"Henry, you fucked up."

"C'mon, Cassie, I saw the opportunity to bring him in and I took it. Don't be mad."

"Don't 'Cassie' me, Henry. Remember who you're talking to." Yeah, he definitely fucked up.

"Sorry, ma'am."

She crossed her arms. Her normally-brown face was redder than a tomato. Shit. "God. We have nothing to pin on him. It's all circumstantial—"

"He was right there when Ricky Moreno—"

"I know! I know, goddammit. Which is another thing you fucked up! The paramedics didn't even get a chance to look at him! " She ran her hands through her hair. "God, Bufalino is going to skewer us."

"He's fine, ma'am. It's not anything official, just a chance to get some leads is all, rattle him a little bit—"

"You have an hour. No more than that."

"Thank you, ma'am. You won't regret this, I promise."

"Stop making promises you can't be sure you'll keep, detective. The clock is ticking now. Go."

"Yes, ma'am."

Detective Henry Olsen never really grew up wanting to be a cop. He'd had a few run-ins with them at a young age for stealing things—shoplifting stuff like candy or small toys here and there. Nothing serious, really, but he'd been a troublemaker. So as a rule, cops annoyed him, or at least growing up they did. But then, high school graduation happened, and then college happened, and he majored in Criminal Justice after washing out of the nursing program, because he never really wanted to apply himself, and becoming a cop seemed to make sense. Financial stability, healthcare; it paid the bills, so he didn't much care beyond that to start with. Now at twenty-seven, though, he was one of the youngest and most inexperienced detectives in the force, with a newfound drive and hunger to get the job done. Solving murders and sex crimes—shit, he finally felt like he was good at something.

And there was a bigger thing happening, too, now that Cassie Porter had been made DA: bringing down the city's organized crime syndicates—and he was going to be the detective to make that happen. He'd tasted ambition and was making up for lost time.

Henry looked through the one-way mirror, sipped on his cup of instant coffee. In his reflection on the glass he saw his own youth and scowled. No wonder Cassandra still had trouble taking him seriously. Well, he'd show her; he'd show them all.

"How's our favorite boss doing?" he asked, staring through the glass at Logan Black. His white whale, caught momentarily. He wanted nothing more than to screw with the bastard's head and watch him squirm. Black's relation to the bodies found in the morning had been tangential, at best—but now both Moreno brothers were dead, and Black had been present at the apparent suicide. So, nailing Black down like a cockroach to a cork board didn't seem unreasonable, even if all it did was just get under the man's skin. Eventually Henry would needle Black enough for him to make a genuine mistake, and then Henry would be the one to take him down.

"Fine," said Amy. "Didn't talk except to ask for some water and if he could smoke."

"Did you let him?"

Black was staring at him in return, like he could see him through the mirror. He was grinning too, the smug fuck.

"You know how Gerry feels about the smell."

"Christ, Amy."

"Hey, don't give me that attitude. I don't make the rules, Henry."

He finished his coffee, shaking his head in frustration, grabbed his files. "Christ."

"Luck!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

He walked into the interrogation room slowly, casually. Tried to keep his body language friendly.

"Mr. Black," Henry said, sitting down across from the man. The Devil himself.

"Henry."

"How are you feeling?"

Black rolled his shoulders, and Henry flexed his toes as a small twinge of fear made its way down his spine. At six feet, eight inches tall, Black was a large and powerfully-built man. Not lanky, but lean. His suit had been retrieved for evidence, so each time he moved, Henry could see large packs of muscle shifting underneath the fabric of his cotton t-shirt. No wonder he'd been recruited by the mob as an enforcer. Henry clenched his teeth to keep himself from audibly gulping. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the nine millimeter gun that sat holstered at his hip—although a part of him feared that wouldn't do much to slow down Black.

"Fantastic," Black said, leaning back in his chair. He smiled, showing off impeccably white teeth. His smile was vicious, wolf-like. It made Henry's skin crawl. "Itching for a smoke, though."

"Can't help you with that, Mr. Black. I do have a can of Copenhagen, if you'd like some. Nicotine is nicotine." Henry fished out the tin from his back pocket. It was brand new. He'd never touch it again now.

"Haven't dipped in years."

"I imagine you started when you enlisted."

"First deployment. Helped with the stress." Henry watched closely as Black carefully, almost delicately, took out a pinch of tobacco and placed it under his bottom lip. Now when Logan smiled, he kept his sleazy mouth closed. Good. "Sounds like you finally googled me, Henry, bravo."

Henry smiled, opening up the file he brought in. "Made it to Gunny in ten years. That's pretty impressive, right?"

Black shrugged. "Depending on who you talk to. Sure."

"Let's see...two bronze stars, a navy cross, and a purple heart. Looks like you were going to go officer too, before that incident in your last deployment."

Black chuckled lightly, and it was a strange sound coming from such a large, violent man. "Yeah, been there, done that, and got the t-shirt for it too. You didn't haul me all the way down here to talk about my military record. Get to the point already, kid."

"Juan Jose Moreno and an infant girl were found dead this morning at Steeley's Warehouse."

"A baby?"

"That's right. Just a couple months old." Henry paused, seeing if he could gauge any sort of reaction from Black, but Black's expression did not change at all—as if Henry had only just told him some banal fact about the weather and not that a significant rival had been murdered, along with a baby girl. How could a man with a heart be that cold? " 'Course, Ricky Moreno is now also dead, and you were there with him when he died. So you see, Mr. Black, I'm anxious to understand how this all connects. Hoping you can help me with that."

"Aw, hell." Black took his empty styrofoam water cup to his lips, spat in it. Henry felt his stomach churn. Dipping was something he occasionally indulged in, but he was definitely going to kick the habit for good after this. "Ricky told me his brother was dead," Black said, leaning back in his chair and sprawling his long legs out. He seemed relaxed, and that irritated Henry. "Didn't say anything about a baby."

"So you knew JJ Moreno was dead and that didn't make you nervous?"

"What, nervous like Ricky would pull out his glock and try to shoot me with it? Not particularly, no. The internal squabbling of the Morenos holds no interest for me. I figured JJ probably bit the dust from a drug overdose; it's no secret the guy is a junkie. Or was, rather. So Ricky showed up in his stead? So what? Didn't matter to me, as long as we were able to...talk." Black shifted in his seat, leaning further back until his chair hit the wall. Casually reclining, like a king. "Shame about the baby, though. That's sad."

Henry wanted to laugh. As if a man like Black could ever care about a baby. Couldn't even be bothered to try and pretend to care. Not for the first time, Henry wondered how a man could be so cold; how he could snuff out any sense of humanity and empathy and just be a shell of a person, powered by greed and rage. Surely that's what Logan Black was: you don't get to the top of a criminal syndicate without doing horrible things along the way. Things that turn the soul to pitch, and make you into a monster among men. It wasn't the serial killing of a depraved degenerate, to scratch an itch; it was the methodical domination and destruction of anyone who stood in his way.

"So what were you two there to talk about?"

Black sighed, spit into the styrofoam cup once more. "Business."

"What kind of business?"

"Oh, y'know. Property acquisitions, buyouts, et cetera."

"And then he blew his brains out."

"Well, son, you have the CCTV footage."

An image flashed before Henry's eyes: a dead JJ Moreno, holding the body of a dead little girl. And this bastard was sitting in front of him, not a care in the world. Fucker. Henry didn't care about either of the Moreno brothers' deaths—that was inevitable; and after all, what's two more dead criminals in the world?—but the little girl...that was cruelty on another level. It filled Henry with righteous anger, and his fingers twitched with the impulse to grab his weapon and use it. "You're a real scumbag, Logan Black, you know that?"

"Definitely haven't heard that one before."

"Don't you bastards have some code of honor? And after all the bullshit foster homes you were in, not one shred of empathy for a baby—"

"Hey now, sounds like you're implyin' somethin' rather nefarious, there, Henry." Now Black leaned forward, his facade of nonchalance cracked. There was rage in his cold eyes; a southern twang slipping into his words, a harsh edge coloring his voice that hadn't been there before. A heart beat in his chest after all, it seemed; now all Henry had to do was plunge a knife into it and twist.

"Just seems weird to me that with your fucked up childhood, kids wouldn't be off limits to you. But I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Henry had gotten his hands on the files; had seen the photos of bruising and scarring on Black and his siblings. The old man had been a raging alcoholic while the mother lived off of prozac. The foster parents that followed weren't much better. Henry almost felt sympathy for the boy Logan Black was—he'd been small and defenseless, forced to endure harrowing abuse and neglect—but Henry could not feel anything but disgust for the man Logan Black had become. He was a wild dog now; no, worse, he was a rabid wolf. One that needed to be put down.

"I'm just a businessman, kid."

"Yeah, and so was your shitbag daddy, and look how he turned out? How long you spend locked in that basement, huh? Nine months? Big brother having to take care of your sister and the baby. Must've been hard. Just a little kid, eight years old—"

"Seven. I was seven. Listen, I ain't impressed with your sleuthing, detective. Not like my past is a secret. We done here?" Black spit out the rest of his tobacco and checked his new plastic Timex watch, courtesy of Amy. The custom Rolex he had was now covered in blood and sitting in an evidence bag, and that fact alone gave Henry a sense of sadistic pleasure he relished, if only for a moment. Henry noticed that Black's wrist trembled slightly, boiling anger just beneath the surface, and Henry placed his palm on top of his nine millimeter handle. He'd rattled Black well enough, apparently, doing what he'd set out to do, but that made Black immediately more dangerous. Once again, Henry wondered if a nine millimeter would even work to stop Black, when the man had survived much worse.

"Why, you got somewhere to be, Mr. Black?"

"No, but I want to go home. Unless, of course, you're arrestin' me."

I wish. Henry clenched his jaw. "Not today, Mr. Black. You're free to go. Thank you for your cooperation."

"Thanks for the dip."

"You go ahead and keep it."

Black stood, rolled his shoulders, and walked out without another word.