“Obviously,” she said, “the first two homicides are related to Colby and his business. But they lack the signature kills of the other victims. Those could be the work of someone else. They don’t even have to be the acts of a single perpetrator. It’s even possible we are looking for three murderers.”

I winced. “You’re giving me heartburn, baby.”

“It’s the corned beef and cabbage.” She shook her head again and the dark locks shimmered. “This is going to bleed into tomorrow, Mike.”

“I know it will.”

The check came.

I said, “Call the temp agency and get somebody in to fill in for you. Maybe that little Asian cutie is available.”

She arched a single eyebrow this time. “Fill in for me how?”

I smiled and raised both palms in surrender. “Honey, nobody could ever really fill in for you, not even on a temporary basis.”

“Right answer.”

*   *   *

Chris Peters was on board almost immediately. He and his wife and baby girl lived in Brooklyn, so I had to wait for him a while, but it would be worth it. Turned out he did have a key to his late partner’s pad, and—like me—he didn’t want to leave this thing to Pat.

“Mike, don’t quote me,” he said, when I picked him up in my souped-up black Ford heap near the subway station in Tudor City on East 42nd. “But I’m not in sync with Captain Chambers on this one.”

“How so, Chris?”

“Let’s just say I’m less anxious to bring Casey’s killer in alive.”

The slender blond cop was dressed for work—a tailored suit jacket with room around the waist to hide bulges of gun and gear. The unofficial NYPD policy was, “Dressed for a meeting, ready for mayhem.” I was garbed similarly, though my ensemble was set off by my porkpie fedora; Batman doesn’t go out without his cowl, does he? A kid like Chris, even on detective duty, went bareheaded.

I parked on a cross street a couple of blocks from Shannon’s apartment building. Our breaths were smoking. As we walked quickly along, nudged by the chill, I mulled what the young cop had said.

We’d just paused before heading behind the place, where Chris knew of a rear door adjacent to the service elevator. Luckily the building was on a corner and the doorman wouldn’t get wise to us.

I said, “You leave the vigilante shit to me, kid. You got a career going on the PD. Me, I got asked to leave a long time ago.”

“You were a cop once, Mike?”

“Most PIs were. I was making too much noise on the street when I was your age, and they stuck me on a desk. Which was the same as firing me, far as I was concerned.”

“I hear you.”