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posters advertising movies like Asscrack Bandits 4 , Cum Cannon 23 ,and Titfuckers on Parade . But that’s not what caught Wade’s attention. There was a scorched section of the wall near the window, burned clear through to the framing, the two‐by‐fours charred black.
    “What happened here?” Wade asked, walking over to study the damage. The linoleum below the window was curled up and bubbled from the fire, and the ceiling had black streaks where it was licked by flames. The fire had burned hot and died fast.
    “The previous tenant had an accident.”
    “I guess those movies really were red‐hot,” Wade said.
    “ Titfuckers on Parade is pretty good,” Claggett said.
    “What did the fire department say?”
    “I don’t know if they’ve seen it,” Claggett said.
    “About the fire,” Wade said.
    “Nobody asked them. The tenant put it out with a fire extinguisher.”
    “What did the insurance company say?”
    Claggett snorted and waved off the comment. “The damage doesn’t come close to meeting my deductible. My rates are high enough as it is without getting them jacked up by filing a claim.”
    Wade glanced at the damage. His guess was that someone had tossed a Molotov cocktail through the window. The fire would have been much worse if the bottle hadn’t broken against the bars on its way in.
    “Do people here have a big problem with porn?”
    Claggett laughed but managed to keep his cigar stub clamped between his lips.
    “Only that they can’t get enough of it.”
    That’s what Wade thought.
    “Why didn’t you repair the wall?”
    “The tenant moved out right after the accident and then you moved in. No one said anything about it and the lease agreement is signed, so now it’s your problem. You could cover it with one of those posters.”
    Wade shifted his gaze to the rest of the place.
    A chipped and beaten Formica‐topped counter ran across almost the entire width of the room, creating a partition. Wade guessed it was probably repurposed from the video store. A gate made of unpainted wood bridged the remaining distance between the counter and the wall.
    Behind the counter were four gunmetal gray desks and chairs, like those found at police stations all over the city. Atop the desks were computers from the Paleolithic era of computing, phones, an old microwave, lamps, boxes of office supplies, and other equipment that nobody had bothered to unpack, set up, or organize. Some file cabinets, a refrigerator, a microwave, and four gym lockers were crammed together in a corner along with more unopened boxes and crates. There was a gun locker mounted and locked on the wall. The chief had tossed Wade the key to the gun locker that day in the park.
    Wade walked through the gate and between the desks to the back of the station, where three holding cells had been built. The doors were made of thick iron mesh, and each cell contained a concrete block for a cot and a stainless steel toilet/sink combination.
    All the construction work that had been done to transform the video store into an adequate police substation was cosmetically unfinished and raw. No primer or paint had been applied to any of it.
    “You’re responsible for paint and improvements,” Claggett said, reading Wade’s sour expression. “I just provide the four walls and the roof.”
    “There’s a big hole in the wall,” Wade said, gesturing to the fire damage.
    “I didn’t say the walls and the roof would be solid,” Claggett said. “Just that they’d be there. Are your friends coming back to finish up?”
    “I don’t think so,” Wade said.
    Claggett looked at him. “Can I ask you a personal question, Officer?”
    “Go ahead,” he said.
    “What did you do wrong to end up here?”
    “My job,” Wade said.
    “Maybe you’re in the wrong job.”
    “Or I’m in the right job with the wrong people.”
    “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
    “That’s what they tell me,” Wade said.
    “Or you’re a damn