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and you kicked the shit out of him.”
    “I don’t think . . .”
    “Shut up,” Daniel snapped. “Any explanation would be stupid. You know it, I know it, so why do it?”
    Lucas shrugged. “All right . . .”
    “The police department is not a fuckin’ street gang,” Daniel said. “You can’t do this shit. We’ve got trouble and it could be serious . . . .”
    “Like what?”
    “McKenzie went to Internal Affairs before he came here, so they’re in it and there’s no way I can get them out. They’ll want a statement. And this kid, Randy, might have been an asshole, but technically he’s a juvenile—he’s already got a social worker assigned and she’s all pissed off about him getting beat up. She doesn’t want to hear about any assault on a police officer . . . .”
    “We could send her some pictures of the woman he worked over . . . .”
    “Yeah, yeah, we’ll do that. Maybe that’ll change heraround. And your jacket will help, the cut, and we’re getting statements from witnesses. But I don’t know . . . . If the jacket wasn’t cut, I’d have to suspend your ass,” Daniel said. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, as though wiping away sweat, then swiveled in his chair and looked out the window at the street, his back to Lucas. “I’m worried about you, Davenport. Your friends are worried about you. I had Sloan up here, he was lying like a goddamn sailor to cover your ass, until I told him to can it. Then we had a little talk . . . .”
    “Fuckin’ Sloan,” Lucas said irritably. “I don’t want him . . . .”
    “Lucas . . .” Daniel turned back to Lucas, his tone mellowing from anger to concern. “He’s your friend and you should appreciate that, ’cause you need all the friends you’ve got. Now. Have you been to a shrink?”
    “No.”
    “They’ve got pills for what you’ve got. They don’t cure anything, but they make it a little easier. Believe me, because I’ve been there. Six years ago this winter. I live in fear of the day I go back . . . .”
    “I didn’t know . . .”
    “It’s not something you talk about, if you’re in politics,” Daniel said. “You don’t want people to think they’ve got a crazy man as police chief. Anyway, what you’ve got is called a unipolar depression.”
    “I’ve read the books,” Lucas snapped. “And I ain’t going to a shrink.”
    He pushed himself out of the chair and wandered around the office, looking into the faces of the dozens of politicians who peered from photos on Daniel’s walls. The photos came mostly from newspapers, special prints made at the chief’s request, and all were black-and-white. Mug shots with smiles, Lucas thought. There were only two pieces of color on the government-yellow walls. One piece was a Hmong tapestry,framed, with a brass plate that said: “Quentin Daniel, from His Hmong Friends, 1989.” The second was a calendar with a painting of a vase of flowers, bright, slightly fuzzy, sophisticated and childlike at the same time. Lucas parked himself in front of the calendar and studied it.
    Daniel watched him for a moment, sighed and said, “I don’t necessarily think you should see a shrink—shrinks aren’t the answer for everybody. But I’m telling you this as a friend: You’re right on the edge. I’ve seen it before, I’ll see it again, and I’m looking at it right now. You’re fucked up. Sloan agrees. So does Del. You’ve got to get your shit together before you hurt yourself or somebody else.”
    “I could quit,” Lucas ventured, turning back to the chief’s desk. “Take a leave . . .”
    “That wouldn’t be so good,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “People with a bad head need to be around friends. So let me suggest something. If I’m wrong, tell me.”
    “All right . . .”
    “I want you to take on the Bekker murder. Keep your network alive, but focus on the murder. You need the company, Lucas. You need the