McDermott spoke in the same semi-whisper, “According to the written report, Grogan had a gun and he’d already used it to bump Kingsley. You weren’t able to prevent that, and the only thing you could do was wait for an opening. All right, that’s logical. Fully acceptable. So then when he’s got the can of lye and he’s all set to commit mayhem, it becomes a tactical problem. To stop him you gotta drill him. You gotta hit him in a vital spot, because if the bullet merely creases him or gets him in the arm or the leg, it’s a cinch he’ll go for his gun, and you’re not gonna risk getting shot. That’s also logical—and fully acceptable. That is, your written report was acceptable to the coroner, and to the district attorney, and it’ll be acceptable to the public when they read it in the papers. Only thing is, I can’t go for it.”

The detective-sergeant leaned back and gazed mildly at Corey Bradford.

There was a long silence. Corey put another cigarette in his mouth. He didn’t light it. He let it stay there for a moment, then pulled it from his tightened lips and broke it in half, tossing the pieces onto the counter.

He heard McDermott saying, “Why’d you do away with Grogan?” He heard himself mumbling, “It musta been the money. The million five. I wanted the million five.”

“No you didn’t,” McDermott said. “If you really wanted it, you woulda made the grab. Instead, you functioned according to procedure. You picked up the phone and called city hall and got connected with room 529. And I’ll tell you something—I had a feeling you’d make that call. I was waiting for that call.”

Corey turned his head slowly. He looked wonderingly at the detective-sergeant.

“I’ll tell you why you did away with Grogan,” the detective-sergeant said. “You had the craving to destroy him.”

“So what?”

“To settle with him. What they call retribution. In a strictly technical sense that’s homicide, that’s first degree because you took deliberate aim at his chest, and your intent was to take his life. You shot him in cold blood. I said cold blood. No other feelings involved. Just the message coming across. You were getting the message—”

“What message? From where?”

“From the grave,” McDermott said. “From your father.”

Corey shivered.

“Your father,” McDermott said. “Your father who was my closest friend. Who was a real policeman. Who was absolutely pure in his heart and considered the badge something sacred.”

Corey shivered again and he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin.

He heard McDermott saying, “The mob that put your father in the grave was the Third Street Dragons. The leader of the Third Street Dragons was taken to the morgue tonight and that’s where he shoulda been taken long ago.”