She smiled at them warmly. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Nice, even teeth. “My name is Detective Maureen McLaughlin. I’m with the Bergen County Prosecutor’s Office. This is Detective Dan Tiles. He works for the Mahwah Police Department.”

Tiles did not say anything. He folded his arms and glowered at Myron like he was a vagrant urinating in his garden. Myron looked up at him.

“Tiles,” Myron repeated. “As in the porcelain things in my bathroom?”

McLaughlin kept up the smile. “Miss Slaughter—may I call you Brenda?”

Already with the friendly.

Brenda said, “Yes, Maureen.”

“Brenda, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

Myron said, “What’s this all about?”

Maureen McLaughlin flashed him the smile now. With the freckles it made for a very pert look. “Can I get either of you something? A coffee maybe? A cold beverage?”

Myron stood. “Let’s go, Brenda.”

“Whoa,” McLaughlin said. “Settle down a second, okay? What’s the problem?”

“The problem is you won’t tell us why we’re here,” Myron said. “Plus you used the word beverage in casual conversation.”

Tiles spoke for the first time. “Tell them,” he said. His mouth never moved. But the shrub below his nose bounced up and down. Kinda like Yosemite Sam.

McLaughlin suddenly looked distraught. “I can’t just blurt it out, Dan. That wouldn’t—”

“Tell them,” Tiles said again.

Myron motioned at them. “You guys rehearse this?” But he was flailing now. He knew what was coming. He just did not want to hear it.

“Please,” McLaughlin said. The smile was gone. “Please sit down.”

They both slid slowly back into their seats. Myron folded his hands and put them on the table.

McLaughlin seemed to be considering her words. “Do you have a boyfriend, Brenda?”

“You running a dating service?” Myron said.

Tiles stepped away from the wall. He reached out and picked up Myron’s right hand for a moment. He dropped it and picked up his left. He studied it, looked disgusted, put it back down.

Myron tried not to look confused. “Palmolive,” he said. “More than just mild.”

Tiles moved away, recrossed his arms. “Tell them,” he said again.

McLaughlin’s eyes were only on Brenda now. She leaned forward a little and lowered her voice. “Your father is dead, Brenda. We found his body three hours ago. I’m sorry.”

Myron had steeled himself, but the words still hit like a falling meteorite. He gripped the table and felt his head spin. Brenda said nothing. Her face didn’t change, but her breathing became shallow gulps.

McLaughlin did not leave much time for condolences. “I realize that this is a very tough time, but we really need to ask you a few questions.”

“Get out,” Myron said.

“What?”

“I want you and Stalin to get the hell out of here right now. This interview is over.”

Tiles said, “You got something to hide, Bolitar?”

“Yeah, that’s it, wolf boy. Now get out.”

Brenda still had not moved. She looked at McLaughlin and uttered one word. “How?”

“How what?”

Brenda swallowed. “How was he murdered?”

Tiles almost leaped across the room. “How did you know he was murdered?”

“What?”

“We didn’t say anything about murder,” Tiles said. He looked very pleased with himself. “Just that your father was dead.”

Myron rolled his eyes. “You got us, Tiles. Two cops drag us in here, play Sipowicz and Simone, and somehow we figure that her father didn’t die of natural causes. Either we’re psychic or we did it.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

Myron stood up quickly, knocking over his chair. He went eyeball to eyeball with Tiles. “Get out.”

“Or?”

“You want a piece of me, Tiles?”

“Love it, hotshot.”

McLaughlin stepped between them. “You boys sprinkle on a little extra testosterone this morning? Back off, both of you.”

Myron kept his eyes on Tiles’s. He took several deep breaths. He was acting irrationally. He knew that. Stupid to lose control. He had to get his act together. Horace was dead. Brenda was in trouble. He had to keep calm.

Myron picked up his chair and sat back down. “My client will not talk to you until we confer.”

“Why?” Brenda said to him. “What’s the big deal?”

“They think you did it,” Myron said.

That surprised her. Brenda turned to McLaughlin. “Am I a suspect?”

McLaughlin gave a friendly, on-your-side shrug. “Hey, it’s too early to rule anybody in or out.”

“That’s cop-speak for yes,” Myron said.

“Shut up, asshole.” Tiles again.

Myron ignored him. “Answer her question, McLaughlin. How was her father killed?”

McLaughlin leaned back, weighing her options. “Horace Slaughter was shot in the head.”

Brenda closed her eyes.

Dan Tiles moved in again. “At close range,” he added.

“Right, close range. Back of the head.”

“Close range,” Tiles repeated. He put his fists on the table. Then he leaned in closer. “Like maybe he knew the killer. Like maybe it was somebody he trusted.”

Myron pointed at him. “You got some food stuck in your mustache. Looks like scrambled eggs.”

Tiles leaned in closer until their noses almost touched. He had big pores. Really big pores. Myron almost feared he’d fall into one. “I don’t like your attitude, asshole.”

Myron leaned in a bit too. Then he gently shook his head from side to side, nose tip making contact with nose tip. “If we were Eskimos,” Myron said, “we’d be engaged right now.”

That backed Tiles up. When he recovered, he said, “Your acting like an ass doesn’t change the facts: Horace Slaughter was shot at close range.”

“Which means squat, Tiles. If you were part of a real force, you’d know that most assassins for hire shoot their victims at close range. Most family members don’t.” Myron had no idea if that was true, but it sounded good.

Brenda cleared her throat. “Where was he shot?”

“Excuse me?” McLaughlin said.

“Where was he shot?”