Freddy stared at her.

Pine uncrossed his legs.

“And the Imbruglia Family,” she said, leaning into the table slightly, “they answer to the Moliach Family, who in turn are still considered glorified caporegimes to the Patriso Family. Correct?”

Freddy’s eyes were still and flat, and Jack’s left hand was frozen halfway between the edge of the table and his coffee cup, and beside me I could hear Kevin taking long deep breaths through his nose.

“And you—do I have this right?—sent men to find security weaknesses in the apartment of Mr. Patriso’s only granddaughter? Freddy,” she said and reached across the table and touched his hand, “do you think Mr. Patriso would consider these actions respectful or disrespectful?”

Freddy said, “Angela—”

She patted his hand and stood. “Thanks for your time.”

I stood. “Nice seeing you guys.”

Kevin’s chair made a loud scraping noise on the tile as he stepped in my path, looked at me with those depth-charge eyes of his.

Freddy said, “Sit the fuck down.”

“You heard him, Kev,” I said. “Sit the fuck down.”

Kevin smiled, ran his palm across his mouth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pine cross his legs at the ankles again.

“Kevin,” Jack Rouse said.

In Kevin’s face I could see years of howling class rage and the bright sheen of true psychosis. I could see the little, pissed-off kid whose brain had been stunted and blighted sometime during the first or second grade and had never grown beyond that point. I could see murder.

“Angela,” Freddy said, “Mr. Kenzie. Please sit down.”

“Kevin,” Jack Rouse said again.

Kevin placed the hand that had wiped the smile off his face on my shoulder. Whatever passed between us in the second or two it lay there wasn’t pleasant or comfortable or clean. Then he nodded once, as if answering a question I’d asked, and stepped back by his chair.

“Angela,” Freddy said, “could we—?”

“Have a nice day, Freddy.” She came around behind me and we walked out onto Prince Street.

We reached the car on Commercial, a block from Diandra Warren’s apartment, and Angie said, “I got some things to do, so I’m going to cab it home from here.”

“You sure?”

She looked at me like a woman who’d just backed down a room full of Mafioso and wasn’t in the mood to take any shit. “What’re you going to do?”

“Talk to Diandra, I guess. See if I can find out any more about this Moira Kenzie.”

“You need me?”

“Nope.”

She looked back up Prince Street. “I believe him.”

“Kevin?”

She nodded.

“Me too,” I said. “He has no reason to lie, really.”

She turned her head, looked over at Lewis Wharf, at the single yellow light glowing in Diandra Warren’s apartment. “So where’s that leave her? If Kevin didn’t send that photograph, who did?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Some detectives,” she said.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said. “It’s what we’re good at.” I looked up Prince and saw two men walking down toward us. One was short and thin and hard and wore a scally cap. The other was tall and thin and probably giggled when he killed people. They reached the end of the street and stopped at a gold Diamante directly across from us. As Kevin opened the passenger door for Jack, he stared at us.