“I’ve got news.”

He had our full attention.

“The Cabot kids left prints at the Lorenzo.” A light danced around in his eyes. “And Sam Cabot confessed.”

“Holy shit. Is this true?” Jacobi wheezed.

“On my mother’s head. The kid told a nurse that he and his sis were playing a game with those runaways. They called it ‘a bullet or a bath.’”

“The nurse will testify?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed. Swore to me herself.”

“‘A bullet or a bath.’ Those little fuckers.” Jacobi snorted. “A game.”

“Yeah, well, that game’s over. We even found notebooks and collections of crime stories in the girl’s bedroom at home. She was obsessed with homicides. Listen, you two get well, okay? Don’t worry about nothin’.

“Oh. This is from the squad,” he said, handing me the Ghirardelli chocolates and a “get well” card with a lot of signatures. “We’re proud a ya both.”

We talked for another minute or so, passing along thanks to our friends at the Hall of Justice. When he was gone, I reached out and took Jacobi’s hand. Having almost died together had forged an intimacy between us that was deeper than friendship.

“Well, the kids were dirty,” I said.

“Yeah. Break out the champagne.”

I couldn’t argue with him. That the Cabot kids were murderers didn’t change the horror of the shooting. And it didn’t change the notion I’d been harboring for days.

“I’ll tell you something, Jacobi. I’m thinking of giving it up. Quitting the job.”

“C’mon. You’re talking to me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not going to quit, Boxer.”

I straightened a fold in his blanket, then pushed the call button so a nurse would come and roll me back to my room.

“Sleep tight, partner.”

“I know, ‘Don’t worry about nothin’.’”