“Did he show up at Darnell’s?”

“I didn’t call; I thought that would tip off Darnell.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Somers bit out.

“This was a mistake,” Hazard said. “I shouldn’t have bothered you at work.”

“Don’t do that. You can be mad at me if you want, but don’t you fucking dare shut me out. I do not want you handling this alone. Do you understand me?”

“I don’t like being talked to like I’m a—”

“Do you understand me, Emery Hazard?”

The laughter in the bullpen had died down; now the fax machine was squealing, a long sound that went on and on like it was being murdered.

“Yes,” Hazard said.

“I’ll pick you up.”

“It would be better if—”

“No. I’ll pick you up.”

After disconnecting, Somers took another minute in the closet, breathing in the mop funk and the ammonia. Then he opened the door and stepped out. He made his way to his desk in the bullpen; Dulac still hadn’t come back, so Somers scribbled a note—no details, just telling Dulac to call him—and grabbed his suit jacket. He headed for the side exit, near the back of the station, and wondered if he was making a huge mistake.

As he hurried along the station’s back hallway, though, the sound of voices caught his ear. Low, taunting voices. Bully voices. And they were coming from the jail. Somers knew the sound; at one point in his life, he’d been pretty good at that voice himself. He leaned into the exit door, catching the crash bar with his hip, and muggy Midwestern air met him, underscored by the tang of hot asphalt.

“—let me get into that tranny cunt of yours, what do you think about that—”

Letting the door fall closed, Somers changed course and walked toward the jail.

A handful of the Riggle boys were crowded against the bars of Wesley’s cell—Somers recognized Lansdown and Russell, but he hadn’t seen the third one before, although he was wearing a WPD uniform too. Somers checked the supervisor’s desk. Patrick Foley had been shot a few months before; he’d returned to duty slowly and under a cloud, and Cravens had kept him on jail supervision. Right then, though, the desk was empty, although a half-drunk mug of coffee said someone had been there.

“—ought to show you what a real man’s equipment is like,” Russell said, pimply and scrawny in his ill-fitting uniform, tugging on his balls. “Maybe you want a taste right now.”

“And if you don’t want a chihuahua,” Lansdown said, bigger than Russell, but still looking like a kid, “maybe you want my bulldog.” He humped the gate.

“Yeah,” third one called, which wasn’t exactly an original contribution, but the kid was even scrawnier than Russell and obviously trying to fit in.

Lansdown lunged at the bars again, letting out a single, ferocious bark. And then Russell was barking, throwing himself at the cell, and the little yapper at their heels was barking, all three of them barking and hammering on the bar and thrusting their crotches at the cell.