“Devin, you know what red meat does to your heart, never mind your bowels?”

He wiped his mouth with a cocktail napkin. “You turn into one of those holistic, health PC douchebags while I wasn’t looking, Kenzie?”

“Nope. But I saw one picketing out front.”

He reached for his hip. “Here. Take my gun and shoot the prick. See if you can pop a mime while you’re at it. I’ll see it gets written up right.”

A throat cleared behind me and I looked into the bar mirror. A man sat in a shadowed booth just over my right shoulder.

He wore a dark suit and dark tie, a crisp white shirt and a matching scarf. His dark hair was the color of polished mahogany. He sat stiffly in the booth, as if his spine had been replaced with pipe.

Devin jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Patrick Kenzie, Angela Gennaro, meet FBI Special Agent Barton Bolton.”

I turned on my barstool and Angie turned on hers and we both said, “Hi.”

Special Agent Barton Bolton said nothing. He looked each of us up and down like a concentration camp commandant trying to decide if we were best fit for work or extermination, then shifted his gaze to a point somewhere over Oscar’s shoulder.

“We have a problem,” Oscar said.

“Could be a small problem,” Devin said, “could be a big one.”

“And it is?” Angie said.

“Let’s all sit together.” Oscar pushed his plate away.

Devin did the same and we all joined Special Agent Barton Bolton in the booth.

“What about Gerry?” I said, watching him clear the plates off the bar.

“Mr. Glynn’s already been questioned,” Bolton said.

“Ah.”

“Patrick,” Devin said, “your card was found in Kara Rider’s hand.”

“I told you how it got there.”

“And when we were working on the presumption that Micky Doog or one of his puke friends had killed her because she wouldn’t blow him or whatever, it wasn’t a problem.”

“Your presumption has changed?” Angie said.

“’Fraid so.” Devin lit a cigarette.

“You quit,” I said.

“Unsuccessfully.” He shrugged.

Agent Bolton removed a photograph from his briefcase, handed it to me. It was of a young man, mid-thirties, built like a Grecian statue. He wore only shorts and was smiling at the camera and his upper torso was all hard cuts and coiled muscle, biceps the size of baseballs.

“Do you know this man?”

I said, “No,” and handed the photo to Angie.

She looked at it a moment. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

Angie said, “I’d remember that body. Trust me.”

“Who is he?”

“Peter Stimovich,” Oscar said. “Actually his full name is The Late Peter Stimovich. He was killed last night.”

“Did he have my business card too?”

“Not as far as we know.”

“Then why am I here?”

Devin looked across the bar at Gerry. “What did you and Gerry talk about when you came in here a few days ago?”

“Ask Gerry.”

“We did.”

“Wait,” I said, “how do you know I came in here a few days ago?”