I caught up to him at the car. It was one of those bland blue jobs that looked like a giant Matchbox car. “Is this thing for undercover?”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t fool a blind man. Why don’t you just write ‘COP’ on the doors.”

Blout wasn’t amused. “I’ll inform my superiors.”

I got in. Blout stared ahead with a sleepy blank stare and then turned to me. “Any idea what we just got out of?”

“I’d bet that our attackers were also our saviors.”

“What?! That makes no sense. What possible purpose would that serve?!”

“A warning, maybe,” I said as the car jerked and rumbled to life, “possibly a diversion. All I know is those things could have offed us easily, and didn’t. Hell, they could’ve just left us inside. But they did destroy the building. We were close to something, that’s for sure.”

We pulled out of the lot, waved on by a uniform guarding the exit, and drove for a while without saying a word. I sat there feeling every cut and bruise throb, and thought of morphine. I missed it, but I wouldn’t fall into that trap again. I’d have to settle for some Percocet or something equally tame. Fuck.

9

After a large and much needed diner breakfast, Blout dumped me off at my place just short of noon. I felt bad for him—while I was planning to lapse into a painkiller-induced coma, he had to go back to the precinct and do paperwork.

Blout caught me looking at him as I pushed open the door. “I’ll call you if anything happens,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

I slammed the door, then leaned down to the open window. “Let me know how the ballistics and crap turned out on that Uzi.”

“Will do.”

He pulled away with a screech and was gone.

As I turned toward my building, I noticed the door hadn’t been fixed, just boarded up. It was a sloppy, erratic job with dozens of holes and jagged slits and it sure as hell wouldn’t keep anybody out. Pull one nail and the whole job would fall apart.

Even worse, there was a little man in a suit waiting right beside the boarded door. He had a stained manila envelope tucked under his stubby arm. No doubt about it, he was here to serve me papers.

I thought briefly about running, but he’d seen me, and really, what would be the point? Sooner or later those little rat bastards manage to slip you the notice. So I just walked right up to him, stood a little too close, and stared down at him.

“A . . . are you Mr. Calvin McDonald?” The little weasel shook and broke a sweat.

I leaned in. “Yes.”

As cowardly as the creep looked, he was quick. Without saying a word he crammed the envelope into my hands, scurried sideways, and was walking away toward a hot little sports car when I heard him say without a shake in his voice, “You have been served.”