The Life Emergency — LE — people had found very little of life to worry about. Six victims were dead of gunshot wounds, another four had been killed instantly in the blast, and God only knew how many they'd find cremated inside — if they could ever get in there for a look-see.

Another police cruiser eased through the confusion and came to a halt inside the emergency perimeter. The heavy man in blue who descended from it was the Harbor Precinct boss, Captain Barney Gibson, a tough old cop with many ups and downs in his spotted career.

Gibson did not like black people — and Sgt. Phillips had a personal radar that detected such feelings, since Phillips himself was a black man — but he joined the Captain immediately and gave him a limp salute, not acknowledged.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in a brooding silence for a long moment, then the sergeant commented, "You've got a messy one here, Cap'n."

"Figure it's a Brushfire?" Gibson sourly inquired.

The Sergeant cocked his head and scratched absently at his neck. "Don't know," he admitted. "Right now it's just a damn mess. I happened to be in the neighborhood when the call came down... so I dropped in. It might be a Brushfire. What do you think?"

Gibson shrugged his beefy shoulders. "This is a mob joint. Or it was."

"Yes sir. That's one reason for all the heat, I guess. Fire Department says the basement of that east wing was a regular liquor warehouse. And I'll bet every drop of it was contraband."

"How many gunshot victims?" Gibson asked, ignoring the other information.

Phillips sighed. "Six."

The Captain whistled through his teeth. "That many."

"Life Emergency says another four died in the initial blast. They think it was caused by an explosives charge."