I shifted in the hard wooden chair, even though I’d just sat down. “Maybe I should tell you what I told Captain Fisk, Internal Affairs, and everybody else.”

The lines in his face deepened, and I had a feeling it wasn’t the ulcer bothering him. He nodded slowly and said, “OK, we’ll start with that.”

So I ran through the mixture of truth, half-truth, and lies that I’d gotten so good at telling over the last twelve hours.

When I was done, McGuire stared at me for a couple of seconds. Then he said, “You look like shit. Want some coffee?”

Even if I wasn’t dead tired, I wouldn’t have turned down a cup of the boss’s java. He makes it from these Jamaican Blue Mountain beans that he grinds at home, and a cup of it is enough to restore your faith in a benevolent God.

As I was taking my first sip, McGuire said, “So, that’s the version you gave to Captain Fisk and everybody else. Now – what really happened?”

I drank some more coffee before answering him. “It might be better,” I said, “if you could honestly tell a review board that you never knew the answer to that question.”

He sat back, using a thumb and forefinger to massage the bridge of his nose. McGuire keeps a fancy-looking Howard Miller table clock on his desk. Even though it’s electronic, the thing still makes a soft ticking sound – you can hear it on those rare occasions when the place is quiet. I counted twenty-two of those ticks before he said, “Fuck it, I’ve lied to review boards before – and, no, you don’t get to ask me about that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, even though I was curious as hell.

“I can’t do my job, part of which involves keeping my detectives out of trouble, without knowing what’s going on,” he said. “So, off the record, then – what happened last night?”

“OK,” I said. “I was driving home from work when I heard the sound of shots from a few streets over…”

I told him all of it, right up to the arrival of the SWAT team on the scene. He asked questions along the way, and I answered them truthfully. I might withhold information from McGuire occasionally, but I won’t lie to him – he deserves better than that. He might be a tough boss, but he’s saved my ass more than once when he could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble by hanging me out to dry.

When I’d finished, McGuire said, “Is that what you were talking to your partner about so intently when you first came in?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Karl thinks I’m being stupid for withholding information from the brass.”

McGuire shook his head. “Stupid, no. Crazy – maybe.”

“Nice to see a diversity of opinion,” I said.

“Is there anybody out there who’s likely to get in front of a grand jury someday and testify that what you told the captain is a crock of shit?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Calabrese couldn’t do it without incriminating himself, and all the other potential witnesses died at the scene.”

“I can think of one who didn’t,” he said. “Your so-called guardian angel.”

“Oh, yeah – him.”

McGuire looked through the glass into the squad room, which was starting to get livelier as other detectives showed up for the start of the night shift. “Have you considered the possibility that it could be Karl? I seem to recall he’s watched your back in the past, without letting you know he was doing it.”

“There’s no way he could’ve been aware I was in trouble from that far away,” I said. “Besides, he would’ve told me by now if it was him.”

“If you say so, OK. I agree with you that it probably wasn’t some other cop – he’d have stuck around to get the kudos for saving a fellow officer’s life.”

“And that’s the same reason I don’t think it was one of Calabrese’s guys. He’d want the boss to know that he helped get him out of a tight corner.”

McGuire spread his hands. “So, who does that leave? Who’s gonna show up in the middle of a gunfight, pop some scumbag who’s about to pop you, then disappear without so much as a word?

“Yeah, who was that masked man?” I said. “He never gave me a chance to thank him.”

“You didn’t hear anybody calling out a hearty ‘Heigh-ho, Silver!’ did you?” McGuire almost grew a smile for a second, but then changed his mind.

“The only silver I remember was the slug that went into that vamp’s back,” I said.

“Well, if you ever find out who it was, be sure to let me know. In the meantime…”

“In the meantime,” I said, “I have a dinner date.”

It was a little after 10pm when Karl and I got to Ricardo’s Ristorante, which is on the lower end of Moosic Street. Despite being a Polack, I love Italian food, and Ricardo’s serves the second-best veal scaloppine in town – right after the place owned by my old buddy, Large Luigi.

The restaurant’s in a two-story building made of red brick. The terrace outside the front door is open in warmer weather, for those who like sharing their food with the local bugs. I prefer to eat inside, where the only insects I’m likely to encounter have two legs.

The front is wide enough to have room for three identical canopies made out of maroon fabric running across the front. Each one had a fancy-looking black “R” in a circle, and under that it read, simply, “Ricardo’s.”

The place was said to have the best wine cellar in the Wyoming Valley – not that Calabrese would care. He never drinks the stuff.

Two guys were hanging around the entrance, wearing dark suits that were almost cut well enough to conceal the gun bulges under their arms. As Karl and I approached, they took a couple of steps toward us.

“You gentlemen have reservations?” one of them asked, flashing a little fang in the process.

I already had my badge folder ready in my hand – I’d figured that guys like these might react badly if I were to reach under my jacket suddenly. I held it up and said, “Yeah – right here.”

“Me, too,” Karl said, displaying both his badge and fangs.

“Hold it!” the other goon said, with a raised palm. He looked a little older – in human terms, anyway, and I guess he was the one in charge. More politely, he said, “Sorry to bother you, officers, but it isn’t too hard to manufacture police ID these days. Mind if I take a closer look?”

It took some guts to do that – I’ll give him that much. I suppose the sight of Karl’s fangs had spooked them, since they were at war with another gang of vampires. And maybe not everybody in the underworld knew that the SPD now had an undead cop among its members.

I handed him the leather folder that proves I’m a cop. He looked at both the badge and ID card carefully, and compared the photo with my face. Then he handed it back, said, “Thank you, officer,” and turned to give Karl the same treatment.

That surprised me, since my own ID had apparently passed inspection. But the guy might’ve had specific instructions from Calabrese, and fangsters who disobeyed the boss’s orders have been known to come to a bad end. Or maybe the guard just didn’t believe there were vampire cops.

The guy handed back Karl’s ID folder and said, “Thank you, officers. Please go on in.” He made a gesture toward the door that was almost gracious. Not bad for a thug.

Inside, a red-haired hostess gave us a quick once-over and said with a smile, “Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome to Ricardo’s. Table for two?”

“We’re here to see Calabrese,” I told her.

She tried to look puzzled, but wasn’t a good enough actress to make it work. “I’m sorry, sir, did you say Calabrese? Is that someone dining with us this evening?”

“You know who he is,” I said. “It’s alright – we’re expected. Tell him it’s Markowski and Renfer.”

For a moment I thought she was going to continue her little charade, but then she dropped the smile, said, “Wait here, please,” and headed off into the dining room.

In less than a minute she was back, and so was the professional smile. “If you gentlemen would follow me, please?” I noticed she didn’t pick up any menus to take with her.