Chris had resigned himself to the destruction of his apartment and the trashing or temporary confiscation of all his worldly possessions. He’d backed up his business and banking records to the cloud, all except one bank account that they wouldn’t find even with a team of detectives. And anyway, these guys didn’t yet think Chris had anything to do with it. They hadn’t even read him his rights. So he waited, not just for them to go, but rather he saw this as the last bit of excitement in what he’d started to think of as his time in this world. He was feeling pretty damn tired these days; pain could be so wearing. He’d been dreading a lonely life. No danger of that anymore. Funny how the things that worried folks the most almost never came to pass.

Spencer thought about the way the guy sitting opposite had entered his room, the way he was impatiently going through his papers, messaging on his phone. He hadn’t even acknowledged Spencer.

His phone rang. He looked at the screen and then left the room again. Ten minutes later he was back. He walked to the window and looked out at the darkening sky.

“My name is Detective Scott. And what I want to know is whether Spencer Burnham is a teammate or an inmate.” He turned to Spencer. “That’s what I want to know.”

Spencer was pretty damn certain whose team he was on. The coach had already visited.

“I’ll help you wherever I can, Detective.”

Scott nodded. After a pause, “What did they do with the money?”

“I have no idea. I wasn’t driving by choice.”

“Uh-huh, forced to drive at gunpoint. Really unlucky.”

Scott’s manner was discomforting in its dismissiveness.

“I’ve had a shitty day, Burnham. I’m hoping you’re going to make it better for me. Things you should know: One, I play hardball better than most, but I do give-and-take very well. Two, I know lots about you—when you started working for Dominic McGrath, who you replaced. He was tortured to death, by the way.”

Spencer kept quiet.

“This may hurt, Burnham, but you could have driven up Gratiot like Dale Earnhardt. No one would have stopped you. You see there isn’t a recorder here, Burnham?”

“What am I being charged with?”

“We’ll get to that. Answer’s going to depend on you. McGrath planned the robbery, paid off Max Petrovsky, and met you at a prearranged location to collect, right?”

“I don’t know the guy who turned up.”

“McGrath killed Eddie, right?”

“I didn’t see anything. I’d been shot.”