They were now at the stairway. Frank reached out and squeezed Jose’s shoulder. “Let’s see what’s on Emerson’s mind.”

They pushed into Emerson’s outer office at eight-fifteen.

Shana looked up from her computer and frowned petulantly. “He’s been waiting.” She snapped an index finger toward Emerson’s door. The inch-long scarlet fingernail resembled a bloody talon.

Frank felt an acid clot of irritation in his throat.

Emerson stood behind his desk, a green glass slab supported by two matte black metal sawhorses. Resplendent in a creamy silk shirt and an Italian designer tie, he held a folder several inches thick. He studied the contents for a moment or two after Frank and Jose entered. Then he closed the folder and held it up.

“Looks like somebody did some street cleaning.”

“Somebody did murder one,” Jose said.

As if he hadn’t heard or didn’t care, Emerson regarded the closed folder in his hands. “Hodges was a busy boy,” he whispered to himself. He got a sly look that put Frank in mind of something slithering through the grass.

“He’s in cold storage now,” Frank said.

Emerson continued staring thoughtfully at the folder. Then, as if the comment finally registered, he put the folder on his desk and looked at Frank.

“Oh, no. Skeeter’s got one more job to do. A job for us.”

Without having to look, Frank knew that Jose was doing his slow eye-roll. He looked anyway. Jose was.

He looked back at Emerson. Emerson’s eyebrows were raised in a question mark.

“Beg pardon?” Frank asked.

“I said, ‘How many people you think Skeeter clipped?’ ”

“Rounded off to the nearest hundred?”

“Get serious.”

Jose yawned. “Belt-and-suspenders estimate? Fifteen. Twenty. Most of them competitors.”

“Okay. And how many times did he go to trial?” Emerson asked.