Myron put his hand to his ear. "Must be a bad connection."

Roland Dimonte crossed his arms and gave Myron his most withering glare. The snakeskin boots had a high platform of some sort, pushing his height over six foot but Myron still had a good three or four inches on him. A minute passed. Roland still glared. Then another minute. Roland gnawed on the toothpick. The glare persisted without a blink.

"On the inside," Myron said, "I'm quaking in fear."

"Go fuck yourself, Bolitar."

"Chewing the toothpick is a nice touch. A little cliché perhaps, but it works for you."

"Just keep it up, smart-ass."

"Mind if I come in," Myron said, "before I wet my pants?"

Dimonte moved out of the way. Slowly. The death glare was still locked on autopilot.

Myron found Duane sitting on the couch. He was wearing his Ray-Bans, but that was not surprising. He stroked his closely cropped beard with his left hand. Wanda, Duane's girlfriend, stood by the kitchen. She was tall, five-ten or so. Her figure was what was commonly referred to as tight or hard rather than muscular, and she was a stunner. Her eyes kept darting about like birds moving from branch to branch.

It was not a huge apartment. The decor was standard New York rental. Duane and Wanda had moved in only a few weeks ago. Month-to-month lease. No reason to fix the place up. With the money Duane was about to start making they could live anywhere they wanted to soon.

"Did you say anything to them?" Myron asked.

Duane shook his head. "Not yet."

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

Duane shook his head again. "I don't know."

There was another cop in the room. A younger guy. Much younger. He looked to be about twelve. Probably just made detective. He had his pad out, his pen at the ready.