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as if he were surprised by the commotion. His shirt was light blue sporting a Ralph Lauren Polo logo over the breast and a silver-handled knife was protruding from his chest at a ninety-degree angle. Will took it all in as the experienced homicide investigator he had once been, before the tumor and the hospital.
    “Was the door open?” he asked.
    “Closed but unlocked. Anonymous 911 call at 5:52 a.m. No witnesses, of course.”
    Will looked around at the blank black faces watching them from windows and gritty doorways.
    “How do you know his name?”
    “Wallet.”
    “So not a robbery?”
    “Probably a robbery,” Dodds said. “The vic was making a purchase from Nubian pharmaceutical salesmen late last night and something went wrong, then they were scared off by something else and didn’t get the wallet.”
    “Maybe.”
    “You’re not on homicide anymore, Mister PIO.” Dodds gently stuck a cigar-sized finger in his chest at exactly the place where Jeremy Snowden had met his fate.
    Will knew this too well. He was the public information officer. The PIO. His job was to walk over to the reporters and give them a statement that told them the basics of the crime, but not too much. Not the victim’s name, for next-of-kin would have to be notified. Not specific information about the crime, especially details the detectives wanted to hold back. Nothing that a clever defense lawyer could later use to undermine the case once they had a suspect. He’d be on the newscast with “Detective Will Borders” under his image as he relayed as little as possible.
    At that moment, he saw a young woman ambling up the other side of the street. She saw him.
    “Hello, Detective Will.”
    “Can’t talk now, Tori,” he called. “You’ll have to go back and wait.”
    Tori was Victoria Missett, a reporter for WCPO.
    “Get that girl outta here,” Dodds commanded and a uniformed officer walked toward her, even though she was already retreating.
    “Not that I wouldn’t do her,” he said. “Young enough. I’d teach her how to fuck. Speaking of which, have you called that nurse? Cheryl.”
    “Cheryl Beth. And no.”
    “Why not? You’re a free man. Divorced. God, wish I were free of my ball-and-chain. Twenty-two years of ball-and-chain.”
    Will badly wanted to change the subject. He said, “I’ll tell Karla that and let her kick your black ass up and down the street.”
    “Cheryl Beth’s a cutie. I’d do her.
    “You want to do everyone.”
    “Why don’t you call her?”
    “Because I’m a cripple.”
    “You have a serious confidence problem, partner. Nobody’s going to notice that cane. I bet you could use it as a kick-ass police baton.”
    Will didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in the open car door, shifting his body to rely even more on the cane. “Went right into his heart, right between the intercostal spaces.” The shirt showed little more than a trickle of blood. He had bled out inside his body. If the assailant had twisted and pulled out the blade, it would have released a torrent. Will went on, “That’s either major luck, or a lot more care than a random robber would take.”
    “So here’s the statement you’re going to give the media. Quit doing my job.”
    Will stood and faced Dodds. “That’s not a knife,” he said. “That’s a letter opener. Looks expensive. Maybe sterling silver. I think it’s Tiffany.”
    Dodds almost pushed him aside to peer inside the car again. “God damn,” he said.
    “Obviously a drug dealer of letters.”
    “Whatever. He stole it. Makes a nice weapon, as you can see.”
    “What’s that in the back seat.”
    “You don’t give up.” Dodds shot him an annoyed glance, then bent into the car again. “Guitar case. So what? He looks like a hippie.
    “There haven’t been any hippies for thirty years, Dodds.”
    “This is Cincinnati, Borders.”
    “Whatever. It’s not a guitar case. Too big. Cello.”
    Dodds faced him. “Now how the hell… Oh, yeah, you were