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“Come again?”

“It may have been a misunderstanding.”

“That’s quite the misunderstanding. Have you looked in a mirror?”

“I’m saving the pleasure.”

“Well, have someone take a video when you cave in, and be sure to send it to me. I can make money selling it as a misery meme.” He tapped his pen on his thigh. “I’m reluctant to let this slide. If Riggins had hit you any harder, you’d be in a coma—or dead. I don’t want him developing a taste for violent discouragement. Not everyone out there has a skull as hard as yours.”

“I intend to speak with him again,” I said, “and I don’t want to compete with the police for the privilege.”

“Just speak?”

“I may be forced to use strong language.”

Hammond scratched his belly. He looked like he’d struggle to chase a suspect for more than half a block, which was probably the case, except he wouldn’t let a suspect get away to begin with. The list of people who’d underestimated Porter Hammond and lived to regret it was long, and most could compare notes in prison.

“How much of a pickle is Riggins in?” Hammond asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re looking for him, either he’s done something bad or someone wants to do something bad to him—and that was before he whaled on you, which means you and your buddies will be happy to whale right back on him.”

“I don’t think he’s killed anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s aiming low,” said Hammond. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Nine.”

“And that’s without killing someone? Christ. What would we get from his girlfriend if we talked to her?”

“The bum’s rush.”

Hammond put away his notebook and pen.

“This is making me very unhappy,” he said, “and when I’m unhappy, I feel the urge to spread the load. I’d accuse you of having wasted police time, but you weren’t the one who called nine-one-one so it wouldn’t be fair. Regardless of your reluctance to press charges, I’d prefer not to have ex-soldiers taking it into their heads to deliver rough justice in our jurisdiction. If we stumble across Riggins, I’ll let you know—eventually.”

“You may struggle to find him,” I said. “I’m surprised he broke cover to attack me. He panicked.”

“He must have rated your investigative skills more highly than you rate ours,” said Hammond, easing himself from his chair and heading for the door. “Should you ever consider relocating to a different state, I’ll be available to help you move your stuff.”

ANGEL RETURNED WITH Adoctor in tow. She did what doctors do in these situations, which was poke, prod, and shine lights.

“Any blurring of eyesight?” she asked.

“No more than usual.”

“Double vision.”

“Likewise.”

“And it’s probably pointless to ask about pain, since I’ve seen your scars.” She put away her flashlight. “The CT scan showed no signs of hemorrhaging or hematoma, so you got away with a concussion and a busted nose. The reset on your nose went okay—we were able to manually realign—and it should be healed after three weeks. You have a pair of fractured ribs, but there’s not much that can be done with them. I’m advising you to take it easy, especially for the next day or two—though I’ve been told all about you by Detective Hammond, so I doubt you’ll listen. Use Tylenol for pain relief, but not ibuprofen or aspirin. If you live alone, you should have someone stay with you for the next twenty-four hours.”

I pointed at Angel and Louis.

“I’m sure my friends will oblige.”

“Will he need to be bathed?” asked Angel. “Because there are limits.”