He grunted again. “No way of knowing till we hear from the medical examiner, but we’re assuming it was—talked to the foreman, who said Zamar was the only person left in the building when the shift ended. As far as arson goes—can’t tell that, either, not until the arson squad goes through there, but I don’t think the guy died from neglect.”

Conrad switched the conversation, asking me about my old friend Lotty Herschel—he’d been surprised not to see her down at the hospital with me, her being a doctor and my big protector and all.

I explained I hadn’t had time to make any calls. I kept wondering about Morrell, but I wasn’t going to share that with Conrad. Probably the hospital hadn’t bothered to call him—otherwise, surely, he would’ve phoned me, even if he couldn’t make the drive. I tried not to think of Marcena Love, sleeping in Morrell’s guest room. Anyway, she was frying other fish these days. These nights. I abruptly asked Conrad how he liked being so far from the center of action.

“South Chicago is the center of action, if you’re a cop,” he said. “Homicide, gangs, drugs—we got it all. And arson, plenty of that, lots of old factories and what-do being sold to the insurance companies.”

He pulled up in front of my building. “The old guy, Contreras, he still living on the ground floor? We going to have to spend an hour with him before we go upstairs?”

“Probably. And there’s no ‘we’ about it, Conrad: I can manage the stairs on my own.”

“I know you got the strength, Ms. W., but you don’t think it was nostalgia for your beautiful gray eyes that brought me to the hospital this morning, do you? We’re going to talk, you and I. You’re going to tell me the whole story of what you were doing down at Fly the Flag last night. How did you know the place was going to blow up?”

“I didn’t,” I snapped. I was tired, my wound was aching, the anesthesia was dragging me down.

“Yeah, and I’m the Ayatollah of Detroit. Wherever you are, people get shot, maimed, killed, so either you knew it was going to happen or you made it happen. What got you so interested in that factory?”

There was bitterness in his voice, but the accusation stung me to an anger that roused me from my torpor. “You got shot four years ago because you wouldn’t listen to me when I knew something. Now you won’t listen to me when I don’t know anything. I am exhausted from you not listening to me.”