Which is idiotic. Dante already told me that Nero is head over heels for some girl named Camille, and Riona is likewise taken by somebody else. So there’s nothing to be jealous about here. Not even a little bit.

Still, I leave the office in a strange kind of mood.

Once we’re back in the elevator, Dante says, “How’s it going with Riona?”

“Good.” I nod.

“Actually good?” Dante asks.

“Yeah. I mean, we’ve got our differences . . . ”

Dante chuckles. “I bet. She’s great, though. Once you get below the prickly surface.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m finding,”

I’m not planning to tell Dante about my fight with Riona. I’m definitely not going to tell him about the kiss. That was pure stupidity. I won’t do that again.

Instead I say, “You want me to drive? I got a pretty sick ride.”

Dante chuckles. “You better. Nero brought me over in some crazy old car that felt like it was gonna fall apart trying to carry me around. I don’t think they built cars for people my size back in the 50s.”

“I don’t think they had people your size.”

“Exactly. You ever seen a bodybuilder from the 50s? They were like 178 pounds soaking wet.”

“You could have a real career in the circus if we could get you a time machine, take you back to the old-timey days.”

“Thanks,” Dante snorts. “Nobody delivers a compliment like you, Long Shot.”

Dante has the address for Luke Barker, the guy Oran fired after he apparently tried to get touchy with Riona at the company Christmas party.

It’s been almost a year since then, so it seems unlikely to me that the guy’s still holding a grudge. Worth running down every lead, though.

Dante and I drive out to his house in the Loop. It’s a pretty Tudor-style place on a tree-lined street. Looks nice enough from the exterior.

“You sure he’s home?” I ask Dante. “In the middle of the day?”

“Yeah,” Dante says. “I called him earlier.”

Despite that, it takes quite a while for Barker to answer the door after we knock. I hear the sound of something being knocked over in the hallway, and an irritated curse. Then he pulls the door open, still dressed in a bathrobe and looking bleary-eyed and unshaven.

“What?” he says. Then, on spotting Dante, “Oh, right. Come in.”

The inside of the house is a lot less well-maintained than the outside. It smells musty and stale, and half-eaten take out boxes litter the counters in the kitchen. A yappy little Yorkie runs around barking at our ankles. Barker says, “Shut up, ya little fucker!” which the dog completely ignores.

The Yorkie is wearing a sparkling pink rhinestone collar. That, and the throw pillows on the couch that say “Live, Laugh, Wine” and “Cuddle Time” lead me to believe that a woman used to live here not too long ago. Probably not now, however—when Barker opens his fridge, the only thing inside is a pizza box, a dozen bottles of Budweiser, and a bunch of condiment bottles.