“You think this is a social call, mothafucka?” Cowling snapped. Glaring at me, he pointed to the dead man and said, “This dude had you in his pocket, and don’t nobody wanna know yo ass unless they got trouble or mean to cause it. Either way, it means a fuck-up I gotta suck up and clean up. A head-shot body dumped with your name and number in his pocket? It’s a straight line with you at the other end. I’m getting a warrant to search your house, and that includes every weapon you got. So, get used to me bein’ way up in yo narrow ass till I know which is what, understand me?”

I nodded that I did.

“Okay, get the fuck outta here,” Cowling said. I turned and walked away. He called out after me, “And you’d better stay yo ass in town, Snow! Ain’t no slippin’ and tippin’ out no back door to Sweden or Denmark or wherever you getcho transmission flushed!”

“See ya round, Bobby,” I said.

“Dinner,” Bobby said. “Think about it.”

“You do, of course, know what I’m risking by talking to you about this,” Bobby Falconi said when I called.

“A two point seven percent raise that won’t even match COLA?”

“So, what’s your impression of this Mr. Sloane guy?”

“Not really much to go on,” I said. “He was more of an apparition than anything else. The folks who actually dealt with him described him as an instantly forgettable white guy, five-ten, maybe midforties, thin, male-pattern baldness, glasses, expensive but plain black suit and shoes. Talked like he went through life with a nosegay.”

“Yeah, well, he’s still talking but in my language now,” Bobby said. “Did anybody say he looked particularly healthy?”

“Where you going with this, Bobby?” I said.

“The guy I’m looking at on the slab?” Bobby said. “If a bullet hadn’t killed him, malnutrition and cirrhosis of the liver eventually would’ve; his organs and tissue show definite indications of premature senility and alcohol abuse. Muscles reveal signs of midstage atrophy. What hair he had had been recently shampooed and conditioned, but I found one larval parasitic infestation in his pubis region.”

“Lice?”

“Lice,” Bobby confirmed. “Considering the bacterial stew we fished him out of, anything’s possible. But my guess is the nit attached itself prior to him being shot and dumped.”

“Meaning?”

“If I were a betting man, I’d say the guy on my slab was homeless,” Bobby said. “Has what looks like a rash on the deltoid of his right arm. Turns out it wasn’t a rash; it was a recent laser burn. Tattoo removal. Whoever treated him to this did it postmortem and in a hurry. They didn’t get all of the ink. Looks like an army battalion insignia.”

“What about his clothes?” I finally said.