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corners of the black detective’s lips. “You don’t bring somebody like McGuire in and drop him in the I.R. like he’s a piece of shit you picked up on the street.”
    â€œBut, Timmy,” Donovan said, “he
is
a piece of shit we picked up on the street. In the Public Garden, sitting on a bench, for Christ’s sake, dressed like that.”
    â€œHe’s the best goddamn cop who ever walked into this dump,” Fox replied. “Him and Ollie Schantz . . .”
    â€œSo
what is he now?” Donovan spat back, the smile erased. He showed Fox a hand, the fingers folded down, and he popped them up one at a time as he spoke. “He’s a has-been, he’s a drunk, he’s a bum and he’s a suspect in a murder one. You seen the preliminary on that Lorenzo broad, Doitch’s report?” He waved the question away before Fox could reply. “Deep penetrating wound through her gut. Plus severe concussion, cracked vertebrae, three broken ribs, broken jaw, two fingers snapped when she put her hand up to defend herself from that old favourite we’ve all come to know and love, a blunt fucking instrument.” He arched his eyebrows. “She was one tough cookie to survive an ass-kicking like that as long as she did.”
    â€œWhere’s the weapon?” Fox demanded. “Where’s the motive, the opportunity, the eyewitness, the forensics, to make McGuire an A-number-one?”
    â€œI didn’t say—”
    â€œI was in his room, Donovan . . .”
    Over Donovan’s shoulder Fox saw two uniforms watching them from the far end of the hall, eavesdropping on a face-to-face between a couple of hot-shot detectives, picking up some trash to spread through the cruiser network later in the day. “Should’ve seen Fox and Donovan going at it in Berkeley,” they’d be saying. “Hammer and tongs, like street scum, two suits, two de
tec
tives.” Rumour would feed rumour until, by the end of the day, the story would have Fox and Donovan rolling on the floor, squeezing each other’s jugulars.
    â€œYou guys wanta find some traffic tickets to hand out or something?” Fox shouted down the hall to them, and the whistles muttered to each other and wandered around the corner toward the elevator.
    â€œI was in his room,” Fox began again, this time in a hoarse whisper, poking Donovan in the chest with a finger, “and there’s nothing. No blood on the clothes, no sign of a weapon, not even a telephone.”
    â€œHe was pissed enough to do it or to get somebody else to,” Donovan said, his hands in his trouser pockets again. “Point is—”
    â€œThe fucking point is,” Tim Fox said, raising his voice, “I’m the senior louie and if I say I’ll deal with a suspect first, you keep your—”
    â€œFat Eddie gave me the go-ahead,” Donovan said. The smirk was back.
    Tim Fox froze his expression, except for his eyes which shifted sideways. “Who?”
    â€œVance.” Donovan adjusted his tie, fastened his collar button. “Gave him a rundown, told him you were out lookin’ for McGuire and Eddie said put some muscle on it, back you up. They bring him in, I take him downstairs, give the poor bastard some coffee, help him get over the shakes, read him his Miranda and be his buddy.” He raised his hands again, palms open. “See? No rubber hose.” Turning to leave, he said, “Now, you want to bitch to somebody, you go bitch to Fat Eddie. Otherwise, while we’re runnin’ up each other’s tails here, we got a murder one gettin’ cold.”
    â€œWhat do you need, Joe?”
    Tim Fox sat on the same metal chair Donovan had occupied, facing McGuire. Donovan had retreated to the far corner of the interrogation room where the young whistle had been slouching until Fox entered and told him to get the hell out and stay out of the observation room