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force will operate out of this office.” Williams gestured to a door behind him. “In the next room are desks, phones, file cabinets and computers. You will be assigned an administrative assistant from our civilian pool, and your day-to-day reporting will be to Keys. Though both he and agent Diaz will also be in the field with you.”
    Seguin decided it would be best if he didn’t look at the other cops in the room for fear of laughing.
    The chief uncrossed his legs and stood. “First and foremost, you are to work the streets as you always do in garnering information as to who killed Mr. Suh. That is our number one priority.”
    If that bothered Keys, he didn’t show it.
    â€œSecondly, what information comes to light on the Daltons’ involvement in this, fine, but we’re not pursuing phantom suspects. I needn’t remind you that in this morning’s Metro section Linton Perry had an editorial blasting us. He’s gotten wind of the task force and is already calling it unequal justice. Forgetting of course the $25,000 reward the City Council put up for the black mother of three slain at the Jack-In-The-Box drive-in last year.”
    â€œUnusual crimes demand an unusual response,” Bazeco offered.
    â€œIndeed,” Diaz said without the faintest hint of humor.

T IGER FLOWERS HAD been, at various points in his life, a middleweight Golden Gloves champ, a Pullman porter (during that tenure he carved a horrendous gash across a Klansman’s chest), a numbers man, a dock worker, a boxing trainer and an Army corporal fighting near Pusan in Korea with Monk’s father. But it was in his capacity as a trainer that he’d acquired the Tiger’s Den, a boxing gym, sauna and weight room located on West 48th Street in South Central.
    Monk completed the third set of forty sit-ups on the inclined bench. Sweat flowed from his forehead like a broken spigot. He swabbed at it with a terrycloth towel and got off the bench. Flowers, still a powerfully built man edging past sixty, glided near him.
    â€œCase, huh?” Tiger was not given to excess.
    â€œI work out steady, Tiger.” Playfully, Monk slapped the towel at Tiger’s solid midriff. “What makes you think I’m on a case?”
    In his rasp of a voice, the old fighter said, “You only do sit-ups when you’re training to go the distance.”
    The two walked past a young Latino furiously pummeling a heavy bag on the way to the sauna room. “You missed your calling, Tiger. Ever think of making some money on the side as a therapist?”
    The older man merely leveled saddle-brown eyes on Monk, waiting.
    â€œI’m not even sure it’s my case yet. But my girlfriend called me early today to tell me that the Korean Merchants want to hire me. They’re coming to see me at my office this morning.”
    â€œAbout this fella they dug up.”
    â€œYeah. Jill and I realize the only reason they want to hire me is to make themselves look good.”
    â€œThen why do you want to do it?”
    They reached the sauna and the two stopped. Monk leaned on the door, its warm waves penetrating the muscles of his back. “If I find the killer, it could be good for business.”
    â€œGet yourself an office at the top of Sunset.”
    â€œHave a couple of fine secretaries and do business lunches at the chic Morpheus Cafe,” Monk enthused.
    â€œMaybe so.”
    â€œHire some assistants to do the leg work.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Tiger responded skeptically.
    â€œWho knows.”
    â€œCould be you like to see what makes people tick.”
    Tiger clapped him on the back and walked back to the young man beating the hell out of the bag. Tiger held up his hand for him to stop, then demonstrated a smooth approach to working the bag through consistent blows that built up their effectiveness rather than going for that one knock-out punch.
    â€œLike I said, you missed your calling,