“Fourteen.”

Warrun’s fingers tapped softly against the steering wheel of his cruiser as he waited at the red light. Outside his vehicle, the world was loud and chaotic. The sounds of traffic and the footfalls of thousands of men and women making their way to work provided a virtually endless white noise that every New Yorker tuned out, as a man who lives on a beach front tunes out the soft rippling of the ocean. In a city that does not sleep, noise is not only an inevitability but a reality. Most men submitted to that reality. They let the din become a backdrop to their lives and gave it no notice. They let the noise encompass them and tolerated it as something they could do nothing about. Warrun was not such a man.

The light turned green, and Warrun pulled forward until he ran into another red light. “Fifteen.”

Again, his fingers fell to tapping. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. The rhythm followed in time to the soft melody of a song Warrun always played on repeat as he drove to work in the morning. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata rolled through the small confines of his cruiser and undid the chaotic noise of the city streets. The music permeated him, soothed him, prepared him. Every morning it prepared him for the day ahead.

While most men had their favorite talk shows or news stations, Warrun only had that soft beat to strum his fingers to. He knew it well as the music was the closest he ever came to a ritual. It was his ritual. He didn’t want the news. He didn’t want to hear light banter or witty jokes. He didn’t want to hear anyone. All he wanted was a moment of music, a moment of order, before stepping into his precinct every morning and facing the day to day workings of a man imposing the law, a man keeping his little corner of the world safe from the people who did not know well enough to fear his wrath.

“Sixteen.”

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

His eyes drifted away from the red lights that aggravated every driver except him and gazed down the street to a large, squat, and thoroughly unimpressive building. Its grey brick exterior was neither ugly nor menacing. But neither was it comforting nor inviting. Were it not for the collection of cruisers and cabbies parked out front, there would have been little to separate New York’s 13th Precinct from the tenements that surrounded it. It was just another building in a landscape of thousands, meant for a business and a purpose. It just happened that this building was meant for service and protection rather than housing or education.

Green light. Another few hundred yards. Red Light. “Seventeen.”

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

“Calling car four.”

Warrun sighed. “I’m not even at work yet.” He reached to the dashboard and picked up the small corded talkie. “This is car four. What do we got, Sherry?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, officer. Lieutenant Thompson wants you to meet him right away in box room two.”

“Box room two?” Warrun mused aloud. “I don’t remember any orders for a lie detector test. Do you know what’s up, Sherry?”

“I think it has something to do with the perp you brought in yesterday, the one who murdered his wife.”

“Vinetti?” Warrun muttered in surprise. “We can’t be interrogating him yet. His council would never allow for it.”

“I don’t know the details, sir. I’m just relaying the message.”

Warrun continued to silently strum his fingers to the beat of the song made absent by the phone call. It seemed a vain effort to recapture his morning routine. He was already pulling up into the parking garage, and the chaos of the world was again going to assault him. Some men might submit to the inevitability of such chaos, but Warrun preferred to submit himself to the inevitability of order, even if he had to be the one to impose it. “Do you mind clocking me in, Sherry?”

“No problem.”

He parked and opened his car door. Immediately, the sounds of cars and horns resounding the call of the morning commute hit his ears. What was it after all but another day in Manhattan? He fell to walking, counting his steps as he went. “One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Lieutenant Thompson leaned heavily against the steel fire door, his head bent against a small square window set at eye level. The drowsiness of an early morning afflicted him, and he might have dozed off in that position were it not for the gravity of the situation. A second cup of coffee was certain to come.

A set of double doors opened to his left, and he lolled his head absently. On seeing Warrun striding towards him, he jerked to attention. “Officer Slavinski, what took you so long? You’re only fifteen minutes early for your shift.”

Warrun smirked and answered, “I hit a few more reds than usual.”

“O, let me guess.” The lieutenant tugged at his neatly kept moustache before saying, “Sixteen?”

“Seventeen, actually. Though, I’m more surprised to see you here. What are you doing here so early after a night shift? Sherry said something about Vinetti.”

The lieutenant threw a thumb over his shoulder responding, “Yeah. I got him staying put for the moment. I wasn’t going to come in, but we turned up something very interesting last night that almost made me stay here.”

“Really?” Warrun begged skeptically. “I can’t imagine you found more incriminating evidence. Seven eyewitnesses saw him fleeing the scene, entire building heard the shots fired, fingerprints on the gun. First response picked him up while he was still wearing the blood spattered clothing for Christ’s sake. What more could you get on this guy?”

“How about snow mule?”

Silence and raised eyebrows followed as Warrun took a moment to absorb the information. “Well,” he muttered, “that certainly is something. I don’t know the name, so I assume he’s low on the chain. Independent?”

“Hardly,” Lt. Thompson answered. “He’s low, but we don’t let many of the cartel off our radar. We think he may be a second tier distributor.”

“Now you’ve got me curious. I thought I knew everyone second tier and up on file. A new guy?”

“Not exactly,” he responded with a shake of his head. “We’ve got no physical evidence on him, but he came through on the Chicago net. He fell off their radar about a year ago. Rumor had it that he moved to get clean. Or died.”

Warrun waved the lieutenant away from the door and peeked through the small glass square. The lanky man with his sleek black hair seemed a little on the thin side but did not bear the gaunt structure, darting eyes, or subtle tweaks of a user. The grey shirt and pants provided for him accented his sullen and angry frown. He slouched heavily in the folding chair positioned behind the large table at the center of the room. It clearly hadn’t been a fun last twelve hours for him.

“Well, we can tell them to scratch dead off their list,” Warrun muttered. “They might actually be right about his going clean. He doesn’t look strung out in the least.” He turned his head to regard his friend, “I know he has a history, but do we have anything to implicate him at all?”

“Nothing,” Thompson stated, tagging a little side note after a second, “except a hunch.”

The First Officer almost couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he pointed out, “I’ve known you for a long time lieutenant, and if there’s one thing you’re not very good at, it’s hunches.”

The lieutenant threw up his hands in defence and said, “That may be the case, but even you’ll find this weird. Do you see an attorney in there with him?”

“Of course not. He wouldn’t be in there if he had one. Why doesn’t he have one yet?”

“He knows his rights,” Thompson stated emphatically. “We offered him an attorney, but he snubbed us.”

“Well, that’s not so unusual. He wants his own lawyer, right? Does he have one flying in from somewhere?”

“You know as well as I do that we would be contacted immediately if he had his own council coming in. He hasn’t gotten any yet.”

Probing further, Warrun asked, “Is he trying to figure out the money situation?”

“It seems so,” the lieutenant answered with a nod. “But what could the money situation possibly be? He has sizable funds in his accounts, and with his wife dead, it’s all in his name. It’s not enough for a great lawyer, but he could certainly get something better than what we would offer.”

“Yes,” Warrun answered slowly, crossing his arms, “but he would need a Godsend to save him from this. An attorney skilled enough to get anything on a case like this would cost a fortune. He must be trying to call in favors from high places.”

Lt. Thompson nodded enthusiastically and reiterated, “Like the cartel. They’d cough up a fortune to save one of their own, even if he is only second tier.”

“But,” the officer interjected, “if that’s the case, then what’s the holdup?”

The lieutenant frowned and shrugged his shoulders saying, “That’s where I got nothing. It just seems that, with his previous ties, the cartel would be the place for him to go. They’d only help him though if he was still dealing.” He tilted his head towards the door and explained, “Until he figures something out, we have him to do all the questioning we want. He knows better than to incriminate himself, but I was hoping you could take a stab at it. He hasn’t said a word to me, but you have a way of getting into a guy’s soul.”

Rather than laugh at the observation, Warrun responded grimly, “That I do.”

“Great!” Thompson responded enthusiastically. “Here’s the case file. I’ll leave you to rattle him. I’m in desperate need of a cup of coffee. I’ll stop back in ten.”

Warrun took the folder with a raised eyebrow and answered unamused, “Sure thing, boss.”

The lieutenant lowered his eyes at the tone, knowing when he’d taken a few too many liberties. Fifteen years of friendship, and Warrun could still make him feel like a cadet. His nephew looked up to him a lot, but he was certain it didn’t match how much he himself looked up to the first officer. He turned and walked away through the double doors. His coffee was calling.

Warrun sighed and looked at the heavy case file. Over a dozen photos and detailed accounts from witnesses as well as his previous connections in Chicago weighed it down. He sighed and glanced about, making sure no one else was present. When he saw his coast was clear, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his carton of cigarettes. Smoking in the building was prohibited, but he needed to calm his mind before any interrogation. He needed to be in control of himself if he was going to exert control over anyone else.

When he finished the last puff of his cigarette, he slid the filter back into the half empty box. “Best not to leave any evidence.” He slipped the box back into his shirt pocket, and with a deep breath, opened the door.

Warrun noticed that the opened door did nothing to change the posture or mood of Mr. Vinetti as he continued to lounge passively in his chair. Warrun immediately took up an equally unimpressed stance as he gently laid the case file on the desk between them and took a seat in the outwards facing chair, resting his chest against its back. The two looked at each other in silence for several moments, each taking his measure of the other. Neither showed the slightest hint of emotion beyond a mild irritation that they had to be present together in that room.

Already bored with the silence and having quite a bit of work to get done for the day, the first officer started first, “Good morning to you. My name is. . .”

“First Officer Slavinski,” the perp answered for him. “I recognize you from the pictures in the paper. Your reputation far exceeds you.”

A smile of deceit rose on Warrun’s face. He was not happy at the mention of his quiet fame. He wasn’t angry either. He actually didn’t feel anything. No emotions he showed on his face were real. Everything he presented was only a fabrication meant to lull those he needed the truth from into a false sense of security. Thus was the smile cleverly concocted, and a hint of red embarrassment colored his cheeks. He averted his eyes for the briefest of moments, and the man behind the table almost smiled to think he had caught the great Slavinski off guard.

Warrun cleared his throat and stood up to turn his chair around. He repositioned himself and forged a more serious expression as he said, “Then I won’t need to trouble myself with an introduction. However, we’re hardly here because of me.”

“Aren’t we?” the suspect interjected sarcastically. “Your little stooge can’t get me to talk, so he goes to his boss asking for help. Isn’t that it?”

The first officer made a show of frowning before saying, “It’s more likely that we’re here because of you.” Warrun reached down and opened the case file, spreading the pictures out before him. “I think we’re here right now because you killed your wife.”

Jack Vinetti stared blankly at the large photos before him and crossed his arms. On the outside, he looked very calm and unmoved. One could even say that he was bored. That was not what Warrun saw. Vinetti’s eyes darted once to the left and came back glistening ever so slightly. The fingers of his right hand tapped against his left elbow, and his next breath came just a little bit slower than the last.

“He’s trying really hard,” Warrun noted to himself as he carefully watched the man. “He’s cold, but there’s passion there.” He slid forward an especially gruesome eight by eleven of a woman’s body lying face down on a rug. Her auburn hair spewed to the left and right, clearly revealing a small entry wound above the base of the skull. A lacy, blue dress clung to her body from her shoulders to her knees with sticky, black blood coming from three wounds in her back. The ugly scene could have made any man cringe. Warrun was less desensitized to such things than he’d hoped he would be as the years passed. Rather than become easier to bear or softer on his eyes, images such as these only seemed to fester more hideously in his mind. Every murder was always more ugly than the last. In at least this regard the two men were alike as they stared each other down across the table. Both were trying very hard to remain unbothered by the evidence. Only one was successful.

Warrun reached down and tapped lightly on the photo asking, “I haven’t actually been fully prepped on this case. Do you mind telling me what this woman’s name is?”

Vinetti said nothing as he returned a scowl of indignation.

“Come on Mr, uh, what was it again?”

Again, the man did not respond.

The first officer sighed and explained, “I could just use the name on the file, but I’d rather know for certain what you like people to call you. Do you have a nickname?”

“Vinetti.”

“Thank you,” Warrun replied with a polite smile. “Vinetti it is then. That’s your last name right? Do you always go by that?”

“Usually.”

“Good!” The first officer leaned forward and gestured to the photo saying, “Now, I know you don’t have to answer all of my questions. Hell. You don’t have to answer any of them. It’ll just make my job a hell of alot easier if you could explain some things before I sit down to read the reports myself.”

Vinetti said nothing. He only continued to frown at the officer, not letting his eyes droop to the photos on the table.

As Warrun saw no response forthcoming, he continued, “I’ll take that as a firm maybe. We don’t have to leap mountains yet. I’d like us to start with this girl’s name. Telling me that much can’t incriminate you. You must have heard it hundred times since last night.”

The man turned away from Warrun, unable to keep up the stare he’d been giving. With what was clearly supposed to be a steady voice, though Warrun could discern a hint of resignation in it, Vinetti responded, “Her name was Isabella.”

“Sorrow?” Warrun reached down and picked up another photo. The headshot showed a clear white face mangled with a large exit wound that had blasted through her upper lip, rending her teeth and palate. Despite the grisly carnage, there was surprisingly little blood to be seen. So soon after death had the picture been taken that her brown eyes had not yet dulled, and the pallor of her beautiful skin had lost none of its hue. So close were life and death together in the image that they seemed to mock the lack of a barrier between them. Both were a reality, and in that moment between moments, nothing seemed to separate them save for an action and an intent behind it.

“Well,” Warrun muttered after a silent moment of study, “Isabella was quite the beauty. It says here she was your wife. Is that correct?”

The suspect did not remove his eyes from the grey, concrete wall of the basement. He gave no indication that he’d even heard a question.

“I’m just trying to get the facts straight, buddy. The file could be wrong you know.”

More silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry though. I’m not doing anything official yet.” Warrun set the photo down and pulled up a report of what happened. “I have to say. There is a lot of evidence against you, Mr. Vinetti. You’ve neither confirmed nor denied the murder. That’s good. Well, good for you at least. With her blood on your shirt and both your names on an apartment lease, things aren’t looking good for you.”

More silence.

Warrun leaned forward in his seat and spoke very seriously, “Do you know why you’ve heard about me, Mr. Vinetti?” At the lack of a response, the officer continued, “It’s because I play fair. I’m not brutal or sadistic. I’m neither obsessive nor compulsive. I am only a man that wishes the law to be upheld. And frankly, it’s not because I have an egotistical morality like some folks.” Warrun snaked a hand into his pocket and grabbed out his cigarettes. “It’s because people need to follow the rules if we wish to have an ordered society. Smoke?”

For the first time in their conversation, Vinetti perked up a little, and his eyes went hungrily to the offering. He hardly had to consider before answering, “Why not.”

The first officer hated bumming cigarettes out. “They’re damn near a dollar a piece now. At least I got some movement out of him.” “As I was saying before, I play fair. I let everybody get their due, no matter the cost. Consider very briefly your situation. Would you like my personal, professional opinion?”

Vinetti took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled slowly with his eyes shut. His face lightened so much it almost looked like he lost five years. As though he didn’t care at all about the situation, he shrugged and answered again, “Why not.”

Warrun folded his hands in front of him and stated very matter of factly, “We don’t just think you did it. We know you did it. We know she was your wife, and we know you executed her. It was not self defence. We have so much evidence against you that nothing could save you. I personally lead the crew that took you in, and I know for a fact that none of your rights were violated. There is nothing to throw this case out or invalidate it. A life sentence in prison is usually what you get for homicide. Execution? That’ll get you time without parole.”

Warrun could just make out the slightest grimace touch the corner of the man’s mouth. He didn’t open his eyes but he did prod, “You were giving me advice?”

The first officer chuckled for a moment. Vinetti responded with open eyes and a glare, quite unamused with Warrun’s reaction. Warrun, of course, was not actually amused. Nothing about murder or cruel irony was funny to him. Still, it got the suspect going. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s funny that I should be giving you advice. You really do need to get yourself an attorney. Why don’t you have one yet anyways? Is he flying in?”

Vinetti looked away, again contenting himself with the view of the wall, and stated, “I don’t have one yet.”

“Well, then here’s my first piece of advice,” Warrun stated, waiting until he again had the perp’s attention, “get one. Get one fast and get a damn good one. Unfortunately, it’s going to be difficult for you, isn’t it? You aren’t poor, but you certainly can’t get a man good enough to get you out of this mess. And I would love to meet the guy who would take this case without prepayment. Maybe you’ll score big and find somebody who sympathizes with your blatant innocence so much that they represent you pro bono. Are you waiting for that?”

Vinetti couldn’t maintain the eye contact the first officer kept striving for. His eyes fell to the floor and his jaw clenched in anger and frustration that was becoming more and more evident.

Warrun let the silence draw out for a moment more before saying very simply, “Or do you already have a potential benefactor?”

If nothing else had gotten the man’s attention, Warrun’s intonation did. The suspect sat upright and fidgeted slightly under the first officer’s piercing gaze. His reaction left Warrun with no personal doubts. “He’s in it. He knows too. He’ll be willing to beg for a deal before I’m done with him. We’ve got him cracking so fresh, we might get the one up on the cartel. He’s only second tier, but he should know places, dates, future transactions. If I nail him down now, we could suck this guy dry. I just pray to God nobody know’s he’s gone yet.”

Warrun stood from his seat and hovered ominously above the murderer. With a chilling and deathly cool he stated, “Getting a good lawyer might be better advice if you had any real chance here. The unfortunate truth is that you don’t though. Not even your buddies in the snow can save you now. Here’s my actual advice, and believe it or not, it’s better than anything any expensive lawyer will tell you. You are sitting on valuable information that could save your life. You don’t need to deny it. We both know. Unfortunately for you, that information becomes infinitely less valuable the longer you sit on it.”

The first officer slid the photo of Isabella in front of Vinetti again and said, “Nothing is going to fix what you’ve done. You are a murderer, and I’d feel more pity for having to put down a dog than I would executing you. I am a reasonable man though, so I’ll make you this offer. It’s informal of course, but it could save you quite a few years in prison. Two signed confessions. Confessing to the murder of your wife might net you the chance for parole alone. You have so much more to offer than that though. A second confession to your trade and information regarding the cartel, that would open up a lot of doors for you.”

Vinetti fiddled absently with the cigarette butt in his hand, lost in deep thought. Warrun began gathering up the photos and reports back into the file. He walked to the door and opened it. Almost as an afterthought, he turned and addressed Vinetti with one final point, “I’m going to be more generous than I would usually to you. I’ll make you a personal deal. I am an honorable man, if such a thing exists anymore. I’ll give you one day to consider this offer. If before this time tomorrow, you come clean, I will personally invest every free effort I have to affording you the best possible deal. A good word from me could take another five years off your sentence. Just something to consider while I’m working today. As I said before, the sooner the better.”

Warrun exited the small room, closing the door behind him. He leaned heavily against the pane of glass and took a deep breath. He’d made a lot of promises, and he was really hoping he could follow through on all of them. A murder case was rarely a rush job. If Vinetti decided to fight it, there were months of appeals ahead, and he could lie about everything right up until the last second. He was also putting on quite a false bravado saying that his sentence was certain. He’d seen men guilty of far worse getting off with a technicality. Moneyed men could really get away with most anything.

Warrun’s moment of silence was suddenly disturbed as the double doors to his left opened. He turned to see the lieutenant with a cup of coffee and a bagel, a look of surprise on his face. “Back out so soon?” Lt. Thompson murmured in surprise. “I was expecting this to take a while. Did you get anything out of him?”

The first officer stood straight and shoved his hands in his pockets saying, “Quite a bit actually. He seemed a bit more willing to talk to me.”

“What did you find out?” the lieutenant begged excitedly.

“That maybe not all your hunches are stupid. You were right. He is a part of the cartel. And yes, he is trying to figure out an agreement through them.”

A look of awe flashed across the lieutenant’s face as he asked, “He confessed to all that?”

Warrun couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “No. That would be a little too simple. He’s smart. He won’t incriminate himself directly. He hinted at the truth though, and that’s enough for me.”

“What did you do?”

The first officer lifted a hand to scratch his head and answered somewhat hesitantly, “I, uh, I offered him a deal.”

Lt. Thompson’s eyes went wide as he interjected, “You cut him a deal? You don’t have the authority for that! All deals have to run through the Captain. You know that.”

“I know! I know!” Warrun crossed his arms defensively and explained, “He hasn’t accepted anything, and I told him nothing was official. I told him any information he has becomes less valuable the longer he holds onto it. I just wanted him to know that, if he cut a deal quick, things would go easier for him.”

“That may be the case,” the lieutenant stated objectively, “but if he confesses without a formal deal authorized, he could get off for being forced to incriminate himself. I just pray for your sake that the Captain goes along with this. You know how he hates being put on the spot.”

The first officer sighed in submission. “I remember. I hate gambling, but I want this to be over before it even starts. I just wish we could kill him and be done with it. A man who kills his own wife doesn’t deserve to live.”

“Oh!” the lieutenant popped in unexpectedly. “I was going to ask. Did you find out anything in the way of a motive? The how of this case is pretty clear, but we have no clue as to the why.”

“Normally, I would just say that there’s always some motive. Money’s a big one, but I’d be surprised if that had anything to do with this. Gunshot in an apartment building? Execution? This was clearly some crime of passion. Maybe it was premeditated but not by much. The best I can fathom is that she did something that played against his pride.”

“Pride?” Lt. Thompson asked skeptically, taking a sip of his coffee. “What makes you think this had anything to do with pride?”

“Think about it,” Warrun answered, gesturing for the lieutenant’s bagel. His subordinate gave it up and the first officer examined it as he explained, “This is a man who ditched an entire cartel, cleaned himself up, and took his budding family halfway across the nation to escape it all. A man looking just for the money or a quick fix wouldn’t have held it all together so well. No. Vinetti did what he thought was right because he believed he deserved better. He knew he and his wife deserved better.” He took a bite of the bagel and finished, “A man like that isn’t a monster that angers quickly. Whatever she did must have offended his pride so greatly that it undid the purpose of his years of hard work.”

“That sounds reasonable,” the lieutenant returned, “but if he’s as prideful as you say, then why get back into the business? Years of working to get away from it and that’s exactly where he drags his family? It sounds like he wanted the quick cash to me.”

Warrun sighed in a seemingly bitter resignation. He turned his head absently and looked in on the man who’d murdered his wife, his dear Isabella. With an odd hint of genuine sadness peeking in his voice, he explained, “Can you blame him? I’ve seen his type hundreds of times. Maybe thousands of times by now. Why do you think he got into dealing in the first place? He never went to College. He probably never even got his GED. Maybe he wanted quick money then, but now he has little choice if he wants to live any better than a homeless man. An ugly drug affiliation? A terrible education? What does a man like him have to offer the world? Even if he did find employment, debt would come. Debt always comes to the middle class.What hope is there for a family that only falls further and further into debt?”

“It’s sad, yes,” the lieutenant interjected, “but I still have a hard time believing it’s pride that caused this. If he didn’t have enough pride to live a poor life, what makes you think it motivated him to kill his wife?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Warrun declared sadly. “He refused to be poor because he took pride in his wife. He fixed his life, yes, but he fixed it mostly for her. I think she did something to make all that hard work worthless.”

“It sounds like you think she cheated on him,” Lt. Thompson mused.

Warrun nodded and took another bite of the bagel before handing it back to its owner. The lieutenant took a bite himself as he listened. “That would certainly do it. She clearly wasn’t caught in the act though. There was only one body. At least then we could have pinned it on the anger of the moment. No. It was premeditated. I have a hard time believing that a woman he’d given up so much for wouldn’t be faithful to him though.”

“Not everybody’s a saint or an angel, Warrun.”

“You got that right,” Warrun muttered. “Speaking of which, any more news on the Devil?”

“Lucifer hasn’t shown his face unfortunately.” The lieutenant ate the last of his bagel and finished his coffee before continuing, “Did you really have any hope? He was long gone by the time we got in there. He’s out there in the city, just like he always is. With no connections, the man can just up and disappear like a fart in the wind. He may as well be in China”

“Well he isn’t,” the first officer retorted bitterly. “He’s in New York. He’s probably right out there in Manhattan, so arrogant he doesn’t even run. He’s like an insidious plague I wouldn’t even wish on my enemies.”

Lt. Thompson extended a hand and rested it on his oldest friend’s shoulder. “Don’t let it ruin your day. We’ve got evidence to sort through. We know he was there, and we may have a lead on that jacket.”

“Oh, yeah. Do we have any preliminaries on a DNA test?”

“Not yet. Just matching two samples can take days. It should be faster since we already have his DNA on file. If it’s his though, then we won’t really have gotten anything aside from a question as to why he soiled his own jacket. It’s a long shot, but if we can trace the evidence back to anybody who’s seen him, it’ll have been well worth the effort.”

“Anything’s worth that man’s death,” Warrun whispered. “I have to get to work, lieutenant. I’ve got to file and organize reports on the crash yesterday. I also get the splendid joy of meeting Mr. Jobo DeCosta, and hearing his end of the story.”

“The cab driver’s awake?” Lt. Thompson said in clear wonder. “I still don’t even understand how he survived. His car was broadsided twice! Seven other people died! Some men have all the luck I guess.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck. He’s alive, but he’s going to wake up in hell when they pull him out of sedation. Accident or no, he has a lot to answer for. There hasn’t been anything this bad since that bus crash in 08. I’d really like to know why he pulled into that intersection though. Cab drivers are supposed to be a bit more aware of their surroundings than that.”

“Was he drugged?”

“Nah,” Warrun answered, shaking his head. “Detox turned up nothing. He doesn’t even have a poor health history. No stroke. No heart attack. Either he fell asleep at the wheel, very unlikely, or something riled him up. There was one little odd bit that didn’t add up in the crash.”

“Really?” the lieutenant asked curiously. “What’s wrong?”

“The ticker timer on his vehicle was still going after the crash. I’m thinking that he had a client who caused him to crash and fled from the scene.”

Lt. Thompson crossed his arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Now who’s reaching in the dark for truths? He could just as easily have forgotten to turn it off.”

“Neither of us have gotten to where we are by writing off continuity as coincidence.” Warrun turned from his friend and headed for the doors. “You’ll have to catch me up on anything we pick up on the Devil over lunch. What do you say to Lombardi’s pizza around noon? I’m craving something cheesy today.”

“Sure thing, but in the meantime, what should I do with Vinetti? He’s been asking for another private phone call. I’m assuming he wants to get in touch with his cartel, but I can’t deny him the right.”

“We won’t be denying his rights if we make him wait a while,” Warrun intonated in a somewhat scheming fashion. “I want him to have plenty of time to stew over what I’ve said. Fear is going to be our friend if we’re going to get him to talk. He needs to think for a while that his time is running out and that he has no hope for redemption unless he submits. We’ll give him his call after lunch. For now, put him back in his cell.”

“Will do, boss.” Warrun left through the double doors, leaving Lt. Thompson alone with his empty cup. His eyes gazed back through the glass pane on the door. “You look a little sad.” He sighed and opened the door. “Too bad feeling sad isn’t going to save you.”