“Not if you don’t mind me falling asleep at the desk this afternoon,” Mickey said. “But if you’re okay with that, I’ll force down a glass or two.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“What’s the special occasion?”

“Well, let’s wait for the wine. Meanwhile, tell me about this morning. You actually discovered the body?”

Mickey launched into a truncated version of the day’s events. The dead man, according to identification in his wallet, was Dominic Como, a prominent civic activist who’d gone missing about four days before. Even more startling, and depressing, from Mickey’s perspective, was the fact that his grandfather, Jim Parr, had worked for Como as his personal driver. The dead man had been one of Jim’s personal heroes. So now, if and when he went home tonight, Mickey would be sharing his one-bedroom, nine-hundred-square-foot walkup with a grieving grandfather and a train wreck of a sister.

The waiter appeared with their wine. Hunt tasted it, pronounced it fine, and then waited for their glasses to be filled before he lifted his. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

“New beginnings,” Mickey repeated. He hesitated, his glass poised in front of his mouth. “Why does that sound ominous?”

Hunt put down his untouched wine. “I’ve pretty much decided to close up the shop. Let you move on to your chef’s career.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be all right. Probably just hook up with one of the other outfits in town. Either that, or get a real job someplace. All these computer and marketing skills I’ve gotten good at ought to be worth something to somebody, I figure. Maybe a start-up.”

“But you don’t want to do that.”