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called the magazine. He told them that Richmond cops are racist-- that's why he became a rapper. And now People wants a comment from us on the, quote, serious racial problems in Richmond, end quote ."
    She placed that pink slip near her phone.
    "And then I got a call from the Richmond PD. The chief. Apparently nobody called to tell him about this civil rights case. Raleigh?"
    "I didn’t think it was wise. We’re investigating one of their own."
    "Touch base, act nice. Just don't tell him we're closing it."
    I nodded and wondered how stupid she thought I was.
    She sighed, as if to say, Very stupid . "I should probably assign a senior agent to this case, just to get it wrapped up fast. But I thought you could use the experience. So for the instruction factor, I’ll reiterate. This case needs to be resolved, now."
    "Resolved?" Resolved meant we actually got answers. “Or closed?”
    "Do not split hairs with me, Raleigh. Close it. Or it goes to John."
    John, who also didn’t care what happened out there.
    Phaup was lost in her papers again, and since I could never tell when these meetings were over, I waited to be excused. Out her corner window, the pale morning sky looked as milky as quartz. Down below, in the parking lot, our front gate guards were examining a FedEx truck before allowing it next to the building. When I glanced back at Phaup, she was adjusting herself.
    I looked away again.
    Among her other questionable habits, the woman tugged at her bra straps and pantyhose, constantly shifting the undergarments into place. She reminded me of a nervous third-base coach.
    "Call the police chief today," she said, drawing her hand from her blouse. "Tell him we appreciate his cooperation, want to work together, et cetera, et cetera. Then close. Understand?"
    "Yes, ma'am." I took that as my exit and stood up.
    "Raleigh."
    I sat down. "Yes, ma'am."
    "Things at home--they're ... all right?"
    I probably should’ve told Phaup the truth. I should’ve said my mother seemed better lately. Almost normal, sometimes. I should’ve. But my gut sense was telling me that if I said anything even close to that, I’d soon find myself investigating fertilizer theft in Sioux City, Iowa. I was a young agent, and I wasn't supposed to get my first choice of placement. The early years meant getting shipped anywhere, at any time. But I was here, living in my hometown, because of “a hardship issue.”
    I had to take care of my mother.
    So, God, forgive me.
    "Things are very bad,” I said. “Really rough."
    Phaup pursed her lips. She managed to nod. "You’ll let me know when that changes?" she asked.
    "Of course," I lied. "Absolutely."

Chapter 7
    The River City Diner served the best grease in town. After an order of Eggs on Horseback—two eggs riding a strip steak—I drove down Main Street to Ninth and spent the next fifteen minutes circling the block for a parking space that was within walking distance of the Richmond Police Department.
    The city's cop shop was built into a bump of city land. It looked like some hasty urban bunker. And maybe that was appropriate for a city detonating with daily robbery, assault, and murder. But the postage-stamp-sized lot meant no parking, not even for the department’s cruisers. Finally I stuck the K-Car on some gravel that charged five dollars an hour, all the way over by J. Sergeant Reynolds Community College, and walked. The morning heat mocked me.
    Inside the department, sweating like I just ran a 10K, I showed my identification to the guard behind the bulletproof glass. She buzzed the double doors, and I walked down a hallway lined with yellow ceramic tile and softball trophies. At the vending machines I turned right and stopped at a pebble-glass door marked Room 102. Through the bumpy glass I could see the outline of the person inside. Which meant they could see me standing there, too. But after I knocked, they waited. Hoping I would go away.
    I knocked again. "Detective Greene? Raleigh Harmon,