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came alone who looked nothing like any of the others. He was black, nearly as tall as Doc but more substantial and a few years older, in tailored charcoal worsted and a blue silk tie on a shirt with a small check. His hair was trimmed close to his skull and frosted with gray, and he had coarse features that reminded Doc of a National Geographic special he had seen on the Ashanti. He stopped to speak with several of the officers and detectives crowded in the hallway, then went into the room. When he came out he caught Maynard Ance’s eye and motioned him over. Doc drifted that way.
    “When you take home a cockroach, you can’t expect him to make honey,” the black man told Ance, then turned to shake Doc’s hand. “Charlie Battle. I’m a sergeant with Major Crimes.”
    His grip was surprisingly gentle. Doc had met his share of bone-crushers in baseball and again in prison and could tell when strength was being held back. “I’m Kevin Miller.”
    “I know. You signed my son’s scorecard the day you shut out Cleveland. I didn’t know you were sprung.”
    “It’s been almost two weeks.” He was conscious of the bail bondsman’s curious gaze. It was the first time anyone had recognized him. He felt suddenly naked, as if he’d been performing in a porno film under a pseudonym and someone had called out his name.
    “I was just telling your boss he ought to choose his clients more carefully. Someone else would have capped McCoy if he hadn’t done it himself. This isn’t the kind of case where you ask if the victim had any enemies.”
    It had been Ance’s idea to claim that Doc was working for him. At his suggestion Doc had parked the cab around the corner before the first squad car squealed in. “I thought he was dead a long time ago,” Doc said. “I haven’t heard about him in years.”
    “He jumped bail on that Orr killing in ’66 and went underground for fifteen years. Should’ve been held without bond, but nobody much cares when a mafioso gets himself gunned. When he finally turned himself in—feds had him down for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution—he had to remind them who he was and why they wanted him. The jury hung, and they decided not to try him again. Then he got involved in this Marshals of Mahomet thing.”
    “What is it?”
    Battle grinned incredulously. It made him look a little less like a warrior. “Don’t they have TV in Jackson?”
    “Mostly I watched sports.”
    “Who’s your parole officer?” The sergeant patted his pockets. Doc couldn’t tell if he was looking for cigarettes or a notebook.
    “Peter Kubitski.”
    “He’s a horse’s ass, but that’s the job description.” The patting stopped. “He know you’re working with Ance?”
    “I just started. I haven’t had a chance to tell him.”
    “Better call him before he sees it on the news. The press is going to like this one. Wilson McCoy’s been the maggots’ meat since Cavanagh was mayor. I bet they make a hero out of the bloodthirsty son of a bitch just like they did the first time.” He looked at Ance. “Got any more M-and-M’s in your drawer?”
    “That’s privileged.”
    “Bullshit, it’s court record. Personally I don’t give a rip, but if I were you and any of them are jumpers, I’d call 911 before I went haring after them. Department policy’s to tag them Armed and Dangerous as soon as we find out they’re Marshals. They see you coming up the walk to any safe house in this city, they’re not looking at the man bailed them out. All they see is your color and a big fat bull’s-eye on your chest.”
    “So I call you and you make the arrest and I’m out whatever I dropped on them,” Ance said. “My way I get back at least a percentage. I’ve been shot at before, Charlie, remember?”
    “Good thing it wasn’t in the wallet or you’d’ve bled to death.”
    “Yeah, well, fuck you, too.”
    But Battle was looking at Doc. “My boy still has that scorecard. His mother and I opened up a