Bronson stared at me hard for a few seconds before he said, “I have no interests in southwest Detroit.”

“You sure about that?” I asked.

Bronson and his team turned and began walking away.

“Then you have no idea who a Mr. Sloane is?” I said. “He doesn’t represent you, Hunter Enterprises or Sextant Properties in any way, shape or form?”

Bronson stopped abruptly. The pulse in his carotid artery visibly increased.

His security team brought their crosshairs back to me.

“I’m calling security—” the receptionist said.

“Tanner. No,” Bronson said without facing either of us. “As I said, I have no real estate interests in southwest Detroit through Hunter Enterprises, Sextant Properties or any other Hunter entity. I’d suggest you talk to your Mr. Sloane, whoever he is. And next time, might I recommend you make an actual appointment? I would be glad to speak with you then.”

With that, he rounded a corner to a private hallway with two of his security detail.

Last Man Standing, who even at a modest five-nine looked as if he could bench three hundred pounds, sneered, “Like Mr. Bronson said, next time, make an appointment.”

A hard second or two passed between us. Then I said, “Oh, you are just adorable! You in your big-boy-going-to-church suit! Would you like a cookie? You wanna cookie, little big man?”

He briefly opened his suit jacket to give me a glimpse of the handle and magazine of his semi-auto weapon, discreetly flipped me the finger, then said, “Tanner? Why don’t you make that call to security? Now. And the local PD.”

“No need,” I said, heading to the bank of elevators.

By the time I got home, there was a navy-blue Ford DPD undercover sedan parked at the curb in front of my house.

I found a young olive-skinned man in a dark suit sitting at my kitchen island finishing a bowl of my chili and a square of corn bread. Tatina was refreshing his cup of coffee.

“Patrolman Aswan?” I said, recognizing the Chaldean DPD officer.

“Not a patrolman anymore, Mr. Snow,” Aswan said standing and offering a hand. “Detective. Newly minted.”

We shook. “Holy shit!” I said. “Detective Aswan! Congratulations, man!”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Detective Aswan says he arrested you several years ago,” Tatina said brightly.

“Yeah, but he’s one of the good guys for sure,” Detective Aswan said. “I looked into him. His record. All the news stuff. If it weren’t for guys like him, guys like me wouldn’t have much of a shot on the force. Yeah, I’d put in with him any day of the week.”

“What brings you to the hood, Detective?” I asked.

“You, Mr. Snow.”

I sat at the kitchen island next to him. Tatina asked if I wanted some chili. I didn’t.

She gave me a light kiss, handed me a cup of coffee and said, “Is this privileged police talk?”