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absurd.”
    “You don’t have to tell me. I was with you at the academy.”
    “Thanks. I’m really upset that Brasco didn’t call me.”
    “The man’s a cartoon. I don’t know how you put up with him. He’s like something from the fifties.”
    In a tribute to her flexibility and fitness, Patty had brushed out her hair (cut short since a druggie seized a fistful of the longer version during an arrest), pulled on underwear, socks, a pair of slacks, and a dark blouse, buttoned it up and tucked it in all without dislodging the phone.
    “Tell me something,” she asked as she slid on her belt, tightened it, and finished things off with a navy blue sweater vest. “Have you guys found an envelope yet?”
    “Not that I know of, but mostly it’s been the lab people so far. We’ll get our shot in a little while.”
    “I’ll be out as soon as I can.”
    “Great.”
    “And, Kristine, thanks again.”
    “I just hope I’m nearby to see Brasco’s face when you show up.”
    “You may have to pull my fist out of it first.”
    “Now,
that
would be my pleasure.”
     
    Lost in thoughts of the managed-care murders and the disdain of Wayne Brasco, Patty was half a block past Serenity Lane before she realized she had missed the turn. No surprise. Driving was an instant hypnotic for her, and after just a few minutes on the road she was invariably lost in something—classical or country music or, more often, a case. She swung her three-year-old Camaro, a rally-red Z28, into a tight U, then paused by the curb to compose herself and take in a few more seconds of Beethoven’s Sixth.
    Breathe in . . . breathe out.
    The exercise failed to lessen the stabbing pain caused by her nails digging into her palms. There was nothing to be gained by making a scene here with Brasco, she cautioned herself. Some kind of response to his snub was most definitely called for, but timing was everything. She just had to watch for the right moment and seize it.
    A young uniformed policeman, stationed halfway down Serenity Lane, checked Patty’s ID, told her she was driving a really neat car, then motioned her past. The crime scene, cordoned off by yellow police tape and several sawhorses, was dramatic. Two fire engines, half a dozen cruisers, vans from the bomb squad and forensics, and an ambulance were still parked on the street. Beyond them, a dozen or so people—local cops, detectives, and crime-scene investigators—watched and waited as the laboratory people finished their work. Well off to Patty’s right, Kristine Zurowski and another officer were ascending the front walk to a Greek-revival-style mansion that Patty found repugnantly ostentatious. Ahead of her was a more tasteful but no less vast colonial with all of the windows shattered. The pungent smells of explosive and fuel still permeated the air.
    Welcome to the Davenports’.
    Patty flashed her shield at one more inquiring officer, then ducked beneath the yellow tape. The front yard was illuminated by hazy morning light plus a series of spots. In addition to the burned and twisted metal of Cyrill Davenport’s car, Patty could make out significant segments of the man himself, including an elbow and nearly intact head. She stared skyward for half a minute before she was composed and ready to make her way across to Detective Lieutenant Wayne Brasco.
    Brasco, a thick, stubby, unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, was chatting with two other men, still waiting for the green light to begin their work. He was a bull-necked specimen with a slightly simian face, a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, and hairy, tattooed forearms. A fog of cologne and cigar invariably hung around him, occasionally augmented by beer. While there were those who, out of earshot, derided Brasco’s intelligence, Patty knew better than to underestimate his street smarts or his shrewdness. He wore a wedding ring and as far as she knew had a wife, but that didn’t stop him from boasting of the “deals” he had made with