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pressboard desk. He settled down cross-legged in the living room and began laying the pieces out, rotating the diagrammed instructions this way and that, shaking his head.
    â€œFuckin Swedes, man,” he said.
    Jacob went to the kitchen to make coffee.
    An hour later, they were done.
    A swivel chair. A brand-new computer, a blue pleather three-ring binder leaning against it. A compact digital camera and a smartphone. A compact multifunction printer, tucked against the wall, on the floor. A wireless router and a humming battery pack.
    â€œWelcome to your new office,” Schott said.
    â€œMission Control,” Subach said, “J. Lev Division. Hope it works for you.”
    â€œI was thinking I could use a new look,” Jacob said.
    â€œSorry about the TV,” Subach said.
    â€œIt’s better,” Schott said. “No distractions.”
    Subach indicated the router. “Secure satellite. The phone, too.”
    â€œYou won’t be needing your old cell,” Schott said.
    â€œWhat about personal calls?” Jacob asked.
    â€œWe’ll reroute them to the new one,” Schott said.
    â€œAll the numbers you’ll need are preprogrammed,” Subach said.
    â€œDoes that include pizza?” Jacob asked.
    Schott handed him an unsealed envelope. Jacob took out a credit card, pure white plastic, orange Discover logo, embossed with his name.
    â€œOperational expenses,” Subach said.
    â€œDoes that include pizza?”
    The men did not reply.
    â€œSeriously,” Jacob said. “What the fuck is this?”
    â€œCommander Mallick thought you’d be better off working from home,” Schott said.
    â€œHow thoughtful.”
    Subach made a pained face. “May I remind you, Detective, you let us in of your own free will.”
    Jacob examined the sat phone. It was a brand he had never heard of. “Should I assume you’ll be listening?”
    â€œWe won’t tell you what to assume,” Schott said.
    Subach pulled out the desk’s keyboard tray, pushed a button. The computer screen glowed darkly. There was a chime, and the desktop popped up, tiny icons displayed in a tight grid: everything from NCIC to police departments in major cities to missing persons databases to ballistics registers.
    â€œFast, comprehensive, broad reach, no passwords, no permission slips,” Schott said.
    â€œYou’ll like it,” Subach said. “It’s fun.”
    â€œI bet,” Jacob said. He looked at the binder.
    â€œYour murder book,” Subach said.
    â€œSome things are best kept old school,” Schott said.
    â€œAny questions?” Subach asked.
    â€œYeah,” Jacob said. He held up the credit card. “What’s the limit?”
    â€œYou won’t hit it,” Subach said.
    â€œI wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Jacob said. “I eat a lot of pizza.”
    â€œAnything else?” Schott asked.
    â€œAbout thirty thousand,” Jacob said.
    Subach smiled. “That’s good. Questions are good.”
    â€”
    A FTER THEY ’ D GONE , Jacob stood there for a moment, wondering if a drink would make it harder or easier for him to accept his new reality.
    For most of his adult life, he’d been a high-functioning alcoholic, although sometimes
functioning
was the operative word, and sometimes it was
high
. Since his transfer to Traffic, he hadn’t been drinking as much—he hadn’t needed to—and it bothered him that he’d blacked out last night.
    Now that he was back in Homicide, he supposed he was entitled.
    Stop, wagon-driver! I want to get off.
    He brewed fresh coffee and got the spare bottle of bourbon from beneath the sink and added an unhealthy slug.
    Each sip blunted his headache fractionally, and he began to think of Mai.
    It was raining weirdos.
    He killed the drink and killed its twin and had a seat at his new desk.
    Opening up the browser, he plugged in a query. The computer