The house was likely worth millions, more than Stella Symonds would have ever hoped to see in her lifetime. The whole thing rubbed me raw, and I could admit to a certain amount of petty resentment on her behalf. A luxury brownstone in the right part of town, a boat tied up at the marina—how many “accidents” had paid for it all? Did his well-heeled neighbors know he was a whacked-out nut job? Doubted it. I took a deep breath. Even the air on this side of town smelled different, like wet dollar bills left to dry in the sun.

Nick Spada had Darby, an ex-con, and a hit woman. Maybe he’d hired more than one? I watched Spada’s windows. If he was in there, I was in for a world of trouble. Stay away from Nick Spada. That’s what Marta had said, and I couldn’t pretend now that I hadn’t heard her or that I misunderstood the warning. Still . . .

So, should I go, or not go? Not going would be the smarter choice. I’d pointed the police in the right direction. They now had a case they believed in, as well as two thugs, and possibly Leon, willing to tell all they knew. They’d get Spada. There was no dishonor in stepping out and letting them take it the rest of the way. Yet, here I was, skulking under a tree next to baby swings, unable to give in and let go. I knew why: Tim, Stella Symonds, all the others. They deserved to have justice done, and I was going to make sure they got it. It was Spada who had made it personal, who’d made it a game. Whip and I nearly died in that chop shop. And Jung wouldn’t be completely safe until Spada was in a cage.

A little after lunchtime, a moving van crept up the narrow street, lumbered up to the Spada house, then stopped. I straightened, focused, and watched as a woman about my age flung open the door to the brownstone and stood in the doorway to meet the movers, her rail-thin arms clasped around herself. It was Spada’s wife. I recognized her from the photos in his office.