She would want something someday, though. He wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t at least know that.

“Yo, Mike,” Leo called, rapping his knuckles on Michael’s desk. “Get your head out of your ass.”

“What’s going on?” Michael asked, sitting back in his chair. The station was empty but for the two of them, Greer locked behind his office door with the shades drawn.

Michael indicated the closed door. “He jerking off in there again?”

“Got some Lurch-looking freak from the GBI with him.”

“Why?” Michael asked, but he knew why. Last night, Greer had said he was going to call in help on this one, and the next step up the ladder was the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.

“He don’t consult with me,” Leo said, sitting on the edge of Michael’s desk, scattering papers in the process. He did this all the time, no matter how many warnings Michael gave him.

Leo asked, “You get in trouble with the wife last night?”

“No,” Michael lied, letting his eyes travel around the squad room. The place was depressing and dark, the wall of windows looking out at the Home Depot across the street thick with grime that blocked out the morning sun. City Hall East was a twelve-story building, a onetime Sears department store, that sat at the base of a curve in Ponce de Leon Road and took up a whole city block. A railroad track separated the structure from an old Ford factory that had been turned into pricey lofts. The state had bought the abandoned Sears building years ago, turning it into various government offices. There were at least thirty different departments and over five hundred city employees. Michael had worked here for ten years but other than the overcrowded parking garage, he had only seen the three floors the Atlanta Police Department used and the morgue.

“Yo,” Leo repeated, banging the desk again.

Michael pushed his chair from the desk and away from Leo. Between the chain-smoking and constant nips Leo took from the bottle he kept in his locker, the guy had breath like a dog’s fart.

“You daydreaming about some pussy?”

“Shut up,” Michael snapped, thinking he’d hit too close to home. Leo always did-not because he was a good detective, but because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“I was thinking about going to see Ken later on.” Leo took a tangerine out of his suit pocket and started peeling it. “How’s he doing?”

“Okay,” Michael told him, though the truth was he hadn’t talked to Ken in a week. They had been partners for a while, close as brothers, until Ken had clutched his arm one day and dropped to the ground. He had been talking to Michael about a gorgeous woman he’d met the night before, and for a split second, Michael thought the fall was some kind of joke. Then Ken had started to twitch. His mouth sagged open and he pissed himself right there on the squad room floor. Fifty-three years old and he’d stroked out like an old man. The whole right side of his body was gone now, his arm and leg useless as a wet newspaper. His mouth was permanently twisted so that dribble poured down his chin like he was a baby.

No one from the squad wanted to see him, to hear him try to talk. Ken was a reminder of what was just around the corner for most of them. Too much smoking, too much drinking, two or three failed marriages, all ending with your lonely last days spent catatonic in front of the tube, stuck at some crappy, state-run nursing home.

Greer’s door opened, and a lanky man in a three-piece suit came out. He was toting a leather briefcase that looked like a postage stamp in his large hand. Michael could see why Leo had called the guy Lurch. He was tall, maybe six-four or -five, and whippet thin. His dirty blond hair was cut tight to his head, parted on the side. His upper lip looked funny, too, like someone had cut it in half and put it back together crooked. As usual, Leo had gotten the show wrong. Put some knobs on either side of his neck and the guy could be on The Munsters.

“Ormewood,” Greer said, motioning him over. “This is Special Agent Will Trent from CAT.”

Leo showed his usual grace. “What the fuck is CAT?”

“Special Criminal Apprehension Team,” Greer clarified.

Michael could almost feel Leo straining not to point out that this actually spelled SCAT. Not much shut up his fellow detective, but Trent was standing close to Leo, looming over him by almost a foot. The state guy’s hands were huge, probably big enough to wrap around Leo’s head and crush his skull like a coconut.

Leo was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid.

Trent said, “I’m part of a special division of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation set up to aid local law enforcement around the state in apprehending violent criminals. My role here is purely advisory.”

He spoke like he was reading from a textbook, carefully enunciating every word. Between that and the three-piece suit, the guy could be a college professor.

“Michael Ormewood.” Michael relented, holding out his hand. Trent took it, not too firm but not limp like he was holding a fish. “This is Leo Donnelly,” Michael introduced, since Leo was occupied with sticking half the tangerine in his mouth, the juice dripping down the back of his hand.

“Detective.” Trent gave Leo a dismissive nod. He glanced at his watch, telling Michael, “The autopsy results won’t be ready for another hour. I’d like to compare notes if you have a minute.”

Michael looked at Greer, wondering exactly what had shifted on the food chain in the last two minutes. He was getting the feeling he had been relegated to the bottom and he didn’t like it.

Greer turned his back to them, waddling toward his office. He tossed over his shoulder, “Keep me in the loop,” as he closed his door.

Michael stared at Trent for a beat. The state guy didn’t look like a cop. Despite his height, he didn’t fill the room. He stood with a hand in his pocket, his left knee bent, almost casual. His shoulders would be pretty broad if he stood up straight, but he didn’t seem inclined to take advantage of his size. He lacked the presence of somebody who was on the job, the “fuck you” attitude that came from arresting every type of scum the earth had to offer.

Michael stared at the man, wondering what would happen if he just told the asshole to fuck off. Between the fight with Gina this morning and his run-in with Cynthia, Michael figured he should give somebody a break today. He waved his hand toward the door. “Conference room’s this way.”

Trent headed up the hall. Michael followed, staring at the man’s shoulders, wondering how he had ended up in the GBI. Usually, the state guys were adrenaline junkies, their bodies so pumped with testosterone that there was the constant sheen of sweat on their foreheads.

Michael asked, “How long you been on the job?”

“Twelve years.”

Michael figured Trent was at least ten years younger than him, but that didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. “Ex-military?” he asked.

“No,” Trent answered, opening the conference room door. The windows were actually clean in this room, and in the sunlight Michael could see a second scar running along the side of Trent’s face. The pink lightened to an almost white as it jagged from his ear down his neck, following his jugular and disappearing into his shirt collar.

Somebody had cut him pretty deep.

“Gulf War,” Michael said, putting his hand to his chest, thinking that might draw the man out. “You sure you weren’t enlisted?”

“Positive,” Trent replied, sitting down at the table. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of brightly colored file folders. In profile, Michael could see his nose had been busted at least a couple of times and wondered if the man was a boxer. He was too thin, though, his body lean, his face angular. No matter what his past, there was something about the guy that set Michael on edge.

Trent was paging through the files, putting the folders into some kind of order, when he noticed Michael was still standing. He said, “Detective Ormewood, I’m on your team.”