The door in the rear panel pushed open and seven hundred pounds of humanity emerged and filled the office. Two men, each close to six-six, wearing black turtlenecks, black cargo pants, black revolvers in black nylon holsters. The larger one—a fine distinction—was Samoan, with long hair tied up in a sumo knot and a wispy mustache-goatee combo. His companion wore a red crew cut and had a fine-featured, baby-smooth face.

Georgie Nemerov said, “Hey.”

Both monsters studied us.

“Hey,” said Sumo.

Red grunted.

“Boys, this is Detective Milo Sturgis, an old friend from around the corner. He investigated the scumfuck who murdered my dad. And this is a shrink the department uses because we all know cops are crazy, right?”

Slow nods from the behemoths.

Georgie said, “These are two of my prime finders, Milo. This here’s Stevie, but we call him Yokuzuna, ’cause he used to wrestle in Japan. And the little guy’s Red Yaakov, from the Holy Land. So what’s new, boys?”

“We got something for you,” said Stevie. “Out back, in the van.”

“The 459?”

Stevie the Samoan smiled. “The 459 and guess what? A bonus. We’re leaving the 459’s crib—idiot’s right there in bed, like he doesn’t believe anyone’s gonna come looking for him and in two secs we’ve got him braceleted, are taking him out to the car and a window shade in the next-door house moves and some other guy’s staring out at us. And Yaakov says, waitaminute, ain’t that the 460 we been looking for since the Democratic convention?”

Yaakov said, “Det stoopid guy Garcia, broke dose windows and reeped off all dot stereo.”

“Raul Garcia?” said Georgie. He broke into a grin. “No kidding.”

“Yeah, him,” said Stevie. “So we go in and get him, too. Both of them are out there in back, squirming in the van. Turns out they played craps together—neighborly spirit and all that. They actually asked us to loosen the bracelets so they could play in the van.”

Georgie high-fived both giants. “Two for one, beautiful. Okay, let me process the papers, then you can take both geniuses over to the jail. I’m proud of you boys. Come back at five and pick up your checks.”

Stevie and Yaakov saluted and left the way they’d come in.

“Thank God,” said Georgie, “that criminals are retarded.” He returned to his chair and picked up his sandwich.

Milo said, “Thanks for your time.”

The sandwich arced toward Nemerov’s mouth, then paused inches from its destination. “You actually going to be looking for Burns again?”

“Should I?” said Milo. “I figure if he was findable, you guys woulda brought him in a long time ago.”

“You got that,” said Georgie.

Knots formed along Milo’s jawline as he sauntered closer to the counter. “You think he’s dead, Georgie?”

Nemerov’s eyes shifted to the left. “That would be nice, but why would I think that?”