A car door slammed, drawing the three of us to the porch. A senior command officer and a younger officer had just gotten out of a black-and-white. The senior officer stared up at us. He had a tight grey butch cut, razor-burned skin, and a nasty scowl.

Poitras said, Shit. He's early.

Who's that?

Marx. The deputy chief in charge of the task force.

Starkey nudged me.

You were supposed to be gone before he got here.

Great.

Poitras moved to greet him, but Marx didn't want to be greeted. He came up the steps at a quick march, locked onto Poitras like a Sidewinder missile.

I ordered this scene to be sealed, Lieutenant. I specifically told you that all inquiries would be handled through my office.

Chief, this is Elvis Cole. Cole is a personal friend of mine, and he's also involved.

Marx didn't offer to shake my hand or acknowledge me in any way.

I know who he is and how he's involved. He conned the DA into letting this murderer go.

Marx was a tall rectangular man built like a sailing ship, with tight skin stretched over a yardarm skeleton. He peered down at me from the crow's nest like a parrot eyeing a beetle.

I said, Nice to meet you, too.

Marx turned back to Poitras as if I hadn't spoken.

I'm not just being an asshole here, Lieutenant. I clamped the lid so nobody could run to the press before the families were notified. Two of those families have still not been reached. Don't you think they've suffered enough?

Poitras's jaw knotted.

Everyone here is on the same side, Chief.

Marx eyed me again, then shook his head.

No, we're not. Now get him out of here, and take me through this goddamned house.

Marx went into the house, leaving Poitras to stare after him.

I said, Jesus, Lou, I'm sorry.

Poitras lowered his voice.

The real chief's out of town. Marx figures if he can close this thing before the chief gets back, he'll get the face time. I'm sorry, man.

Starkey touched my arm.

C'mon.

Poitras followed Marx back into the house while Starkey walked me down. The two uniforms and Marx's driver were talking together, but we kept going until we were alone. Starkey fished a cigarette from her jacket as soon as we stopped.

That guy's an asshole. It's been like this all week.

Is Marx really going on TV tonight?

That's what I hear. They wrapped up their work last night.

A week to cover seven murders?

This thing was huge, man. They had people on it around the clock.

She lit the cigarette and blew a geyser of smoke straight overhead. I liked Starkey. She was funny and smart, and had helped me out of two very bad jams.

When are you going to quit those things?

When they kill me. When are you going to start?

You see? Funny. We smiled at each other, but her smile grew awkward, and faded.