Across the street from City Hall there was a small diner. The short order cook was alone in the place, seated at the counter, hunched over the sports section of the Sunday paper. He looked up as two men walked in. He recognized one of them and said, “Good morning, Sergeant.”

“Good morning,” McDermott said.

“Some iced tea?” the cook suggested.

“Black coffee,” McDermott said, sliding onto a seat at the counter. At the cigarette machine Corey Bradford inserted a nickel and a quarter. Then he lit a cigarette as he went to the counter and sat down beside McDermott. The short order cook asked him what he wanted. Corey ordered creamed chipped beef on toast and a cup of coffee. He was telling himself that what he really needed was a double shot of gin.

The cook brought the platter and two coffees. Corey ate rapidly, mechanically, scarcely tasting the food. He didn’t look at McDermott. He sensed that McDermott was watching him, like some diagnostician checking on the symptoms.

He pushed the empty platter aside and ordered another cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. He heard McDermott saying quietly, “You ready now?”

“Ready?” Through the tobacco smoke he squinted at the detective-sergeant. “Ready for what?”

“To spill. To put it in words. What you didn’t tell in the written report.”

Corey looked off to one side. He muttered, “The report was complete. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t have been accepted.”

“It was accepted officially,” McDermott cut in softly. “But this here is something else. This is something just between you and me—” He leaned closer to Corey and his voice was almost a whisper. “Why’d you do away with Grogan?”

Corey kept looking off to one side. He sat stiffly, his lips clamped tightly.

“Why’d you do away with Grogan?” McDermott repeated.

You knew this was coming, Corey told himself. You knew it when you started outta the Hall. He’s walking along with you and saying, “Let’s go across the street and have some coffee—”