“No one’s analyzing stats in DPD, Cap. We’re all too busy rushing from one 911 to the next. I did some pondering. The mayor and his buddies are saying narcotics activity is going down, because less money is getting recovered from drug trafficking. And in a way, they’re right. But really, it can’t be right, because if you look at almost all the High Intensity Drug Trafficking Areas in this city, the number of drug-related busts has stayed pretty much the same over the last four years. Same in Livonia, Dearborn, Fraser, Redford, a bunch of suburbs basically.”

“You checked Metro Detroit too?”

Scott noted Schaeffer was surprised and a little impressed, just as he himself had been.

“Sure. Loads of those white boys have money for drugs, so the trade grew in the suburbs. It just doesn’t look so gritty. But busts are still being made there too. Yet, in spite of the number of busts going on, there’s been a fifty to seventy-five percent drop in dirty money being recovered. So this means less of the busts lead to a successful prosecution, so hey, everyone’s happy because it seems we’re winning this war.”

“And you’re saying McGrath’s handling all of that fifty to seventy-­five percent?”

“Why else would I be putting us all through this? All of us—and you know what I mean by that.”

Scott’s phone vibrated, drawing everyone’s attention in the silence. He apologized, took it out, and glanced at the screen. His wife. Would he be able to get away early? He’d promised. Their youngest had a lead role in the school play. He switched it to silent and put it back in his pocket.

Captain Schaeffer sat back in his seat, eyeing them both. And suddenly, Scott thought he looked old again. His uniform seemed to hang off his sagging shoulders.

Scott also felt a little uneasy about what his partner had given up. Correct protocol would be to involve other law enforcement agencies in something big. He knew Batiste wanted to use this case as his ticket out. That wouldn’t happen if Schaeffer made them play by the book. Scott didn’t care so much. He was secretly toying with the idea of transferring to the coast guard. He had a buddy there who made less money yet seemed to have a better quality of life—and marriage.

Schaeffer spoke as if thinking aloud. “The mayor said I should be calling in the FBI for this homicide. What do I tell him?”

“The FBI isn’t interested in small time,” said Batiste. “They want the people up the chain: politicians, maybe the odd mayor. Tell him that from the detective in charge of this case.”

Neither of them expected Schaeffer to do anything of the kind.