“I generally don’t speak business with a dead man,” Sloane said. “However, I’ll indulge you for a moment: it’s the purchase of peaceful anonymity. Surely a disgraced officer of the law can understand and appreciate that.”

“And Authentico Foods?” I said.

“Condos,” Sloane said. “Upscale. Secure. Discreet.”

“You don’t really work for Vic Bronson, do you?” I said. “In fact, you’re working him somehow.”

Sloane said nothing.

“Jesus,” I heard myself say, beginning to see light in the maze of shadows I had been groping my way through. “Safe houses. You’re building Londongrad without the bombast and perfumed putrefaction?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Snow,” Sloane said. “I do apologize for the men coming for you. But you brought this on yourself.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Sloane,” I said. “And may karma fuck you like a sonuvabitch.”

Detroit had always been a pirates’ cove with its history of logging barons, slavers, whiskey runners, drug kingpins and developers. There wasn’t much the city hadn’t seen in dark alleyways, dimly lit halls of government and boardroom-backhander deals. But this was different. This was a lethal infection to a body that was barely back from the dead. Honest people didn’t need the secrecy, anonymity and redoubled security of safe-houses. In Kandahar, Afghanistan, I’d known of such off-the-grid places. Places where quiet CIA and US contract security company deals were struck over mountains of American money and fifths of Johnnie Walker Blue for one murderous Taliban leader to terminate (with extreme prejudice) another such murderous Taliban leader aligned with Russian or Saudi interests.

I navigated the Yukon toward the 14th Precinct to hand off Jackie’s short-barrel .38 to Detective Captain Leo Cowling. Maybe he could pull something from the gun. Maybe not.

“So, how’s it hangin’, Leo?” I said. We were standing in the lobby of the 14th Precinct.

“Well, things was just peachy,” Cowling said. He was wearing another Irish cable-knit turtleneck—this time in deep purple—jeans that had been tailored and tan Red Wing Iron Ranger boots. “Then here come yo ass.”

“Thought you might be tired of flogging the dolphin on taxpayer time.” I took the handkerchief-wrapped .38 revolver out of my coat pocket. “So, I brought you a little something to professionally occupy you.”

I unwrapped the pistol. Cowling’s eyes lit up.

“What’s this?” he said.

“A gun,” I said. “Surely you’ve come across a few in your line of work.”

“You know what the fuck I mean.”

I told him it belonged to Jacqueline Ochoa, and how she and Danny Romero were involved in the death of Jackie’s father and the attempted murder of Tomás.

Cowling squinted at the gun, then said, “Well, I guess that completes the set.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The gun the old man killed himself with was part of a set,” Cowling said. “Some dead old woman’s son and daughter held an estate sale in West Bloomfield couple years ago.”