“Shooting Vincent Patriso’s only granddaughter,” he said, “was an extremely uncool thing for someone to do.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Constantine has been informed that two people he ordered to cooperate with your investigation did not.”

“That’s correct.”

“And now Ms. Gennaro lies in ICU.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Constantine wants you to know that he had nothing to do with this.”

“I know.”

“Mr. Constantine also wants you to know that you have carte blanche when it comes to whatever you have to do to identify and apprehend the man who shot Ms. Gennaro.”

“Carte blanche?”

“Carte blanche, Mr. Kenzie. If Mr. Hurlihy and Mr. Rouse were never seen again, Mr. Constantine assures you that neither he nor his associates would have any desire to look for them. Understood?”

I nodded.

He handed me a card. Scribbled on one side was an address—411 South Street, 4th floor. Scribbled on the other side was a phone number I recognized as Bubba’s cell phone.

“Meet Mr. Rogowski there as soon as you can.”

“Thanks.”

He shrugged, looked at my cigarette. “Shouldn’t smoke those things, Mr. Kenzie.”

He walked off into the parking lot and I stubbed out the cigarette and went back inside.

“Angie opened her eyes at two forty-five.

“Honey?” Phil said.

She blinked and tried to speak but her mouth was too dry.

As instructed earlier by the nurse, we gave her some chips of ice but no water, and she nodded gratefully.

“Don’t call me honey,” she croaked. “How many times do I have to tell you, Phillip?”

Phil laughed and kissed her forehead and I kissed her cheek and she slapped feebly at both of us.

We sat back.

“How do you feel?” I said.

“Real stupid question,” she said.

Dr. Barnett dropped his stethoscope and penlight back into his pockets and told Angie, “You’re going to be in ICU until tomorrow, just so we can keep a close eye on you, but it looks like you’re coming along well.”

“Hurts like hell,” she said.

He smiled. “I’d expect so. That bullet took a particularly nasty course, Ms. Gennaro. And later we’ll discuss some of the damage. I can promise you that there’s a whole lot of foods you’ll never be able to eat again. Just about any liquid besides water is going to be out of the question for a while too.”

“Damn,” she said.

“And there’ll be other restrictions to talk about, but—”

“What about…?” She looked at Phil and me and then away.

“Yes?” Barnett said.

“Well,” she said, “the bullet sort of rattled around down in my lower regions and…”

“It affected none of your reproductive organs, Ms. Gennaro.”

“Oh,” she said and caught me smiling, glared at me. “Don’t say a damn word, Patrick.”

The pain returned in force around five and they shot her up with enough Demerol to mellow out a Bengal tiger.

I touched my palm to her cheek as she blinked at the drug’s effect.

“The guy who shot me?” she said thickly.