McGrath was wearing white latex gloves. Being careful not to interfere with the blood spray patterns, he closed Batiste’s fingers around the handle of his own gun. He leaned back to take in the scene. The car looked like some sort of gory cave. Dark, jagged fragments, unidentifiable, clung to the roof fabric. Batiste’s white shirt was almost entirely red.

“Cal?” said McGrath, peeling off his gloves and shoving them in his jacket pocket. He’d burn his entire outfit later; the disposal of evidence linked to this wasn’t something to delegate.

Cal jogged back to the Volvo, opened its tailgate, and took out a yard brush, one of the birch-branch types favored by photographers in their Maine and New Hampshire–style home decor shoots: ineffectual for proper yard clearance but perfect for eradicating footprints left in dry dirt. With Johnny Boy’s guidance, the Yo-Yo had researched this place well for them.

“People coming,” called out the Yo-Yo as he hauled his bike up.

Cal was sweeping his way back to the road. “Fuck, Jesus,” he said to himself at the added pressure. He stepped onto the asphalt and threw the broom to McGrath.

McGrath laughed as he caught it. “Now bring the car up, fast.” He knew his attitude spooked Cal and that that could only be a good thing, but he actually was enjoying himself. He’d gotten the same thrill in his army days, when there’d been something dangerous going down. It was a thrill he’d enjoyed since he was a kid, the thrill of knowing he was, most likely, just going to get away with something.

The Yo-Yo yelled out that whoever was coming was just around the curve. He gunned the Ducati and took off.

McGrath threw the broom in the back of the Volvo and climbed in. “Go, Cal!”

Cal didn’t even check his mirrors. He just floored the gas and they hightailed it after the Yo-Yo.

Neither spoke for a while. McGrath was waiting. He didn’t have to wait long.

“What the fuck, Dom?”

“What?”

Cal looked at him askance.

McGrath said nothing.

“You said you were just gonna get a make on the guy, get a feel for whether he worked alone or whatever.”

“I already know he works alone. He has a rep for it. He was trying to get out of the DPD. Trying but failing. He must have got depressed about it.”

“This is all for your Max Petrovsky thing? Whacking a cop?”

“Our Petrovsky thing, Cal. I don’t see you turning down any checks. And we whacked a cop. He was on our case. You think DPD has the buck power to have more like him on our quiet little op?”

Cal was silent. Mouth agape, he wore the face of a man just trying to keep up.