We stayed at the curb, me sitting, my head still in my hands, the nausea turning the edges of my vision pale, McDeiss still in his squat. We stayed there for a while until McDeiss said, “Know what I got a strange hankering for right now? Ossobuco. You ever had a great ossobuco?”

“Do you mind? I can still smell the blood.”

“Veal shank braised in a wine sauce till it melts at the touch. And then, at the last moment, the secret ingredient is added, the gremolata, minced garlic, chopped parsley, and a dash of lemon zest. There’s a place on Seventh that makes a killer ossobuco.”

“Perfect for a homicide detective, I suppose.”

“I’ll consider if the information you sought is worth pursuing.”

“That’s all I can ask.” I paused for a moment, thought about what he had just said. “And maybe,” I continued, as if struck with a plan out of the thin of the air, “if you find something, we can discuss it over dinner.”

“What a wonderful idea.”

“There’s a place on Seventh Street I’ve been told about.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“A little expensive, I’m sure.”

“Yes it is,” he said, letting out a soft groan as his knees popped once again and he stood. “But worth every penny.”

“You’ll keep me informed of what you find about Joey?”

“Why?”

“Professional interest.”

“Don’t worry, Carl, one thing you can be sure of is that you’ll be hearing from me.”

By the time I left the scene the coroner’s van had shown up, the body had been scraped off the tarmac, the arc lights taken down. The immediate scene had slipped back into the innocent darkness, but there was still the stain on the ground, still the remnants of what had been lying there not thirty minutes before. There wasn’t anything more I could do about Joey Parma’s legal problem – it’s amazing how quickly death cleanses the docket – but that didn’t mean he and I were through.