The detective’s angular face was even-featured; a sensuous mouth, straight nose. His yellow cat’s eyes had the lubricated serenity of a machine. He strutted over to Robert, throwing his shadow over the smaller man. He cocked his head. “You like it in here?”

The strip cell gave Robert the heebie-jeebies. There was no oxygen and he had trouble breathing. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Excellent.” The cop shook a hard pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket, selected one, and lighted it. An aureole of stale tobacco smoke billowed around him. Without warning, he reached out and extinguished the butt on Robert’s forehead, using his face as an ashtray. “Let’s talk about the guns.”

The tang of burnt skin permeated the cell. A dime-sized red cigarette hole was left dead center in Robert’s brow. It made the rest of his mug look as white as the North Pole. The burn hurt more than dying did. It took every iota of willpower he had not to show it. He feigned ignorance. “What about it?”