He pictured Harold Sladek, cold and wet, taking a cigarette from this well-dressed benefactor. He pictured Michael Casey passing time with his killer, thanking him for his kindness, whispering God bless.

He pictured all this in the time it took for Arthur to swallow, nervously, twice.

The detective passed the flame over the cigarette once more. This time he held it there. “Inhale.”

“You can’t-”

“Inhale!”

Arthur sucked in, as briefly as he could. The tip of the cigarette glowed red. The detective closed the lighter and pocketed it.

“Again.”

“Don’t-”

“Again.”

“Please-”

“This is the way it has to be,” the detective said. “You said the stuff you put in the cigarettes is painless. I hope it is, because I guarantee you, bullets are not.” The detective pulled the gun away from Arthur’s head and aimed it at his gut. “Not the way I’ll use them. Take your pick.”

“You’re a monster,” Arthur said, the cigarette gripped tightly between his lips.

“I can live with that,” the detective said. “Now decide.”

Arthur looked at the gun, looked into the detective’s eyes, and inhaled.

“Again,” the detective said.

When Arthur was dead, the detective packed all the loose cigarettes into one of his bags and then stripped the corpse down to an undershirt and briefs. A press of a button erased the memory of the digital recorder, but just to be safe, he’d record over it when he got home.

He bundled everything up under one arm, pulled his hat further down on his brow, and walked east on 38th Street. It was still dark. No one saw him.