But when you mentioned, say, a Johnny LaGuardia to a potential suspect in a murder investigation like, say, Hector Medina, one day, and the next day you find yourself at a dumpster behind the Wax Museum in Fisherman’s Wharf, looking at the holes in Johnny’s head, it made you wonder.

Two holes. One in the back and one at the temple. Either one would’ve done the job fine by itself.

Abe wondered if Medina’s logbook showed that he’d worked a double shift all last night. He wondered if he had some extra money lying around, if he were at work today.

Maneuvering through the techs, Abe cleared the morning shade in the alley and stood on the sidewalk in the bright sun. Knowing that Glitsky had interviewed Johnny recently, Batiste had called Abe at home as soon as the call with the tentative I.D. came in. Abe had called Hardy out of courtesy. Hardy had been groggy, perhaps hungover, but he said he’d be here.

Now he was walking up wearing corduroys, hiking boots, a ‘Members Only’ jacket over a turtleneck. Abe cocked his head back toward the alley and started walking. Hardy fell in beside him. They lifted the yellow tape.

“Johnny LaGuardia?” Hardy said.

“The late great.”

They both studied the body, still uncovered, now laid out on a stretcher. One tasseled brown loafer was still on. His sport coat hung open revealing a salmon-colored shirt half-tucked into some stylish pleated Italian trousers. His shoulder holster was empty.

“The gun was on him when we got here,” Abe said, “in case you were wondering.”

“So he knew whoever it was.”

Abe nodded. “Safe bet.”

Johnny’s face, surprisingly to Hardy, showed no sign of exit wounds. “Small caliber, huh?”

“Must have been,” Abe said. “Looks like twenty-two or twenty-five.”

“Again,” Hardy said.

“I noticed. And it didn’t go down here either,” Abe said. “He was dumped.” He motioned to the dumpster. “Symbolism, yet.”

Hardy looked another minute. “You had coffee yet?”

A black Chrysler LeBaron pulled into the mouth of the alley. A chauffeur stepped out and walked around the front of the car. Abe waited, watching.

“Who’s that?” Hardy asked.

The Angel sat in the back seat, holding hands with Doreen Biaggi. She had been staying in his upstairs room since Sunday, taking meals with the family. Now she wore sunglasses to cover her black eye. The swelling on her cheek was still visible. Tortoni squeezed her hand. “Va bene?”

She nodded. Matteo had come to the door and opened it. He took Doreen’s hand and helped her out of the seat. Tortoni got out his own side and glanced down at the area surrounded by the police tape. He took a thin cigar from his inside pocket and rubbed it between his fingers, breathing in the energizing odors of garbage and crabsmell. He lit the cigar, flushed in the pleasure this perfect morning was giving him. But he kept his face expressionless. He was supposed to be in pain here.

He motioned with his head to Matteo, who took Doreen’s elbow and began guiding her forward. The three came together at the front of the car.

Here were two men, police, the black one leading as though he were in charge. Tortoni had seen him before. Most blacks looked the same to him, but this one-with the scar running through his lips, the hatchet nose, the blue eyes-was distinctive. But he couldn’t remember the name. The other one he didn’t know.

The black one kept his hands in his pockets. “Angelo,” he said, low key, “how you doing?”

Tortoni saw Matteo tighten his mouth. His son liked for people to call his father Mr Tortoni, or Don Angelo. But Tortoni only lifted his palm-as he might restrain a well-trained dog-and Matteo settled back.

“I am not so well.” Tortoni barely heard himself. He raised the cigar to his lips and inhaled. “Not so well if what I hear may be true.”

“If you mean Johnny…”

He made a show of looking around the officer. His hands went to his sides and he hung his head. “Do we know who did this?” he whispered. Doreen was standing next to him, taking his arm, helping him with his grief. He raised his eyes. “Johnny was a son to me.”

“We don’t know anything yet, Angelo. In fact, it crossed my mind I might want to talk to you sometime soon.”

“He is here now,” Doreen said. “Talk to him now.”

Good, Angelo thought, protective already. He patted her arm and said in Italian, “Ignore this buffoon.”

“What’d you tell her?” the cop said.

He smiled through his pain. “I told her you were only doing your job.” He patted her arm again. “She’s upset, too. She and Johnny were very close. You have no ideas yet?”

“I have ideas. I don’t think he killed himself. He wasn’t hit by a truck. Like that.” The cop-Glitsky, that was it -clucked. “No, my idea is somebody did him your way.” He put his index finger to his temple and cocked his thumb.

Tortoni, the soul of patience, shook his head. “I am a businessman, officer. But I am not in the business of violence.”

“Your man Johnny carried a gun.”

Tortoni gestured, a forgiving father. “You knew Johnny? A baby. He imagines he protects me.” A smile. “Where’s the harm?… Do you mind, can we see him?”

They moved back into the alley. Tortoni went to one knee and crossed himself over the body. He remained that way for thirty seconds. A good, clean job. He leaned over and kissed Johnny’s clean jaw.

Doreen had her forehead against Matteo’s shoulder when he stood up. It was all right if she didn’t have the strength to look, but it was important, he thought, that she see firsthand what he could do.

But that was enough. With a tiny move of his head he directed Matteo to take Doreen back to the car. Watching them walk off, he took another puff on his cigar. Che bello giorno!

“Do you have any ideas, Angelo?”

The sun had cleared the lower buildings, so that he had to squint into Glitsky’s face. He shrugged, his palms out. “Johnny was young, maybe hot-tempered. But a good boy.”

“You don’t know any enemies he had recently? Maybe protecting you?”

“There has been no trouble,” he said. “This I don’t understand.”

“How about personally? Money troubles? Girls?”

Tortoni shook his head.

“Do you have any dealings with a Hector Medina?”

“Who is Hector Medina? I have never heard the name.”

Glitsky shrugged. “He knew Johnny, that’s all. I wondered how well.”

“You think he, this Hector Medina, he did this?”

The white cop, who had been silent all the while, spoke up, “I know who didn’t do it.”

“Who’s that?” Glitsky asked, looking at the other man.

“Louis Baker.”

Tortoni stared at both of them. He’d have to check out who these two people were-Hector Medina and Louis Baker.

Glitsky took it up again. To Tortoni, he said, “The thing is, I was talking to Johnny just the other day and he said you were having some problems-you and him.”

Tortoni saw no point responding to that.

“This problem-it seemed to involve Rusty Ingraham -something about his vig being short. And Medina’s also been mixed up with Ingraham. Sort of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Tortoni nodded. “I was you, I’d look into that. But Johnny told me Ingraham was dead.”

The two cops exchanged glances. The white guy spoke again. “Johnny told you that? He see him? Dead, I mean?”

Tortoni said that when Johnny told him somebody was dead it usually was the truth. “What, you guys didn’t see him?”

“Technically he’s a missing person,” Glitsky said. “You lose a lot of money on him?”

“Some. In business you take some risks.”

“Did you know last week he came into, like, thirty thousand dollars?”

Tortoni made a note to have somebody check out Johnny’s apartment, his mother’s flat, his friends. The son of a bitch. But he only said, “Good for him.”

The white cop said, “You wouldn’t have seen any of that, would you?”