“Sean was never admitted for in-patient therapy? The odds of suicide are much higher for in-patients.”

“Was he committed or institutionalized? Never. He smoked pot on occasion. Drank socially. Sean was spiritual; a by-product of grappling with mental illness is you tend to excavate the psyche. I assume from his comments he dabbled with LSD, peyote. Conscious-altering drugs. I never knew him to have a problem, though.”

“Coke, heroin? Anything like that?”

Her nostrils flared in disgust.

“Not a chance. What did my dear brother say when he sent you here?”

“He told me to ask you.”

She studied my face and hands, looking past the scars.

“You’re a special kind of detective. The kind my brother would hire. Not a cop. He doesn’t trust cops.”

“Oh?”

“Cops hate black men.”

“Cops hate everybody who isn’t a cop,” I said. “Isn’t it a fact the only color that brother cops see is blue?”

“He isn’t in the brotherhood anymore. Notice he chose you, a stranger, rather than call upon one of his so-called brothers. He was a popular, lonely man while in the force and plain lonely once he quit.”

“Mrs. Pruitt—”

“Do you enjoy speaking to him?”

“Ma’am—”

“In your estimation, is he good or decent?”

“You would agree that as a ‘special’ kind of detective, I’m the last person to judge him. I’m carrying out his orders, for a price. Cut and dried.”

“You’re ronin, not samurai.”

I appreciated her mind the more we spoke.

“That captures the essence, ma’am. Bushido is for suckers.”

“I bet he gets a kick out of you, Mr. Coleridge. You’re rough. You’re rough, and you do what you’re told. Badja gravitates toward men of dubious character. Criminals and thugs, and men who disguise their thuggery with uniforms and suits.”

I stood abruptly. The movement surprised her like ice cracking underfoot or big, lovable Fido showing his fangs. Her eyes widened as possibilities undreamt of moments ago forcefully presented themselves. While she recovered, I strode to the piano and examined a collection of photographs. Sean, Linda-the-widow, and June’s ex-husband, Alex. Badja made a lone appearance in an extended family triptych. There was a handful of the nephews and nieces, professionally posed, and several of Sean beginning in grade school. He played football and basketball in high school. The last shot of him was during the holidays, within months of his death. Frizzy hair, round face, forced smile. His mother’s features, though softer. A weary young man ground down by the world; smiling to reassure his beloveds that he was right as rain, dependable, and happy. One’s beloveds are so very invested in one’s perceived happiness.

Next to that photograph rested a framed newspaper clipping of Badja Adeyemi as bodyguard, escorting Gerald Redlick into the Redlick Group building in Manhattan. Adeyemi glared at the camera. Reminded me of the hawk roosting atop the lamppost at the Jeffers site. Predators share a particular affect if you catch them in the moment.

“That was his bad cop expression,” she said in a shaky voice. “Redlick took a shine to him. Two domineering men with a birthplace in common. They were comfortable because each understood the other. I used to hide that photo in a scrapbook. Now that Sean is gone and Alex has abandoned me, I leave it there as a reminder. Birds of a feather.”