“OK, thank you, Burnham. I just wanted to see how you intended to roll. I’ve been trying to figure out whether you’re just an opportunist, taking a chance to keep a hold on your daughter, that kind of thing, or a real player. I hear you already had a visitor? Probably told you to just keep quiet and you’re going to be fine, right?”

Nothing.

“So, back to your question, here’s what I’m going to be charging you with. Laundering the proceeds of crime and accessory to murder. The second is the one I’d be worrying about if I were you.”

“How do you get to that?”

“This is how I get to that, you motherfucking piece of shit.”

Scott rummaged in his file, removed a photograph, and slapped it on Spencer’s chest. Then he leaned against the wall, watching.

Spencer lifted the photograph.

47

47

Playoff

Eddie smiled back at him—in full police uniform with the Stars and Stripes behind. There was no sign of that off-the-wall stare.

Spencer’s insides lurched and the bleep rate on his ECG rose. His hand dropped back on his chest.

“My late partner was his best man,” said Scott. “They met at recruit training. Eddie was navy intel for four years before DPD. He got tasked out to state police for an undercover op, the op got pulled, so we had this pristine identity all backstopped: fake driver’s license, Social Security, even a couple of warrants out for him in Nebraska. We decided to use it for McGrath. Eddie hung out with one of his accountant’s buddies in Pontiac on the weekends, looking for work. You have any idea how much time and effort that was? You got any idea what kind of a guy it takes to do that shit? It’s not just having balls of steel. It’s about seeing things, sometimes having to do things. It affected him. He said he could only cope by going kind of blank. We called it his switch-off stare.”

Scott walked over to Spencer’s bed and looked down on him.