chair along the floor, but even that didn’t wake Jung. Granted, Marta had been grilling him for hours straight about the boat break-in before I got here, but still, who sleeps that soundly in an interview room? I walked out onto the floor filled with cops, all moving around, but there was no sign of Marta, Ben, or Weber. I wasn’t under arrest, I was free to go, but I wasn’t going anywhere until I found out what was going on.

I finally spotted a detective I knew and made a beeline for him. Detective Londell Scott was a pudgy black guy, midfifties, jovial. When he turned and saw me, he started to chuckle, his wide neck straining his collar, his three chins hanging over it. He waved for another cop. “Yo, Baumgartner, she’s out. Where’s my fifty?”

“No way.”

I turned to watch a woman approach, her auburn hair cut short, her eyes a steady sapphire blue. “Detective Baumgartner. Shana.” She offered a hand to shake, a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Mythic. You’re a PI now, Scottie says.”

I turned back to Scott. “Fifty?”

“We took bets to see how long you’d stay in interview. Shana here gave you the benefit of the doubt and bet me a cool fifty. Dumb on her part.” He checked his watch, grinned. “Twenty-four minutes.”

I shook my head. He was the same old Scott, a regular Minnesota Fats. “You still shorting the snack fund, Scottie?”

The communal kitty, fed by cops, paid for the chips, cookies, and snack food that kept the uniforms, detectives, and even the arrestees and witnesses going. For Londell Scott, though, the cookies and chips and sodas went down his throat, but nary a nickle ever left his wallet, though that was never the way he told it.

“Hey, what? Don’t start, Raines. I always pay my fair share, you know that. I put twenty in just last week, or was it fifty?”

Baumgartner rolled her eyes, but kept her mouth shut. She knew Scottie shorted the snack fund. Every cop in the building knew Scottie shorted the snack fund. Every cop who’d ever worked with Scottie, wherever Scottie worked, knew Scottie shorted the snack fund.

“Same old Scottie,” I said.

He wagged a thick finger at me. “And same old Raines.”

I looked around the floor. “Where’s Marta?”

They both stood there, mouths pinched closed.

“Really?” I asked.

Scott shrugged. “She’s following a lead.”

“A lead I gave her.”

“Well, now she’s on it, and she’s got her hands full by the looks of it.”

Baumgartner bounced on her heels, hands in her pockets. “Rich guy showed up with five lizard-faced lawyers. I heard they’re burying her in paper as we speak.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Speak of the Devil.”