“So Tonya Stumpf’s mouth might have made contact with Detective Schwinn’s penis without your seeing it?”

“All I can say is what I saw.”

“Did Detective Schwinn’s penis make contact with Tonya Stumpf’s vagina or Tonya Stumpf’s anus?”

“I never saw that.” Was the bastard emphasizing anus because . . . ?

“Did Tonya Stumpf engage in physical intimacy of any sort with Detective Schwinn?”

“I never saw that,” Milo repeated, wondering if they’d used some sort of night scope, had everything on film and he was burnt toast—

“Mouth on penis,” said Poulsenn. “Yes or no?”

“No.”

“Penis on or in vagina.”

“No.”

“Penis on or in anus.”

Same emphasis. Definitely not coincidence. “No,” said Milo, “and I think I’d better talk to a Protective League representative.”

“Do you?” said Broussard.

“Yes, this is obviously—”

“You could do that, Detective Sturgis. If you think you really need representation. But why would you think that?”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Do you have something to worry about, Detective?” said Broussard.

“I didn’t until you guys hauled me in—”

“We didn’t haul you, we invited you.”

“Oh,” said Milo. “My mistake.”

Broussard touched the tape recorder, as if threatening to switch it on again. Leaned in so close Milo could count the stitches on his lapel. No pores. Not a single damn pore, the bastard was carved of ebony. “Detective Sturgis, you’re not implying coercion, are you?”

“No—”

“Tell us about your relationship with Detective Schwinn.”

Milo said, “We’re partners, not buddies. Our time together is spent on work. We’ve cleared seven homicides in three months—one hundred percent of our calls. Recently, we picked up an eighth one, a serious whodunit that’s gonna require—”

“Detective,” said Broussard. Louder. Cutting off that avenue of conversation. “Have you ever witnessed Detective Schwinn receiving money from anyone during work hours?”

No desire to talk about Janie Ingalls.

Caught up in his headhunter ritual, one that wouldn’t—couldn’t be stopped—until it played itself out. Or something else: an active disinterest in Janie Ingalls?

Milo said, “No.”

“Not with Tonya Stumpf?”

“No.”

“Or anyone else?” barked Broussard.

“No,” said Milo. “Never, not once.”

Broussard lowered his face and stared into Milo’s eyes. Milo felt his breath, warm, steady, minty—now suddenly sour, as if bile had surged up his gullet. So the guy had body processes after all.

“Not once,” he repeated.

They let him go as abruptly as they’d hauled him in, no parting words, both IA men turning their backs on him. He left the station directly, didn’t go upstairs to his desk or bother to check his messages.

The next morning a departmental notice appeared in his home mailbox. Plain white envelope, no postmark, hand-delivered.