Worth wandered back to his spot as Vargas stepped back into the office and closed the door. They reconnoitered at the magazine table.

“She okay?”

“A little freaked.”

“I’m sorry,” Worth said.

Vargas looked at him squarely. Back to business. “There’s a lot about this that doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree,” Worth said. “But I know John Pospisil put a lick on whoever attacked him at my place. And Tony Briggs has a fresh set of stitches in his head. I’d bet money the blood at the scene puts him inside the house.”

Vargas didn’t comment on that. He went over to a shelf and turned on a base model signal scanner. The buttons lit up and chatter came crackling.

“You know them, don’t you? Briggs and Salcedo. I could tell you recognized the names.”

“We crossed paths a few times last year.” Vargas tapped a button and found the digital traffic for the Northeast District. “They worked undercover at Orlando Heights.”

“Vice?”

“Narco.”

Worth felt a flush of triumph. Like he’d gambled, snipped an unmarked wire, and hadn’t blown his head off. “Briggs and Salcedo worked Narcotics?”

Vargas tweaked the gain knob on the scanner, his silence conveying the affirmative.

“Okay,” Worth said. “That explains a couple things.”

“Maybe,” Vargas said. “Maybe not.”

He returned and sat back down in his chair. Worth did the same. Vargas picked up his notepad and tapped it a few times with his pen. They listened to the radio for a minute or two.

Somebody was on foot, chasing a tagger northbound on 50th toward Military Ave. An Adam unit took a Signal 6 from central dispatch. Two Baker Four and Two Adam Sixty were eight-zero at California Taco downtown.

“Here’s my question,” Vargas said.

Worth waited. Tick tick tick.

“Last night, you say this girl called you from the safe house?”

“That’s right.”

“You give everybody on the street your personal mobile number?” Vargas looked him in the eye. “Or is that only for special circumstances?”

Red wire.

Worth steadied himself. He needed to carefully separate this wire from the rest of the snarl in front of him.

He reached out. Took hold.

“I guess you would have to say there are circumstances.”

Snip.

25

Sweet Jesus. That was Tony’s first thought. Aunt Joan smoked Uncle Eddie.

Poor bare-assed Darla, too.

They both looked humiliated to be dead. Sprays of blood and brain matter coated the doorway. The wall behind the desk looked like a slaughterhouse floor.

Tony had run through the names of a few good defense attorneys before he saw the cabinet behind Eddie’s chair. The door of the enclosed safe hung open.

“Out.”

Mather and Price stood there like a couple of retards.

“Guys,” Ray said.

Troy Mather blinked. “Is this fucked up? I mean, is this fucked up or what?”

“Step out for a minute.”

Price, the skinny one with all the tattoos, bit off a hangnail and headed out the door. Mather looked from Ray to Tony, then edged around Darla’s corpse like he didn’t want to startle her.

When they were gone, Ray said, “Shit, man. I’m sorry.”

Tony didn’t have a goddamned thing to say. He couldn’t believe this. Poor fucking Uncle Eddie.

“Thoughts?”

“Tonight was his meet-up.” Tony rubbed his forehead. “He said he had it handled.”

“You think he tried to short ’em?”

Jesus. The opposite, if anything. Eddie had been talking about how he was going to smooth the whole thing over. Actually considering giving the people in Chicago more than he owed.

Goddammit, Tony knew he and Ray should have been here, but no, Uncle Eddie had it covered. I changed your diapers, kid. That was exactly what he’d said.

“Not to push,” Ray said. “But this could be a problem.”

“I’m aware.” Tony looked at his watch: 2:37 A.M. “Hey!”

After a couple of seconds, Mather poked his head back in. He tried not to look at Darla on the floor but he couldn’t help it.

“Get back in here. Bring your buddy.”

Ray looked at the splatter on the door frame, traced it with a finger to about where Tony was standing. The back of Darla’s head was a ragged mess. The look on Eddie’s face was tough to take.

Price and Mather came back in. Tony said, “Does he hold anything here?”

Mather blinked.

“Shithead! Does Eddie hold anything here?”

Price stepped up. “Nah, man. Stuff always goes to the off-site.”

The storage unit in Florence. Tony had helped his uncle set it up with a fake name.

This was bullshit. Eddie was a born snake-oiler. He wore too much Tommy Bahama, and he obviously wasn’t smart enough to know when he was in over his ears. But he was mostly a good guy. Mom’s favorite brother.

The doer had kneecapped him first.

“Hey.” Ray spoke in a calm voice. Go easy. We need to think.

A bunch of other cops looking into Uncle Eddie’s affairs wasn’t going to work. Who knew where the guy had gotten careless? Once they started hitting red flags, it wouldn’t take much for some CIB asshole to look up and notice that one of the victims in his Halloween double homicide, a prominent local businessman, happened to have a drug cop for a nephew.

Tony spoke to Price instead of Mather. “Do you know the security schedule?”

Price shook his head.

“Ain’t one,” Troy Mather said. “Eddie used to have like these Wackenhut dudes overnight, but—”

“Who the fuck asked you anything?”

Mather shut his mouth.

Ray looked all the way around the perimeter of the ceiling. But Eddie didn’t use cameras in the back office. Tony stood in place and turned; the doer would have been standing on this side of the desk when Darla walked in. Bang.

Had Eddie been dead already? Or had the doer made him watch?

“Darla have any other boyfriends?” Tony addressed them both together. “What about the ex-husband? Either of you guys know anything?”

Price shrugged.

Mather said, “So I can talk now?”

“Careful,” Ray counseled.

“Her ex lives in Ralston. She and Eddie hook up whenever the kids go down there to stay.”

Tony could read the look on Ray’s face. Slow down, Serpico. We’re not going to orphan any kids.

But Ray was just going to have to get realistic. The setup was perfect, and they didn’t need much. Just enough to put the ex at the scene. Maybe a smear or two of Eddie’s blood inside a vehicle. It would be a slam-dunk picture, right down to the guy’s denials. No deep digging.

“You two,” he said. “Stay here.”

“Stay where, man?”

“You with the tats. Price. What’s your first name?”

“Derek.”

“Okay, Derek, I want you on point. Go to wherever the cleaning crew keeps their shit and find some kind of gloves. Then go to the camera banks and take all the tapes out of the machines. You following?”

Price shrugged. “Gloves, tapes. Yeah.”

“Stuff that shit in a sack or something and stay put. You. FUBU.” Tony pointed at Mather. “Don’t touch anything else.”

The punk had shown the sense to call them—okay, he earned a couple points there. But Troy Mather still got under Tony’s skin. He had a big mouth, a stupid face, and thought he was a tough guy. Bad combination all the way around.

“You guys are leaving?”

“We’ll be back.”

“Hey, fuck that, man.” Mather raised his hands. “I ain’t even staying around here.”

“Listen up, assface. You do what I tell you, when I tell you, and keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

“Nah, man. You can kiss my balls. I did my part. I’m Gandhi.”

Tony reached around his back and pulled the small-frame Colt from the lumbar holster under his jacket. Far from department-issue. He thumbed back the hammer and leveled on Mather.