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analysis would support that conclusion.
    Of course, there was the issue of Divine.
    He knew Divine had been there at some point during the night. He knew that Divine was performing a massage on his wife. He knew that if he were to push the issue, he might point a finger at the former detective. But not yet. For now he needed Divine for other things. Like proving that Scarlet’s death was a suicide and not the homicide it appeared to be. Otherwise, Montana—Captain for the Stormville P.D.—ran the risk of indictment in what would be referred to as the brutal slaying of his own wife.
    The big man gazed down upon his hands, turned them one way, then the other.
    To his relief, they appeared healthy and clean. No defensive wounds. At least that was a positive start.
    He shifted his gaze to the bloody mess that had been his living breathing wife just a few hours before—throat cut, chest, belly and shoulders punctured numerous times. Blood soaking the sheets and mattress.
    If she wasn’t murdered, how on God’s earth could she have cut herself so badly?
    “Why can’t I fucking cry?” he whispered.
    Flashing through his brain, the fleeting memory of his wife flying across the kitchen of their cozy suburban home—his pregnant wife landing hard on the floor, on her stomach …
    Then, a knock on the bedroom door.

8
    IT’D BEEN NEARLY ELEVEN years since I first met Jake Montana.
    It was only my second night on the job without having to wear uniform blues. Me and my newly assigned partner, Mitch Cain, had graduated to the level of Junior Detective. That night we’d been ordered to participate on a drug surveillance op going down inside the Henry Johnson assisted housing complex somewhere in the south end of Stormville’s no man’s land, not far out of view of both the river and Green Haven Max. Or, as some cops like to refer to it: the Garden of Evil.
    Considering that this was our second full day on the job as J.D.s, we were ordered to meet up with then Lieutenant Montana. He’d recently transferred down from the Troy P.D. and was presently assisting a handful of F.B.I. inside the bed of one of those white unmarked command vans with black-tinted windows—the kind of van that just screams COP!
    I remember Cain dressed all in black—black sweater, black jeans and sneakers, gray eyes covered in narrow sunglasses. And me, dressed the same way. I remember our having to sit on low swivel chairs (you couldn’t possibly stand), saying not a single word while the big mustached Jake announced that throughout the op, all he expected of us was to stand back along the staked out perimeter and “Observe, observe, observe!”
    Our target that early evening was a well-known drug dealer.
    A young man by the name of Cox who was wanted on a three-hundred grand Bench Warrant for failure to appear in Stormville County Court. Seems he failed to answer to charges for the sale and possession of high-grade heroin and numerous automatic assault weapons, including an entire case of 7.62 mm Soviet-made A.K.M.s.
    We learned that the Stormville P.D. along with the F.B.I. had been looking for Cox for more than three months, but with zero luck. That is until Cox’s girlfriend, Rachel—a small, wiry, Ivory Soap-skinned kid of seventeen came forward with information about an upcoming deal. From what we were told, the kid had stood before the monstrous Montana, her right cheek recently black-and-blued from a swift Cox left hook, petite size 2 body trembling. She wanted to do the right thing from now on. Or so she insisted. She wanted to get away from Cox, change her life for the better. She wanted to become a “good kid.”
    Of course Jake applauded the kid’s decision to turn her life around before it was too late. But first, he said, he’d need her help.
    The drugs-for-guns deal was to go down in the broad daylight of early evening inside the subsidized apartment complex. Jake would need Rachel to maintain her role as the ever-loyal girlfriend,