There were a number of huge circular clarifiers, each holding several hundred thousand gallons of brackish wastewater, all in the convoluted process of being sanitized and fortified, then sent to faucets all across southeastern Michigan. The Brennan Street facility was one of ten such facilities, making the system the single largest wastewater treatment plant complex in the nation, pumping out eighty to a hundred million gallons of drinkable water a day.

The smell—mitigated somewhat by the air’s chill—was an abomination.

Cowling, a couple uniforms and someone I assumed was a plant manager were standing over a body that had been fished out of one of the clarifiers. Kneeling by the body in a white moon suit with blue latex gloves on was my friend Dr. Bobby Falconi, Wayne County Coroner. Cowling saw me and sent the uniforms and plant manager packing.

“Roll him,” Cowling said to Bobby without greeting me.

Bobby turned the body over; even though it looked as if it had been dipped in a sluice of motor oil, wastewater and fecal decay, it was easy to see it was a white male, between forty and fifty, maybe five-eleven, a gaunt one forty, expensive suit and shoes. He’d been shot once in the forehead. Small caliber, I assumed. Bullet probably bounced around his skull turning his brain into pinkish-grey slush.

“You know him?” Cowling said.

“No,” I said. “Should I?”

“You sure ’bout that?” Cowling held up an evidence bag.

Inside the bag was a dirty, wet business card: On one side it said, “Sloane & Partners—Real Estate Negotiators & Facilitators.” On the flip side was my name and cell phone number in what I assumed was the dead man’s handwriting.

“Never met him,” I said. “Can I go now? My girlfriend is—”

“Fuck yo girlfriend!” Cowling said.

“Try, and I’ll kill ya.”

“Where were you between eight and ten-thirty last night?” Cowling asked.

“With my lady friend, eating popcorn and watching some British rom-com on Netflix,” I lied.

“So, you don’t know nothing about this dude, huh?”

“Not a damn.”

“How about Eastern Market?”

“Something happen at Eastern Market?” I said.

After recapturing what calm he may have had, Cowling said, “If I find out you and this dead cracka was in on any shit—including that Eastern Market Shed Three mess!—you just might be workin’ laundry in Jacktown for twenty to life. You feel me, Tex-Mex?”

“I feel you,” I said. Then I said to Bobby, “How’s it goin’?”

“Different day, different dead,” Bobby said, giving me a salute. “I hear Tatina’s in town. We should grab dinner sometime while she’s—”