I raise one rigid finger. In a minute. I am not good at multitasking, especially when there are people involved.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ continues Deacon. ‘And you didn’t see anything, right?’

‘Not a thing but my friend bleeding.’ I decide to use a little distraction technique. ‘Come on, Ronnie. It’s too late for work. Why don’t you check out of that hospital and come on over here for a few drinks? I’m in good with the management. You still got nine fingers, right? More than enough to pick up a beer.’

‘Maybe when I solve this murder I’m working on from my sickbed. Woman killed outside Slotz; maybe you knew her?’

My stomach lurches. Connie. How could she have slipped my mind even for a moment?

‘Anything I can do?’

Brandi is tapping her forearm. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I grit my teeth and focus on the handset.

‘I got some more news on the murder weapon,’ says Ronnie quietly; maybe there are nurses hovering. ‘I thought I could run it past you since we have such a special relationship; unofficially of course, as I am technically off duty for the foreseeable . . .’

‘It was some kind of a blade?’

‘No. We got some metal fragments from the wound. Too soft for a blade. Maybe a tube, like the tip of an umbrella. With some kind of glittery substance on the shaft. That ringing any bells, McEvoy?’

‘Nothing pops out at me.’

‘Me neither. This makes it a spur-of-the-moment thing. Our murderer could be anyone now. Could be staring us right in the face.’

Brandi sits opposite me and swings her legs on to the desk, crossing them at the ankles. Her boots shine like gloss paint.

‘You’ll be thinking on it?’

I don’t say anything, because suddenly there is no air in the room. More than that, the room has become a vacuum, popping my ears and expanding my brain.

A metal tube. Glittery substance.

Detective Deacon is still talking. ‘Right, Dan? Yo, Danny boy. You’re gonna work with me on this?’

My fingers paw the desktop like a blind man’s, until I find the phone and cut Ronnie off.

I hate people calling me Danny boy. My father used to do that, and sing that goddamn dirge in pubs, though no one asked him.

‘I know you want to make changes, Dan,’ Brandi is saying, doing her best trailer-trash talk-show spiel. ‘I know that and I respect you for it. But I think, if you look inside yourself, you’ll find that you’re still in shock over Connie. She never went in the booth, so now you’re gonna shut the booth down. See what I’m saying?’

Brandi’s six-inch heels are in my face. Her trademark Catwoman boots. I’ve seen her kick sparks from the pavement with those boots.