“No paper, you’ll be a lieutenant detective,” said Broussard. “Continue to work cases—challenging cases, but you pull a lieutenant’s salary, enjoy a lieutenant’s prestige.”

“That’s not the way it works in the department.”

“I’m still the chief.” Broussard got to his feet, pretended to accidentally spread a flap of his double-breasted jacket, offered a full view of the 9mm nestled in a tooled-leather holster the color of fine brandy.

“You toss me a bone, and I go away,” said Milo.

“Why not?” said Broussard. “Everything’s been done that needs to be done. You solved the case, the bad guys are out of the picture, we all move on. What’s the alternative, ruining both our lives? Because the worse you hurt me, the more pain you bring on yourself. I don’t care how righteous you think you are, that’s the way the world works. Think about Nixon and Clinton and all those other paragons of virtue. They got libraries, and all the people around them went down hard.”

Broussard stepped closer. Milo could smell his citrus aftershave and his sweat and the coppery tang of the blood that had finally begun to dry above his mouth.

“I’ve kept records,” said Milo. “A paper trail hidden where even you’ll never find it. Something happens to me—”

“Oh, please, look who’s talking about screenplays,” said Broussard. “You want to throw around threats? Think about Dr. Silverman. Dr. Delaware. Dr. Harrison.” Broussard laughed. “Sounds like a medical convention. You can be damaged beyond your wildest dreams. And to what end? What’s the point?”

He flashed a smile. Winner’s smile. A cold, damp wave of futility washed over Milo. Sapped; the blow to Broussard’s nose had taken more out of him than it had out of its recipient.

Winners and losers, the patterns were probably set in place back in nursery school.

He said, “What about Bosc?”

“Craig has resigned from the department with substantial compensation, effective one week ago. He’ll never go near you—that I can promise you.”

“He does, he’s a dead man.”

“He realizes that. He’s relocating to another city. Another state.” Broussard wiped away blood, checked his handkerchief, found a clean corner and made sure it showed when he tucked the silk square back in his breast pocket. Buttoning his shirt and knotting his tie, he advanced even closer to Milo.

Breathing slowly, evenly. The bastard had sweet breath, minty-fresh. No more sweat on his ebony face. His nose had started to swell, looked a little off kilter, but nothing you’d notice once he got cleaned up.

“So,” he said.

“Lieutenant,” said Milo.

“Fast-track promotion, Detective Sturgis, once you choose your division. You can take some vacation time or jump right into work. Think of it as mutually constructive adaptation.”