“It matters who pulled the trigger. It matters whether the eyewitness IDs are right or wrong. It matters whether the trial testimony is honest or perjured. It matters whether the video you buried supports or destroys the shooting scenario.”

“That’s the kind of shit that matters to you?” Klemper sucked a wad of mucus out of his nose and spat it out on the ground. “I expected more from you.”

“More of what?”

“I came here today because I found out you worked homicide for twenty-five years in the NYPD. Twenty-five years in Sewer City. I figured anyone who spent twenty-five years dealing with every piece of shit that crawled out of a hole would understand reality.”

“What reality would that be?”

“The reality that when push comes to shove, right matters more than rules. The reality that we’re in a war, not a fucking chess match. White hats versus scumbags. When the enemy is coming at you, you stop the fucker however you can. You don’t stop a bullet by waving a fucking rule book at it.”

“Suppose you have it wrong.”

“Suppose I have what wrong?”

“Suppose Carl Spalter’s death had nothing to do with his wife. Suppose his brother had him shot to get control of Spalter Realty. Or the mob had him shot because they decided they didn’t want him to be governor after all. Or his daughter had him shot because she wanted to inherit his money. Or his wife’s lover had him shot because—”

Klemper broke in, red-faced. “That’s all total horseshit. Kay Spalter is an evil, conniving, murdering whore. And if there’s any justice in this fucking world, she’ll die in prison with her brains bashed out on the floor. End of story!” Tiny bits of the spittle around his mouth were flying into the air.

Gurney nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right.” It was his favorite all-purpose response—to the friendly and the furious, the sane and the insane. He went on calmly, “Tell me something. Did you ever run the shooter’s MO through the ViCAP database?”

Klemper stared at him, blinking repeatedly, as though it would help him understand the question better. “What the hell do you want to know that for?”

Gurney shrugged. “Just wondering. There are some distinctive elements in the shooter’s approach. Be interesting to see if they’ve popped up anywhere else.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Klemper started backing away.

“You may be right. But if you decide to check out that MO, there’s one more situation you should look into. You ever hear of an upstate Greek gangster by the name of Fat Gus Gurikos?”

“Gurikos?” Now Klemper looked honestly confused. “What’s he got to do with this?”