CHAPTER EIGHTYesterday, the morning after the night before had been bad enough. This was worse. I should have known better than to hang one on right on top of another. I got to the office at about ten o’clock, one hour later than standard, feeling that I was lucky to have made it at all.
Sergeant Mike Quinn, Lieutenant Davis’ companion the night of the Shulman killing, was leaning at the side of my door, chewing complacently on an unlit cigar. When he saw me, he grinned, took the cigar from his mouth and said with mock pleasantness, “The lieutenant wants to see you, Buster.”
“Davis?”
“That’s right, Buster. Come along.”
My mind was chugging along on two cylinders. I scowled at him and said, “What for?”
His grin broadened. “That’s a secret, Buster; but I’ll bet you can guess.” He’d evid
