“Warrant went out yesterday morning.”

“This is the boyfriend?”

“That’s him.”

Vargas allowed a smirk. “So dumbass broke into your house, attacked your neighbor, and left his wallet behind.” He dropped the wallet back into the bag. He put the bag down on the magazine table. “Who’s working it?”

“Roger Sheppard out of South.”

“Why aren’t you talking to him?”

“I will,” Worth said. “But I need to talk to you first.”

“Look, no offense, right, but given the shit…”

Vargas dropped his voice. They both knew Sondra was out there, listening. She’d looked about as stressed as Worth had ever seen her when he’d followed her new fiancé in the front door.

“Given the personal situation, I’m not seeing your point in being here.”

“It’s not exactly comfortable for me, either.”

“Well?”

Worth took out a second bag and put it on the table next to the first. Hard plastic clunked against glass.

“I called in this morning and took an annual day,” he said. “Spent the day turning my house over. I found that in my dresser drawer, tucked in a sock. Way in back. Never seen it before today.”

Russell’s phone. He’d intended to check the voice mail all weekend, but the phone had been as dead as its owner on discovery. One thing after another had diverted his attention since then. The storm. The trips to Vince’s. The crime scene at his house. Gwen.

First thing this morning, after the surprise meet-up with Briggs and Salcedo at the safe unit, Worth had paid cash for a Radio Shack battery charger and found Russell’s mailbox choked to capacity. Almost every one of the new messages had come in from the same number: Tice Is Nice Furniture on L Street, where Russell James had worked. Worth had deleted every message dated prior to Friday night, leaving the rest for Vargas.

“Back up,” Vargas said. “Somebody breaks into your house. You find a wallet. Instead of reporting it to the primary, you go and toss your own place? That’s your first instinct?”

“There’s more,” Worth said.

“Wouldn’t there have to be?”

It was difficult to pinpoint the sensation. Sitting here in Mark Vargas’s den. Handling the contents of the envelope, laying them out in plain view.

Nauseating. Reckless. Supercharged. Like attempting to dismantle a bomb in the dark.

Worth dried his palms and took his time.

It was a quarter past two in the morning when Tony and Ray arrived at the furniture store. They parked Ray’s Expedition around back, between the Dumpsters and the building, out of view of the street.

Troy Mather met them at the service door. He looked like he’d stumbled out of a car accident.

Tony grabbed him by the throat, shoved him inside, and slammed him hard against the wall.

“You don’t ever fucking call me,” he said. “Not ever. Nod if you understand.”

Mather’s eyes went wide. He tried to nod.

Tony eased his grip enough to give the kid a breath. Ray checked outside and pulled the service door closed behind them.

“The fuck you doing with Eddie’s phone in the first place?”

“I…shit,” Mather croaked. “Let me talk.”

Tony let go of his throat, grabbed Mather by the sweatshirt, and shoved him a few feet down the dark hall. “Talk.”

Mather caught his balance and straightened up. He rubbed his throat, caught his breath. All Mr. Thug Life, the last time Tony had seen him. Right now he looked like he wanted to cry.

“Man, I…you guys…”

“Take it easy,” Ray said. “Just chill out.”

“I didn’t know how to get you,” Mather said. He was practically whining. “I found ‘Tony’ on your uncle’s phone, man.” He dug the phone out of a deep pocket in his pants and held it out like a baby bird he’d accidentally squeezed too hard. “Sorry. Shit. I…yo, I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. Me and Derek—”

“Shut up,” Tony said. He stepped forward and swiped the phone out of Mather’s hand. Mather flinched. “Now take a breath and quit acting like a bitch.”

Troy Mather looked at Ray. He looked at Tony. He shook his head, took that breath, and chuckled like he’d heard something terrible.

“Fuck, man,” he said. “This shit ain’t right.”

Tony Briggs began to get a bad feeling. He looked at Ray.

“Hey, Troy,” Ray said. “Get a grip. It’s okay.”

“Fuck, man.”

“Tell us what happened.”

“Man, you guys need to come with me.”

“These guys had done their homework on me,” Worth said. “And they knew about…our situation.”

“Whose situation?”

“You and me. Sondra.”

For the first time in several minutes, Mark Vargas looked up from his notepad. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know if it means anything. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Are you saying they used her name?”

“To punk me,” Worth said. “Let me know they had my number.”

“Tell me exactly what they said. Word for word.”

“Briggs picked up the phone like he could call you at home. He asked me if I thought you’d answer.” Worth held up his hands. “Look, I’m not going to say it word for word. The two of them went back and forth on what they figured you guys would be doing that time of night. That was the gist of it.”

Vargas leaned back in the chair.

“Like I said, they were trying to work me over.” Worth shrugged, as though that had been the extent of it. “Look, you know half the force has heard some version or other. I walk into a room full of cops, half of them grin.”

“I don’t give a shit about half the force.”

“Me, either,” Worth said. On this point he was being a hundred-percent straight. “That’s why I’m talking to you first.”

Vargas sat with that. Worth let him sit. Sitting there, they both heard a faint sound, soft, like a dust cloth on wood.

Without saying anything, Vargas got up, crossed the room, and opened the door. Sondra jumped back. She stood there in a robe and shaggy slippers, looking up at Vargas, backlit in the doorway. Half defiant, half sheepish.

Vargas touched her shoulder and stepped out with her. He pulled the door after him but held the knob with one hand, not quite closing it completely.

Worth didn’t particularly feel like overhearing their conversation. While they spoke in low voices, he got up and wandered.

It seemed like a nice house. Comfortable. Based on the layout of the office, the way things were set up in here, Worth would have bet anything that the black leather furniture had all been out in the living room before Sondra had moved in.

He wondered if, one day, he’d be able to see any humor in the fact that he’d decided to take a poke at a guy with a speedbag and a pair of training gloves hanging in his den.

On the desk he saw the new issue of the police union newsletter, a SigArms catalog, and a Grisham novel. He picked up the newsletter, scanned the front page absently, dropped it back where he’d found it.

He overshot by an inch. The newsletter jostled the computer mouse, and the monitor screen seared to life. Worth saw the last thing Vargas had been looking at on the Internet.

Sports? News? Hard-core porn?

Baby cribs.

It was a shopping site, bright and pastel, cued up to a section containing cribs of all different kinds.

Worth wanted to hate the miserable prick more than ever. But he couldn’t seem to feel it. Standing there, looking at the computer screen, it was like he just couldn’t muster the voltage anymore. He thought again of how happy Sondra had seemed on Saturday.

If anything, he felt like he’d walked into a stranger’s home with shit on his shoes.

Over by the door: Yes, I promise. Okay?