Patrick Foley was the cop in the chair. The red-headed man was awake, sitting gingerly—doubtless still feeling, to some degree, the effects of the gut wound he had taken months before. He was leafing through something that Hazard guessed was a skin rag, Foley’s stock in trade for shift work like this. He didn’t look up as Hazard approached.

“I’m going in there,” Hazard said.

Foley’s hand stilled in the middle of turning a page; Hazard saw now that it was a hobbyist catalogue. Model airplanes.

“Just turn around,” Foley said quietly, “and get back on the elevator. That’s what you’re going to do.”

“I need to talk to him.”

Foley took out a pen, circled something, and folded the corner of the page. “Hazard, I’m supposed to arrest you if you come up here poking around. I’m not trying to jam you up; I’m saying, walk those sweet cheeks out of here, and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”

“It did happen, Foley. It is happening. All of this is happening. The Keeper is back, and he’s killing again. He has Mitchell. He has Nico. His accomplice had Dulac. And John is out there, and he’s in danger, because the Keeper framed him. Dulac is my last chance.” Hazard worked on the word for a moment before he finally managed to say, “Please?”

Blowing out a breath, Foley marked his place with a pen and shut the catalogue.

“Patrick, I am begging you. Please. I just need to talk to him. Nobody ever has to know.”

“You’re the hero, right?”

Hazard was too tired and too slow to respond.

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Foley said. “I get it, man. You’re badass. You and Somers, you’ve taken down some really serious shit in this town. So I get it: in your head, you’re the only one who can do this. But the FBI is on this case. You might think the rest of us are local yokels just picking hair out of our ass cracks, but this is the goddamn FBI we’re talking about. They’ve got this. They’ll find this son of a bitch, and they’ll make sure Somers comes out ok. He didn’t do the shit they’re saying; anybody knows him, knows that.”

“You know that’s not true,” Hazard said. “Riggle can’t make up his mind if he thinks Wesley did it or if he thinks John and Dulac did. Park, on the other hand, is convinced John and Dulac were involved in the Keeper murders. You should have seen her face today after I found Dulac. She had this whole story—” Hazard could hear his voice thinning, tightening, all the emotions he normally kept locked down escaping now because he was exhausted, mentally and physically and emotionally. “She had this whole story about he was buying from Rasmussen, using recreationally, and it just got a little out of hand. She’s convinced he and John are part of this too. And she’s got the evidence to pin them to the board with it, Patrick, so please. I am not doing this for my ego. I am not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because I love John and because . . . and because I don’t know who else will do it if I don’t.” He worked his jaw, and the final word was very small. “Please.”