I said, “If I’m remembering right, the other homicide was also a hit-and-run.”

Peters nodded. “Yes. Different circumstances. The young employee was in the ramp of a parking garage where he kept his own car when he was struck down. No witnesses. Casey thought that one stunk.”

My laugh was short and harsh. “I can see why. That reads more as a murder than an accident—you don’t work up that kind of speed in a parking ramp unless you’re homicidal in one way or another.”

Pat said to Peters, “Remind me when these homicides went down.”

“The secretary over a year ago,” he said. “The other one a good two years ago. But now we have two hit-and-run incidents at the Colby firm, and Vincent is at least a peripheral figure on the two earlier homicides, and the target of the more recent one.”

I asked, “Have you been working with Casey on this?”

He shook his head. “Not since he retired. I’m partnered up with another guy and up to my ass in the usual alligators. And even before that, I was encouraging Casey to let the Colby thing drop. We weren’t getting anywhere and we had bigger fish to fry. Other fish, anyway. No shortage of homicides in Manhattan.”

“No shortage,” Pat sighed.

I asked, “Why would he tell you he was going to Florida when he was sticking around to, what? Keep digging?”

“You got me,” Peters said, throwing his hands up. “His message came in at work when I was out, so I didn’t question him about it.”

Pat said, “He knew you didn’t agree with him keeping at this thing.”

Peters was shaking his head hard, now, exasperated. “But we’re at three homicides now, and an apparent attempted murder, all tied to that same brokerage? Something’s going on.”

“Four homicides,” I said, and told him about the Kraft kill, and its identical kill MO.

The young detective listened intently, a haunted blankness gradually curdling into something else, his handsome face getting ugly; and he looked like he might start crying again. I couldn’t blame him.

Trembling with rage and sorrow, he said, “I want a piece of this, Captain Chambers.”

Pat put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I understand. But you’re too personally involved with this one. I’m taking charge of this myself. Of course, I’ll need you to be available to me. I want to know everything you’ve got on those first two homicides.”

“Whatever you need, Captain.”

“Good. And I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

Pat shooed him off and, after a pathetic look back at his dead partner, Detective Chris Peters left the crime scene.

“What a hypocrite you are,” I said, but I was smiling.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“He’s too personally involved with this one? What are you, Pat? Aren’t you the guy salivating over killing the killer’s chances whenever a parole hearing comes up? Crushing the bastard’s dreams of a life beyond prison walls?”