The man stood six-three and weighed around 240, every ounce rock-solid. His hair was dark, his eyes startlingly green, what Gran would have called black Irish. Only two things kept Mr. God a notch below perfect: a scar cut his right brow, and a subtle kink belied a healed nasal fracture.

My expression must have telegraphed my surprise.

“The lady said to come on back.” Cotton Galimore punched a thumb in the direction of Volpe’s cubicle.

“I was expecting Detective Slidell.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Grin lines creased the perfect face.

Without awaiting invitation, Galimore entered and foot-hooked a chair toward my desk. My nose registered expensive cologne and just the right hint of male perspiration.

“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.” He sat.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Galimore?”

“You know who I am?”

“I know who you are.”

“That a plus?”

“You tell me.”

“You working with Skinny?”

I nodded.

“Condolences.” Again the boyish grin.

I didn’t smile back.

“I’m guessing Slidell’s not one of my fans,” Galimore said.

“He’s not.”

I looked at my sandwich. So did Galimore.

“These tight bastards not paying you enough?”

“I like cheese.”

“Cheese is good.”

“I can’t discuss the body from the landfill, if that’s why you’re here.”

“That’s partly why I’m here.”

“Sorry.”

“You know you’ll have no choice.”

“Really?”

“Really. Sooner or later you’ll have to deal with me.”

Astonished at the man’s arrogance, I simply stared.

Galimore stared back. His hair was grayer at the temples, his face more deeply creased than I’d noticed at first.

Mostly I noticed his eyes. They held me in a way I couldn’t explain.

Galimore looked away first. Glancing down, he drew a pack of Camels from his pocket, slipped one free, and offered it to me.

“This is a no-smoking facility,” I said.

“I don’t like rules.” Sliding matches from beneath the cellophane, he lit up, took a long pull, and slowly exhaled. Acrid smoke floated over my desk.

“Aren’t we the rebel.” Cool.

Galimore shrugged.

I fought the urge to grab the cigarette and stub it out on his forehead.

“My office. My rules,” I said with an arctic smile.

“In that case, happy to comply.”

Galimore took another draw, exhaled, then extinguished the Camel on the side of my wastebasket. When he straightened and exhaled, another noxious gray cloud drifted my way.

“Detective Slidell is not known for his objectivity,” he said.

I couldn’t argue with that.

“Did he give you the full story?”

“He told me you drank.”

“I did. But never on the job.”

“And that you went to jail.”

“I had that delight.”

“For accepting a bribe.”

“I was set up.”

“Of course.”

“You want to know what happened?”

I flipped a palm. Whatever.