“You’re always in such a fucking hurry.” He had a file in his hands, a thin dog-eared manila number held shut with a rubber band.

“Hellbreed don’t take vacations.” When they do, I’ll be the first to celebrate. I sniffed smoke, still rising from my clothes and skin. Maybe not with a barbeque, though. “What’s this all about?”

“Marvin Kutchner.” He held up the file. “Cop. Ate his Glock about two months ago.”

“Has he come back?” In my line of work, that’s always a possibility. If you run up against the nightside in Santa Luz—or really, anywhere in my territory, which runs from Ridgefield to the southern edges of Santa Luz; Leon Budge in Viejarosas and I split some of the southern suburbs—you’ll see me sooner or later. I will avenge you, if you fall prey to the things that go bump in the night.

And if you come back, I’ll lay you to rest. Permanently.

Monty shook his head. “Buried out at Estrada. No sign of him since.”

Well, that’s a relief. I eyed the folder. “So what’s the deal?”

“I want you to look into it.”

“A cop suicide? No offense, Monty, but—”

“He was my partner, back in the day.” His weak, smoke-colored gaze fixed itself over my shoulder, and his mouth turned down at the corners.

The bottle of Tums on his desk wasn’t open, and the whiskey bottle was mostly full. He was laying in for a siege.

I studied him for a long few moments. What aren’t you telling me? “Is there a suspicion of homicide?”

“Something just don’t smell right, Kismet. I don’t know. I didn’t think Marv was the type, though God knows any cop can be driven to it.” He spread his hands, helplessly, like people do when they try to express the inexpressible. “It just don’t smell right.”