“Mr. Quick?”

The other man jolted, clearly startled by Gonzo’s unexpected appearance.

“I’m sorry to scare you. Are you Duncan Quick?”

“Who wants to know?”

Gonzo flashed his badge. “Detective Tommy Gonzales, Metro Washington, D.C. Police.”

Quick ran a trembling hand through thinning gray hair. “I’m Duncan Quick. What can I do for you?”

“What happened to your face?”

“I had an accident.”

Gonzo didn’t believe him but decided not to push it—yet. “Do you mind if we go inside?”

“What’s this about?”

“Let’s go in, and I’ll tell you.”

Warily, Quick opened his apartment door and gestured Gonzo into a stylish, contemporary space.

“Nice place.”

“Thank you. Now what can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Julian Sinclair has been murdered in Washington.” Gonzo had learned to cut to the chase in these instances.

Quick gasped and took a step back, his face ashen with shock. The bruises stood out against the sudden pallor. “That’s not possible,” Quick stammered. “He’s going to be on the Supreme Court. I saw the news.”

“He was murdered last night.”

“How?” he whispered.

“He was shot. His body was found early this morning in a Washington, D.C. park.”

“That just can’t be,” Quick said, sinking to the sofa as if his bones had liquefied. He dissolved into deep gulping sobs.

Gonzo found himself looking out at the water view, anything to avoid watching the raw display of grief. “Can I get you something?” he asked a few minutes later.

Without looking up, Quick shook his head.

Gonzo gave him another couple of minutes. “Mr. Quick, I’m sorry to have to do this, but I need to know where you’ve been for the last twenty-four hours.”

Quick released a harsh laugh. “Where have I been? I was getting the shit beat out of me by a guy I met in a bar.” His voice caught on a sob, and he buried his face in his hands. “Julian, oh God, this is all my fault.”

Gonzo sat down across from Quick. “What do you mean?”

“I forced the issue.” He wiped tears from his face. “I wanted him to retire and move down here with me, but he wasn’t ready. If I had stayed with him, if I had been with him, maybe…”

“I’m going to need the name of the man you were with last night.”

Quick raised his anguished face, his eyes connecting with Gonzo’s. “You suspect me?”

“I need to rule you out.” Gonzo nodded toward the duffel Quick had dropped inside the door. “What’s in the bag?”

“Gym clothes.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

With the weary wave of his hand, Quick granted permission.

Gonzo went over to squat down next to the bag. Unzipping it, he pulled out a bloody T-shirt and turned to Quick.