At last estimate, the office had come at a cost of two blackmailed former council members, a couple of black-budget cops taking sizable backhanders, three city Parks and Recreation officials, a senior programmer in the Department of Management and Budget and a tax-roll auditor who was addicted to cocaine and high-end hookers.

But of course, nobody knew nothing about anything, “swear to God.”

Being more familiar than most with the visceral seduction of violence, I let myself follow my muse: a focused desire for vengeance in the pursuit of information. A heady mixture—musky, with aromatic notes of blood, bruised flesh and the nickel smell of newly exposed broken bone; it swirled in my nostrils as I, in a state of focused fury bounded up the cracked and crumbling City Hall steps. A weightless, dark energy expanded in me, spreading across my chest.

I was without my Glock—security at City Hall was tight. Most of the guards looked like they’d shoot somebody just to break the boredom.

As the devil’s good graces would have it, Quinn was preparing to leave for the day. In tow were his two muscle-bound bodyguards, making their expensive suits look cheap. They seemed more interested in assessing the assets of an attractive middle-aged Black lady passing through the cavernous main floor hallway than in the security of their boss.

Without hesitation or greeting, I walked up to Quinn and gifted him with a solid right cross to the jaw, which instantly laid him out on the cold marble floor.

The first of his security detail to pry his eyes from the woman instinctively reached inside his suit jacket to grab a 9mm, .45 or maybe a Scottish basket hilt broadsword. Who knows? All I knew was by the time he had the handle of his weapon in his hand, I’d jackhammered his solar plexus with my fists and brought an elbow up to his chin. A foot to his chest sent him crashing into his partner, and the two men tumbled ass over elbows down the marble hallway.

“Nothing personal, guys,” I said.

I lifted Quinn from the floor by the lapels of his expensive car coat, popped him in his left eye and pushed him hard against a wall.

By this time, we had a wide-eyed, slack-jawed audience, including several cops and security guards who’d suddenly tuned in.

“Remember me, fuck face?” I whispered into Quinn’s ear.

“Jesus,” Quinn said, blood running from his nose and mouth. “Detective Snow?”

“Freeze, goddammit!” an elderly Black building security guard shouted. He was pointing a revolver at me. Two DPD officers joined the old man, their Glocks leveled at me.

“It’s all right, Billy!” Quinn said to the security guard. “Everybody just cool down. It’s just a little—haha—dispute over last night’s poker game is all. Everything’s cool! We cool!”