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Coughlin glared at him. “Yes, it is, Frank. And would you care to wager a guess as to where, to use your crude phraseology, that shit’s going to land next?”

“With any luck,” Hollaran said, raising his Emerald Society mug to gesture toward the commander of the Detective Bureau, “right past me, and smack into Matt’s lap.”

Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein laughed out loud. He also was a large, stocky, ruddy-faced, barrel-chested man with a full head of curly silver hair. However, he did not belong to The Emerald. He was Jewish.

The very big and very black Jason Washington then intoned in his deep voice, “I pray that I am profoundly in error, but I suspect the flow of said fecal matter will wind up on my desk-thereon hitting the proverbial fan.”

Denny Coughlin chuckled.

“Jason, your astute suspicions aside,” Coughlin then said, “let’s take it from the top. Beginning with what we know. Would you care to bring everyone up to speed?”

“Certainly. As I’ve shared with the captain and the chief inspector,” he said, making eye contact with Quaire and Lowenstein as he said their ranks, “what we know is that at one-fifty this morning, there was an explosion at the Philly Inn on Frankford Avenue. Specifically, room fifty-two, which appears to have been actively used for the manufacture of the Schedule II controlled substance methamphetamine. We have two dead Hispanic males and two others, a white male and a white female, who suffered grave injury. The deceased were taken to the morgue, of course. The latter pair was transported to Temple Hospital, where they were admitted to the Intensive Care Unit, their conditions last listed as ‘critical.’ ”

“Clearly the girl being Benjamin’s daughter,” Coughlin said.

Washington nodded.

“We’re told,” he went on, “but are awaiting positive ID, that the white male is one J. Warren Olde, Jr., of the custom homebuilder family. We’re also told, but are awaiting verification, that he’s the owner of the motel.”

“And we’re told this by whom?” Coughlin said. “A reliable source?”

Washington nodded again.

“Absolutely reliable,” he said. “We have Anthony Harris on the scene, and after some initial confusion of the deskman on the Wheel, he now has the job-”

“Confusion?” Coughlin interrupted. “What’s that all about?”

“Just an administrative matter that has been taken care of, sir.”

Coughlin raised an eyebrow, nodded, then gestured for Washington to continue.

“Harris got the job in part because he’s one of the best. But also because he has been on the scene since just about the time the motel blew up. He lives only seven, eight blocks away, and the blast rocked him out of bed.”

“Jesus!” Denny Coughlin blurted.

“It was a significant explosion,” Washington said.

“What do we know about the dead ones?” Coughlin said. “Anything yet?”

“Beyond the fact that one had his throat cut, not much. No IDs. They were severely burned, clearly. Practically everything in that room was consumed by the fire. The technician from the Medical Examiner’s Office put their ages between twenty-five and thirty-five. The autopsy should narrow that.”

Coughlin nodded in serious thought.

“Nothing else?” he then said.

Quaire grinned ever so slightly and made eye contact with his boss. Matt Lowenstein shrugged and grinned, too, his face saying Why not?

It wasn’t lost on Coughlin, who barked, “What the hell is it?”

“The tech from the Medical Examiner’s Office,” Quaire said, and in his peripheral vision saw Washington cringe, “said that the critter making the meth got circumcised in the room.”

“He got what?” Coughlin said incredulously, and wondered if he was having his chain pulled.

“It’s true, Denny,” Lowenstein offered. “But, I’m sorry, it’s far beneath my dignified station to explain.”

Coughlin looked at Quaire, who rose to the challenge: “The tech said anybody involved in drugs was a dickhead, and so deserved to have his throat circumcised.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Coughlin blurted, but he was smiling.