“You want to tell me about those books you took from the house?” asked Colarusso.

“They belonged to Marian Warriq’s father. His private journals. There’s something in them. Some information that I need. I just don’t know what it is.”

A huge detective staggered over, draped an arm around Colarusso. The well-dressed behemoth had satiny black skin, a shaved head, and a gold stud in his nose. He glanced at Rakkim. “Didn’t you hear about the dress code, Anthony? No towel heads.” His booming laugh filled the immediate vicinity with the stink of fermenting grapes.

“Rakkim, this poor excuse for a lawman is Derrick Brummel,” said Colarusso. “Derrick, this is Rakkim Epps.”

They shook, Rakkim’s hand lost in the detective’s paw.

“I just wanted to say hello,” Brummel said to Colarusso. He shifted his eyes.

“You can say anything in front of Rakkim,” said Colarusso.

Brummel gazed at Rakkim. “Is that right?”

“Take a chance,” said Rakkim.

Brummel turned to Colarusso. “You hear about my grab-and-scram? Punk snatched a ruby ring off the finger of some businessman, grabbed it right off the street and disappeared into rush hour. I got the call, did my homework. Description matched a kid I busted a few times previous. Scooped him up the next day.” He leaned closer and seemed to bring a heat with him. “This afternoon I find out the imam of the businessman is going to try the kid under sharia law.” Brummel glanced at Rakkim. “Kid’s Catholic, Anthony.”

“That can’t be right,” said Colarusso.

“It’s true,” thundered Brummel. Heads turned along the bar. “You think I don’t know the disposition of my own case?”

“Watch your pressure, Derrick,” said Colarusso. “Sit down and have another drink.”

“Am I a law-and-order cop?” demanded Brummel.

“You’re a law-and-order cop.”

“Am I a deepwater Baptist?”

“Deep as they come,” said Colarusso.

“Then you know I’m not making excuses for this kid. He’s a thief and a loser, but no way he deserves to have his hand chopped off.”

“The Black Robes can’t do that to a Catholic,” insisted Colarusso. “No way.”

“If the businessman said he intended to donate the ring to his mosque, he might have a case,” Rakkim said quietly. “It’s a stretch, but that’s one interpretation of the statutes.”

“If the Black Robes can haul a Catholic into religious court, they can haul in anybody.” Brummel looked hard at Rakkim, the overheads reflecting off his skull. “Shit jobs, shit housing, shit treatment. Now shit law? Christians can take a lot of abuse, but at a certain point we’re going to get fed up, and then you best watch what happens.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” said Rakkim.

“He’s telling you the truth,” said Colarusso.

“If you say so, Anthony.”

“He doesn’t have to, I say so,” said Rakkim.

Brummel pounded Rakkim on the back. “Okay, tough guy, we’ll discuss it some other time.” A glance at Colarusso. “I’m not drunk, but I’m close enough. Time to go home and take out my troubles on the little woman.”

Colarusso and Rakkim watched Brummel leave, the bar silent, then suddenly louder as the door closed behind him.

“He’s a good cop, but he dearly hates Muslims. Probably wished he had migrated to the Bible Belt when he had a chance. Most black folks did, but he stayed behind, figured he’d give the new government a chance. I was the same way.” Colarusso sighed, exhaled the scent of overripe grapes. “You were too young to remember what the country was like before, but let me tell you, it was grim. Drugs and desperate people beating each other’s heads in for reasons they couldn’t even explain. Man against man, black against white, and God against all-that was the joke, but I sure never got a laugh out of it.” Colarusso shrugged. “Then the Jews took out New York and D.C., and it made our troubles before seem like one of those tea parties where they serve watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Taught us what hard times really were. Muslims were the only people with a clear plan and a helping hand, and everyone was equal in the eyes of Allah. That’s what they said, anyway.” He was bleary-eyed. “Besides, your people are big on the punishment part of crime and punishment, and they don’t take to blasphemy. I like that. The old government actually paid a man to drop a crucifix into a jar of piss and take a picture of it. Don’t give me that look, I’m serious. He got paid money to take the picture, and people lined up around the block to look at it. So, I’m not exactly pining for the good old days, but now we got Black Robes walking into police stations like they own the place.” He shook his head. “That ain’t right.”

“No, it’s not right.”

“I got a look at Anthony Jr. yesterday when he got out of bed. Must have had twenty or thirty cuts on him. None of them deep. They were already scabbed over. Sprayed himself with Heal-Qwik. Amazing stuff. He wouldn’t tell me who cut him. Said it was private.” Colarusso rooted around in his mouth with a forefinger, dislodged a bit of peanut from his back teeth, and flicked it onto the floor. “You sure you don’t want to go to confession?”

“Just help me find Sarah.”

“Anything you want. You know-” Colarusso reached into his jacket for his cell. Listened, nodding. “You’re sure?” He slipped the cell back, squinted, bothered by something.

“What?”

“That was the ME.” Colarusso plucked at his lower lip. “There was hardly any blood spatter in the living room, just what soaked the couch, so I thought for sure those two folks were killed someplace else and then posed, but the ME said they were killed right where you found them. It was the arterial…something that threw me off.”

“Arterial spray.”

“You know about these things?” Colarusso gave up waiting for an answer. “Cause of death was a knife thrust to the base of the throat, but according to the ME, the reason there was so little spatter was because they weren’t excited when they died. Minimal arterial spray because their heart rate wasn’t elevated at all. It was as if they were just calmly sitting there waiting to die.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. There were strangers in the house…strangers forcing their way in, those two people had to be scared. They should have sprayed the walls when they were cut.”

“It was one man and they didn’t see it coming.”

“I told you, the chauffeur was hard-core,” said Colarusso, exasperated. “I checked his sheet-he was trained. Hard to imagine him being so surprised he didn’t even move. Even if he was killed first, don’t you think his wife would have time to react? She just kept sitting there. I mean…who kills that fast?”

“Fedayeen,” said Rakkim. “A Fedayeen assassin could kill you so fast that you’d be dead before you tasted the blood in your mouth.”

“Fedayeen? Like you?”

“No, not like me.”

Colarusso stared at him, suddenly sober. “You’re scaring me, troop.”

Rakkim could see Terry and his wife posed on the couch, sheeted with blood, their heads in their laps. “The assassins specialty is a small unit within the Fedayeen. A thousand recruits, the best of the best…you might find one selected for assassins, and he might not even make it through. I had the speed, but I wasn’t right psychologically. It takes a certain…disconnect.”

“You had a heart.”

“Don’t bother dusting the place for prints, this guy isn’t going to be in any of the data banks, but when the uniforms finish their canvass, I’d like to see the report. On the off chance that one of the neighbors noticed someone suspicious, it would be nice to get a description.”

“This assassin…you think you could take him?”

“No.”

“You said you had the speed.”

Rakkim didn’t answer.

“Okay, I’ll drop the subject.” Colarusso dug into the bowl of peanuts, shook them in his fist. “Let’s talk about Anthony Jr. At the Super Bowl you told me you wouldn’t recommend him for Fedayeen, now you’re signing off on it. What changed your mind?”