I was wondering how long it would take Deborah to ask the old man about the tattoo and then make the connection. Even as I wondered, I heard her raise her voice in official ritual words of dismissal, thanking the old man for his help and instructing him to call if he thought of anything else. And then the two of them came toward the door, Deborah holding the old man firmly by the elbow and steering him out of the apartment.

"But what about my paper, miss?" he protested as she opened the door.
"It's Sergeant Miss," I told him, and Deborah glared at me.

"Call the paper," she told him. "They'll give you a refund." And she practically hurled him out the door, where he stood for a moment trembling with anger.

"The bad guys are winning!" he shouted, and then, happily for us, Deborah closed the door. "He's right, you know," I said to her.
"Well, you don't have to look so goddamned happy about it," she said.
"And you, on the other hand, might try looking a lot happier," I said. "It's him, the boyfriend, what's his name." "Kurt Wagner," she said.
"Very good," I said. "Due diligence. Kurt Wagner it is, and you know it."
"I don't know shit," she said. "It could still be a coincidence."

"Sure, it could be," I said. "And there's even a mathematical chance that the sun will come up in the west, but it's not very likely. And who else do you have?"

"That fucking creep, Wilkins," she said.
"Somebody's been watching him, right?"

She snorted. "Yeah, but you know what these guys are like. They take a nap, or take a dump, and swear the guy was never out of their sight. Meantime, the guy they're supposed to watch is out chopping up cheerleaders." "So you really still think he could be the killer? Even when this kid was here at exactly the same time Manny was killed?"

"You were here at the same time," she said. "And this one's not like the others. More like a cheap copy." "Then how did Tammy Connor's head get here?" I said. "Kurt Wagner is doing this, Debs, he has to be." "All right," she said. "He probably is."

"Probably?" I said, and I really was surprised. Everything pointed to the kid with the neck tattoo, and Deborah was dithering. She looked at me for a long moment, and it was not a look of warm, loving filial affection. "It still might be you," she said.