‘A lawyer guy. Name’s Faber. Jerry Faber, or maybe Gary.’

I hear scratching. Deacon is writing this down. ‘You overhear anything specific?’

‘A little. How he was gonna kill her. She was gonna pay. Stuff like that.’

Deacon is taking notes now, you bet she is. ‘You heard him say he was going to kill Connie DeLyne? Those exact words?’

‘Yes, sir . . . miss . . . Detective . . . He said it all right. More than once.’

‘Will you testify to this?’

‘I’m testifying right now, ain’t I?’

‘Yeah, but I need you to . . .’

That’s when I hang up, smiling as I imagine Deacon shouting abuse into her mouthpiece.

Poor Randy, I think. He’s going to need a jockstrap.

Step two of my dodgy plan: stake out Faber’s office.

I take the 14 bus across town to the financial district, where Faber’s card tells me he operates from. Maybe district is too grand a term. What we have in Cloisters is a financial block, couple of office buildings with a Bennigans and a Cheesecake Factory thrown in for the lunchtime crowd.

The Bennigans is across from Faber’s lobby, so I order myself a Turkey O’Toole I don’t want, and spy across the plaza through a window tinted streaky green by painted shamrocks.

Turkey O’ Toole. Jesus.

I don’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later a police sedan pulls up in front of the hydrant, idles for a few seconds, then drives off to a space further along the pavement.

I smile behind my sandwich. Deacon wanted to park at the hydrant, but Goran made her move along. Interesting. What would Dr Moriarty make of that?

Maybe Deacon was beaten up by someone dressed as a hydrant, or maybe Goran lost her puppy in a fire.

Psychology. Anyone can do it.

Another ten minutes and Faber comes out, shooting threats with his six-shooter fingers. Goran and Deacon trail behind him with glazed eyes. I know that look. That’s the face you put on when some sergeant major is screaming the skin off your forehead. I’ll bet that Faber is crying persecution and calling the chief of police by his golfing nickname. Goran taps Deacon’s forearm with two fingers.

Calm down, the touch says. We do this right.

Faber is practically dancing now; from across the square I can see his ginger fuzz vibrate.

It’s funny, except that maybe he killed Connie.

Detective Goran’s lips are moving now and I fill in the blanks.

Take a walk, Mister Faber, but not too far. I’ll be dialling your number.

So now the cat is among the pigeons.

Which one is the cat? asks Ghost Zeb.

I’m not sure. That particular saying has always confused me.

Faber beeps a new Mercedes down the block with his key fob and the cops traipse back to their beat-up sedan, probably thinking that they’re in the wrong line of work.