When Graham played halfback at U.S.C. he never made first string. That bit of history stuck like a character trait: all his life he seemed to miss the crucial promotion, the next step up a detective's career. He had transferred from one division to another, never finding a precinct that suited him, or a partner that worked well with him. Always too outspoken, Graham had made enemies in the chief's office, and at thirty-nine, further advancement was unlikely. Now he was bitter, gruff, and putting on weight – a big man who had become ponderous, and a pain in the ass: he just rubbed people the wrong way. His idea of personal integrity was to be a failure, and he was sarcastic about anybody who didn't share his views.

"Nice suit," he said to me, as I walked up. "You look fucking beautiful, Peter." He flicked imaginary dust off my lapel.

I ignored it. "How's it going, Tom?"

"You guys should be attending this party, not working it." He turned to Connor and shook his hand. "Hello, John. Whose idea was it to get you out of bed?"

"I'm just observing," Connor said mildly.

I said, "Fred Hoffmann asked me to bring him down."

"Hell," Graham said. "It's okay with me that you're here. I can use some help. It's pretty tense up there."

We followed him toward the elevator. I still saw no other police officers. I said, "Where is everybody?"

"Good question," Graham said. "They've managed to keep all of our people around back at the freight entrance. They claim the service elevator gives fastest access. And they keep talking about the importance of their grand opening, and how nothing must disrupt it."