“I am. But young Colby’s the linkage between all of the other kills, and anyway he’s on my mind. I just got back from checking up on him at that high-class health club.”

I told Pat that Shannon appeared to have been getting next to Colby as part of investigating those two suspicious homicides—the rape victim secretary who’d been strangled and the boiler-room broker who got run over in a parking garage.

“Shannon suspected him,” Pat said.

“Would appear so. Those kills were a couple of stones in Casey’s shoe, keeping him from walking carefree into retirement.”

“He’s carefree now,” Pat said bitterly.

I shifted in my swivel chair. “Something you should know about Vincent Colby, buddy, if you don’t already. He’s a karate student. Apparently a fairly proficient one.”

And I could hear his chair squeak as he sat forward. “Isn’t that interesting. Could these crushed chests be the result of a karate move of some kind? I always figured that ‘killing blow’ stuff was just nonsense from the movies.”

“Colby’s trainer at the Solstice Fitness Center says it is possible. Not as easy as people think, but…yeah.”

“Does the trainer know what he’s talking about?”

“He’s a tenth-degree black belt.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll take his word for it.”

“And, Pat, he says it’s not anything he’s ever taught a student. He says there are ways to kill with karate that are hiding in plain sight.”

His laugh was rueful. “Sounds like you’re already getting ahead of me on this one, Mike.”

“I don’t have a desk littered with other homicides to keep track of. But you were man enough to call me and let me know the Jasmine Jordan development. I’ll keep you in the loop. Hell, you are the loop on this one.”

“I appreciate that, Michael. Don’t you go killing anybody who I’d rather see face the shame of a trial and a life behind bars.”

“Do my best, Patrick.”

“Oh, one other thing—Vincent Colby has an alibi for last night. Not much of one, but he has one.”

“Which is what?”

“Daddy dearest says his beloved only child was tucked in a wee little bed. That makes two shitty alibis young Colby came up with—his girl friend for the Kraft kill, and now his old man, for a dead hooker whose classy clientele may well have included Vince.”

“He prefers Vincent, Pat.”

“Fuck him,” Pat said, and hung up.

*   *   *

Vance Colby and I were once again seated opposite on respective two-seater sofas in the cavernous office that showed few signs of work ever being done, the fire again throwing orange and black reflections. Neither coffee nor brandy were offered this trip. I’d come unannounced, though my wealthy client hadn’t hesitated to tell the Ice Lady to send me in.