“I don’t follow politics.”

“You follow it enough to know that there was something of interest to a United States senator in the file cabinet your father hid in the basement of your old house. It was probably of interest enough to get your house and your car torched. And whatever was in that cabinet was of interest enough to said U.S. senator for His Eminence to show up at a dive like this. How am I doing?”

“Not bad for a cop.”

She didn’t like that comment, and she let him know it with a glare. “A shame about the Datsun. Was it insured?”

“At some point it was, I suppose.”

“The breadth of your stupidity is astounding. Ever hear of a guy named Spangler?”

“No. I don’t think . . . Wait. Spangler?”

“That’s right.”

“A law yer?”

“That’s the one. How do you know him?”

“I don’t,” said Kyle. “But I think my father might have known him.”

“Pretty damn well, I’d bet. You see, we think this Spangler might have killed Laszlo Toth. And his face and hands were covered with something that might have been burns, maybe from your house. And he was waiting outside this bar with what appeared to be a bagful of firepower, looking, we guess, for you.”

“Where is he now?”

“We thought we had him, but he disappeared.”

“Nice work.”

“It would have been easier,” said Henderson, “if we knew even a little of what the hell was going on. And the reason we don’t is because you’ve been telling us squat.”

Kyle looked at Henderson and then at Ramirez. “Why do you say he knew my father pretty damn well?”

“Kyle, we want to impress upon you how dangerous your situation has become,” said Henderson. “We think whatever you found in that file cabinet might have gotten Toth killed, and maybe your father, too.”

“He died of a heart attack,” said Kyle.

“That’s what the death certificate reads,” said Ramirez. “But it was signed by a New Jersey doctor who was convicted of falsifying death records for an embalming factory that processed bodies for a load of funeral parlors in the tristate area. The embalming house was selling body parts and made them more attractive by altering the death certificates. Your father was cremated, right?”

“Yes,” said Kyle, looking distracted.

“So maybe it wasn’t a heart attack. Maybe he was murdered by this Spangler character and then shipped up there for his death certificate to be faked and his parts sold. Anyone in the funeral business could have set it up. What you found in that file cabinet would put you next on this guy’s list.”

“If you want our help,” said Henderson, “it’s time to come clean. What did you find, son?”

“Nothing.”

“You know that blackmail is against the law.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not so sure anymore,” said Kyle.

He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, closed his eyes, leaned his mouth on his thumbs. As Ramirez stared, she could see him thinking something through. Then the blood seemed to drain from his face. So they’d finally scared the little bastard, thought Ramirez. She was a bit saddened, actually. She had liked his unflappability, had liked that his wide and wicked smile seemed impervious to fear. It hadn’t seemed so much foolish as foolhardy, which was a different thing entirely. But now he was just another scared little rat in over his head. Why were men always such disappointments?

“Am I under arrest?” said Kyle finally.

“No,” said Ramirez. “But we’ll protect you, if that’s what you’re asking. We promise. Tell us what you know, and we’ll take care of you.”

“No, I mean am I free to leave?”

“You want to go? Even with that murderer out there hunting for you?”

“I have something I need to do.”

“Your laundry?” said Ramirez.

“Family business.”

“Don’t be a fool, son,” said Henderson. “Let us protect you.”

“Thank you for your concern. It touches my heart, truly. But there is something I need to do right now. Am I free to go?”

Ramirez looked at Henderson. Henderson shrugged.

“Yes, you’re free to go,” said Ramirez wearily.

“Then that’s what I’m going to do,” said Kyle.

Henderson shook his head as he rose from the booth, making way for Kyle to leave. “It’s your funeral.”

“At least he’s dressed for it,” said Ramirez.

“Thank you, both,” said Kyle, sliding out and standing. “Yo, Skitch.”

“Bro?” said Kyle’s squat friend who’d been hiding behind the bar.

“I need your bike.”

“But I’m using it tonight. I’m hooking up with that girl from Jersey, and we got—”

“Give him the bike,” said the bartender.

“When will I get it back?”

“Hell only knows,” said Kyle.

“Bro?”

“Dude.”

“Crap,” said the kid as he reached into his pocket and threw a set of keys that Kyle snatched out of the air. “Take care of my baby.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll treat it like it was my own.”

“After what happened to your 280ZX, why don’t I find that comforting?”

Kyle turned again to Ramirez. “You got a phone number, Detective?”

She leaned back, narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, I have a phone number.”

“You want to give it to me?”

“I’m not sure,” said Ramirez. She looked up at Kyle and saw the smile and felt it slice into her with its sweetness. He scratched his cheek as if to signal that she had something on her own, and she couldn’t help but wipe at it with the edge of her thumb.

“Let him have it,” said Henderson. And as Ramirez took out a card and handed it to Kyle, Henderson added, “You call us if you need us, son. We’ll be waiting.”

“Thank you,” said Kyle as he put the card into his jacket pocket.

After Kyle left, Ramirez looked at the closed door and said, “What do you think?”