“Because I need to give you the name of a cleaning service I use on occasion,” I said. “You’ll need them if you shoot me with that blunderbuss at this range. Otherwise you’ll be finding bits of my intestines, spleen, stomach and maybe a kidney in your living room until next June. Not to mention the way you’re holding that gun the recoil could break your thumb and sprain your wrist.”

“Are you suggesting I can’t handle such power?”

“I’m suggesting nobody can handle such power in close quarters,” I said. “Do you really want to ruin this comfy recliner?”

“It is nice,” she said. “My father’s. Like this gun. My sister and I gave him the recliner when he retired. He passed away in it ten years later, taking his usual noontime nap in front of The Price Is Right . . .” After a second or two, Rosado toggled the safety on her gun and stuffed it back between the sofa cushions.

“Tell me about your visit from Lincoln Quinn.”

She was reluctant. So much so that she drained her glass of mescal and took the time to pour herself another.

“What business would that be of yours?” she said.

“I know the bastard,” I said. “During my trial he accused me of things that made my dying mother even sicker. I need answers from him on his involvement in a dicey real estate deal in Mexicantown. Maybe you know something. Maybe you don’t. Either way, I’d hate to think he was intimidating my district rep.”

Rosado searched my eyes for a moment. “She was a good woman, your mother. Your father was a good man, too. He—Lincoln—met with a man named Sloane two or three times in his council office. I’m sure you already know Lincoln is as dirty as they come: building-contract and city-real-estate-inspection kickbacks, velvet-glove treasury department employee extortion. Rumor is he even gets kickbacks from custodial crews at Metro Airport. He was the real power behind the old mayor. The kind of power that still keeps the old mayor quiet after sitting in a prison cell for five years.” She took a long pull of her drink and stared at the ice cubes. “But this—this is something different. I’ve been lobbying for a police substation near Clark Park. It made me sick to think I needed his support, but—well, politics.” She took a deep, ragged breath, then downed the rest of her mescal before saying, “It was going to be a tablet-to-tablet video chat since I can’t stand to be alone in the same room with him. He—he kind of—touches his crotch when we’re—”

“Jesus,” I said.

She rose from the sofa to pour herself another mescal.