“Just looked like part of the city crew out getting festive shit up on Jefferson and Woodward for the holidays.”

“And you, Leo?” I said. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Any reason you might have wanted to see Quinn’s head separated from his neck?”

Cowling’s eyebrows furrowed as he came closer to my bedside.

“I know what you think of me, Snow,” he said in a low voice. “And I really don’t care. I may have strayed from the blue line a while ago. Maybe even pimped for the old mayor. But Danbury put me right. The captain set me back on the path of the reborn righteous. I’ll bleed DPD blue long before I bleed red. Hell, I might even save yo Tex-Mex ass one day in the performance of my sworn duties. As to Lincoln Quinn and my association with him—that died the day Danbury died. Which means that recording you sent me means nothing. To either of us. You feel me?”

Cowling turned to walk to the door of my room. “Forgot to ask. Know anything about a fire and a crispy critter near the Russell Street Industries ruins? Dude got fried by a work-light that fell over on a gas power generator.”

“Why would I know anything?” I said.

“How ‘bout some young, crazy-ass Jersey trigger-niggah we got in lock-up,” Cowling said. “Says you put a beat-down on him.”

“Mistaken identity,” I said. “Didn’t the academy teach you we all look alike?”

“Thought I’d ask,” Cowling said. “Get some rest, Snow. I got the damnedest feeling you gonna need it.”

As much of a surprise as it was having Detective Captain Leo Cowling visit, it was even more alarming when, an hour later, a “Dr. Enrique Manfredo” entered my room, closed and locked the door, then pointed a suppressed Chinese Type 06 9mm handgun at my nose.

“Let me guess,” I said to the young Asian man standing over me. “You’re not really Dr. Enrique Manfredo.”

Without a word, he took a phone out of his white lab coat, pressed two digits and handed the phone to me.

“Am I speaking with Mr. Snow?” a voice said.

“Speaking,” I answered brightly. “Hey, listen, if this is about me renewing my cable service, forget it. Cable’s so twentieth century.”

The man on the other end issued a sincere and robust laugh.

Nothing like killing with an audience that truly wants you dead.

“No,” the man said. “I assure you—this is not a solicitation for renewing your cable service. This is an inquiry about thirty million dollars of my money, or rather, my employer’s money—”

“Wait a minute. Hold on, pal,” I said. “When did it become thirty million?”