All week he’d been checking to see if they’d run anything about the break-in over at Matthew’s place. Nothing yet.

But today they’d run another bit that caught his eye.

Some kid being sought on a domestic violence warrant. They’d printed a picture of the kid and a picture of his car side by side. The kid looked like a cocky punk to John, but it wasn’t the kid’s face that bugged him.

It was the car.

He was almost positive he’d seen it before. And recently, too. Black GTO, ’71. Big spoiler on the back, BadGoat on the tags. There was something distinctive about the look of it, and those plates rang a bell.

All morning, he’d been trying to think. Between the way he’d been sleeping and getting his lights knocked out, the past two or three weeks had turned into a muddled gray soup.

BadGoat.

Except for trips to the doctor’s and across the street Sunday night, he hadn’t been anywhere but his living room in weeks.

But he’d seen that car somewhere. The more John thought about it, the more certain about it he was.

They had the tip line right there, printed in bold. He’d do his part and call in for once, if he could figure out where the hell he’d seen those plates. He sipped his coffee and thought about it. BadGoat. It had been nibbling at him before; now it was starting to gnaw.

What the hell.

It was only a quarter to eight in the morning; nobody would be back until four. He wasn’t going anywhere. It certainly was quiet enough around here.

John guessed he had time to keep working on it.

28

Tony Briggs wanted breakfast.

By the time they made the short haul back to Ray’s Expedition from the vacant river walk, he was so hungry he wanted to punch somebody. They stopped at Manley’s on Military and took the corner booth in back.

Connelle’s section. None better in the place. Connie had an ass like a basketball and biceps like a pair of well-fed snakes. She never wrote down an order, gave shit as good as she got, and could throw coffee into your cup from ten feet away.

There had been a few empty tables when they got there, but the bell on the front door kept jingling, and little by little the place packed in. Tony ordered the Manley Man Combo: waffles, eggs, bacon, link sausage, and a greasy pile of hash browns big enough to smother a fourth grader.

Ray had a glass of tomato juice and a plate of fruit.

A plate of fruit.

Jesus Christ. Tony hadn’t even known they even had fruit here.

They sat and ate, not saying much, sunrise climbing in through the open blinds. Beneath the general din of voices and silverware and clattering plates, Ray’s personal handheld unit crackled softly beside the napkin dispenser, tuned to the department all-channels frequency.

They caught the call at 7:35.

Southeast to dispatch, dispatch to Central, snow cone times two. Officers on scene, support units requested.

Tony washed down a mouthful of eggs with hot black coffee. He knew it was Uncle Eddie before hearing the address.

Two snow cones meant two bodies. The call could have indicated stringbeans or dresser drawers and it would have meant the same thing. Department radio protocol hadn’t changed, but a lot of cops on the street had stopped using the handbook code for homicide; it was the latest informal attempt to keep civilian scanner rats from showing up before the police, looking for action, contaminating scenes. Forget about the media.

The force had switched over to digital trunking systems three years back. Private gear like Ray’s on the table cost four times the old analog gear everybody owned.

Little by little, though, the civvie wannabes had caught up with technology. It wouldn’t be much longer before they caught on to the talk. It always happened eventually.

For now, nonsense still meant murder. Support units meant Henry detectives. Lab vans. A meat wagon.

Ray said, “You okay?”

“All secure.” Tony messed up a sausage link and chased it with OJ. “You didn’t finish your cantaloupe.”

Ray looked at his plate.

Connie came by with the coffee. “How you doin’, five-O?”

“Perfect,” Tony said.

She filled his mug to the top. “Whatcha do to your head?”

“He slipped on some ice.”

“You gotta be more careful, baby.” She winked. “Them bald spots might stop growing back.”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “But I’d still look good.”

“Shit.” She laughed and moved on.

For the next couple minutes, Ray sat quietly on his side of the table, leaning forward on his elbows, listening to the radio.

Nothing worth hearing now. Tony finally reached over and snapped it off. “Wonder who caught it?”

Half a smile. “Vargas, probably.”

“Jesus.” Tony shook some Cholula on his hash browns. “That’d be about the way it would go. Wouldn’t it?”

Ray chuckled softly at the idea, but not like he really thought it was funny.

“Hey,” Tony said. “You hear the Polack mafia’s been at it in Chicago again?”

“Huh?”

“It’s true.” Tony nodded. He folded the last strip of bacon into his mouth and chewed it down. “Two more victims were found with their heads tied together. Shot through the hands.”

Ray just sat there like he didn’t get it. After a second, he shook his head.

“Eddie always told that joke.” Tony picked up his fork and got back to breakfast. “Every time I’d say something, try and give a little advice? He’d peel that off like a twenty-dollar bill.” He dug into the last of the hash browns. “Guy thought that shit was hilarious.”

“Sounds like Eddie.”

“Yeah. Guess he wouldn’t think it was all that funny now, huh?”

“Probably not,” Ray said.

“I don’t want some asshole hauling Aunt Joan down to ID the body.” Tony slugged some coffee, wiped his mouth. He pushed his plate to the side. “You know?”

Ray sighed. “Yeah.”

“Need to figure out how to show up down there without raising any flags.”

“We’ll just go,” Ray said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Like we heard they had a good price on dinettes, right? Thought we’d come down and check it out?”

“Like we were getting breakfast,” Ray said. “Caught the call on my hobby box.”

Tony grinned. “That’s us, baby. No such thing as off duty.”

“Hey.” Ray said it low. The tone in his voice was new.

Tony put down his fork. He picked up his freshened coffee, blew away the steam. He had a sip and looked at his partner.

They’d kicked in doors. They’d chased shitheads with unknown weapons into dark alleys. They’d worked crowd control, written tickets for littering, and gone before shooting inquiries. One time, just last year, they’d come within half a breath of losing two years of cover in a small room full of fierce young guys with guns.

In all of that, it had been a rare thing, seeing Ray Salcedo look concerned.

“I really am sorry about your uncle,” he said.

“Thanks, man.” Tony nodded. “Me, too.”

Ray moved his eyes to the table. He gave it a beat before he looked up again.

“But this changes things. You know that, right?”

“Obviously.”

Ray had more to say, but Connelle picked then to come back around. She hit Tony’s mug again, scooped up all their plates, and balanced the whole stack in one hand.

“So how you doing, Connie?” Tony said. “Kids okay?”

She chuckled. “Their daddy still won’t pay.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

“Parnell.”

“No shit?” Tony took another sip of his coffee. “He still flop at the Towers?”

“Far as I know.”

He nodded across the table. “Me and Ray, maybe we’ll stop by.”

Because that’s what we do, he said without saying it. We take care of our own.

“Yeah? Stop by and what?”