Once I get home I change, pull out a cigarette, and wait for Hurley to show. He wanted to meet me at two o’clock, but after thinking about it, I decided I didn’t want to go to headquarters, run into the news or, worse, walk in and don’t walk out, so I called him when I got home and told him to come here.

He shows up. Right on time. Tim Millhoff, too.

I open the door.

Hurley is shouldering an old tan canvas briefcase. His sweat is already seeping through the underarms of his orange Tommy Bahama shirt. “It’s suffocating out there,” I say. “Come in.”

I close the door behind them, shake their hands.

They follow me into the living room.

They notice the wires still hanging out of the wall.

“Have a seat.”

Millhoff sits on the sofa. Hurley unshoulders his case and sits toward the middle. Guess they’re allowing me the hot seat.

“You guys want something cold to drink? Or coffee?”

“I’m good,” Millhoff says.

“Me, too.”

I plop down on the armchair.

“So tell me about my .38.”

“Even though the serial numbers match, and we know the gun belongs to you, I need you to identify it for me,” Millhoff says.

“Of course.”

Hurley pulls an evidence bag out of his briefcase, opens it so I can look in.

“Definitely mine. I know because of the crack on the grip, and you say the serial numbers match, so…”

Hurley carefully folds the evidence bag and slips it back into his briefcase.

“Where did you find it?”

“Fourteen hundred block of Rhode Island,” Millhoff answers. “It was placed on the decedent’s chest, Marr. Kind of like the shooter was making some kind of a statement.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I want to show you a photo of the body, see if you know him.”

“All right.”

Millhoff turns to Hurley, waits for him to take the photo out and hand it to him. Millhoff in turn hands it to me.

“Aw, fuck. No.”

It’s fucking Ray.

“You know him?”

It’s just a medium shot, shoulders up. Bit of blood on the right side of his cheek, like spatter. His eyes are closed. Peaceful.

“Fuck, that’s Ray, the kid who served Jeffrey at the club,” I say. “The kid I told you about. You never found him?”

“Well, yeah, you just looked at the death photo.”

“Don’t be an ass, Millhoff. You know what I mean.”

“Your reaction made it sound like you know him better than you’re letting on.”

“No,” I lie. “It’s just another connection that fucking doesn’t make sense.”

Did I get him killed by talking to him?

“We tried to find him. The car tag you gave us came back to someone else. She claimed she didn’t know him and her tags were stolen,” Hurley says.

“But she didn’t report it, right?” I ask, already knowing the answer.