“I guess so. All the information’s correct, anyway.”
“That’s the birth certificate with which you applied for the liquor licenses on your premises, isn’t it?”
“It has to be. I mean, I’ve only got one.”
“Do you?” said O’Rourke, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, my blood ran cold.
“Of course,” I said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
This seemed to be what O’Rourke was waiting to hear. His dark, gray, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be gleaming in the interrogation room. I looked up behind him, and frantically began to imagine a team of cops all standing behind the one-way glass.
“About four days ago,” he began, “Luca Desilva came in here to report a felony. Are you aware of him?”
“Of course,” I said. “He was my business partner. Still is, technically. And he’s a crook. I caught him stealing money
