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“What you said about Father Michael Joseph, it was very moving, Dane. Did he really catch that touchdown pass? Really tore up his knee?”

He nodded, got a grip on himself. “Yes. You know, this thing about Fate or whatever—if you like, we could get drunk one night and discuss it.”

It was a slight smile, he saw it. It made him feel very good.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’d like that.”

Lieutenant Linda Purcell came up to them, looking resigned. “We found the bullet. That’s the good news. Unfortunately, it shattered against a concrete wall. No way to know if it was from the same gun that killed Father Michael Joseph. No matter. It’ll all come together anyway. Delion’s doing his thing. Just hang around and listen, don’t interrupt. We decided to let the guy think about the wages of sin and left him downstairs in the tank for a couple of hours. We just brought him up here. We don’t have any one-way mirrors here so keep back from the doorway so he doesn’t focus on you.”

Dane looked toward the guy who’d shot Nick. His head was down between his arms on the scarred table. He was sobbing, deep gulping sobs that sounded like he believed life as he knew it was over. And he was right, Dane thought, the bastard.

Nearly all of the inspectors hanging around in the homicide room were close enough to the interrogation room to hear. They all looked exactly the same, excited and on the edge. Dane imagined that if they were in an FBI field office, there would be no difference at all. Women agents, in particular, didn’t cut any slack to a murderer who broke down in tears. That had surprised Dane when he was new in the FBI, but over the years he’d changed the opinions he supposed he’d absorbed by osmosis all through childhood and adolescence.

Delion sat across from the sobbing man, not saying a word, just watching, arms crossed over his chest, his mustache drooping a bit. Patient, like he had all the time in the world. They watched him examine a thumbnail, heard a soft whistle under his breath, watched him trace a fingertip over a deep gash in the scarred wooden table between them.

They’d taken the guy’s long dark woolen coat, hat, and gloves, which left him in a gray sweatshirt and wrinkled black pants. Dane couldn’t tell if he was just like the man Nick had originally described. But he saw he was slight of build, looked to be in his forties, and had a full head of dark hair—just as she’d said. And she’d recognized him from across the church.

Finally, the guy raised his head and said between gulps, “You’ve been holding me for a long time, haven’t spoken to me, and now I’m up here in this crappy little room with cops standing outside the door watching. What do you want from me? Why did that big guy try to kill me? I’m gonna sue his ass off. His pants’ll fall right off him.”

Sherlock snickered.

Both Dane and Nick drew in their breaths. The guy’s face was really white, like he hadn’t seen the sun in far too long. Just as Nick had said.

Delion said, “We asked you before if you wanted a lawyer and you said you didn’t. You want a lawyer now, Mr.—? Hey, why don’t you tell us your name.”

The man tilted his head back, as if he were trying to look down his nose at Delion. He sniffed, swallowed, and wiped his hand across his running nose. “You already know my name. You took my wallet hours ago and then you just left me alone to rot.”

“Your name, sir?”

“My name’s Milton—Milt McGuffey. I don’t need no lawyer, I didn’t do nuthing. I want to leave.”

Delion reached over and took the guy’s forearm in his hand, shook it just a little bit. “Listen to me, Mr. McGuffey, that guy who hit you is a cop. He just wanted to keep you from running away from the scene of a crime. He was being efficient, just doing what he was supposed to do, you know? Trust me on this: You really don’t want to sue him or his ass. Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill Nick Jones at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral mass.”

“I didn’t try to kill no Nick Jones! Is that the broad who was bleeding all over the place? Hey, I was just standing there listening and then everything went