“Good. That’s always good.”

“And I, ahm—”

“Clubbed a guy on the porch,” Devin said. “Correct?”

“I thought he was armed, sir.”

“Understandable,” Devin said. “Tell me, did you engage in a search for the second shooter?”

“No, sir. That was—”

“Did you, perhaps, provide a blanket for the naked body of Officer Dunn?”

“No.”

“No. No.” Devin nudged Evandro’s corpse with his toe, stared down at it with pure apathy. “Did you take any steps to ascertain the location of the second shooter or interview neighbors or conduct a house-to-house search?”

“No. But again, I—”

“So, outside of kicking a corpse and clubbing a defenseless man and stretching out some yellow crime-scene tape, you haven’t accomplished much, have you, Officer?”

Rogin studied something on the stove. “No.”

“What was that?” Devin said.

“I said no, sir.”

Devin nodded and stepped over the corpse until he was standing beside Rogin.

Rogin was a tall man and Devin wasn’t, so Rogin had to lean down when Devin beckoned him to do so. He bent his head and Devin turned his lips toward his ear.

“Leave my crime scene, Officer Rogin,” Devin said.

Rogin looked at him.

Devin whispered, but the whole kitchen could hear:

“While your arms are still attached to your shoulders.”

“We fucked up,” Bolton said. “Actually I fucked up.”

“No,” I said.

“This is my fault.”

“This is Evandro’s fault,” I said. “And his partner’s.”

He leaned his head back against the wall in Angie’s hallway. “I was over-eager. They offered bait, and I bit. I never should have left you alone.”

“You couldn’t have predicted a blackout, Bolton.”

“No?” He raised both hands, then dropped them in disgust.

“Bolton,” I said, “Grace is safe. Mae is safe. Phil is safe. They’re the civilians in all this. Not me and Angie.”

I started to walk down the hall toward the living room.

“Kenzie.”

I looked back at him.

“If you and your partner aren’t civilians and you’re not cops, what are you?”

I shrugged. “Two idiots who aren’t half as tough as we thought we were.”

Later, in the living room, a mottled gray light told us morning was advancing.

“You tell Theresa?” I asked Devin.

He stared out the window. “Not yet. I’m heading over there in a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Devin.” It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think to say.

Oscar coughed into his fist, looked at the floor.

Devin ran his finger over the window ledge, stared at the dust he came back with. “My son turned fifteen yesterday,” he said.

Devin’s ex-wife, Helen, and their two children lived in Chicago with her second husband, an orthodontist. Helen had custody, and Devin had lost visitation rights after an ugly Christmas incident four years ago.

“Yeah? How’s Lloyd doing these days?”

He shrugged. “He sent me a picture a few months back. He’s big, got hair so long I couldn’t see his eyes.” He studied his hard, scarred hands. “He plays drums in some local band. Helen says his grades are suffering.”