Louie’s kid was big news, everyone waiting to see how, and if, the made men would reply in kind. The boys in blue thought all the perps burned up with the kid, the bomb roasting all the potential evidence away. Louie thought that a freak or two might have escaped, not been in the car. And that’s where I came in, that was my score.

Too many rumors surrounded this case; too many loose lips, too many interested parties, too much of everything. I’d be surprised if a full one percent of the info stream wasn’t bull.

When I broke into the coroner’s office, I picked the lock on the filing cabinet: a low-end Master that a first-day fish could have finessed through with a paper clip.

The files were all there: the names and addresses of the kidnappers, their bodies seared beyond recollection… their dental records being their one remaining identifier. But that’s when I got more than I bargained for; that’s when I noticed the kid’s file. And how his familial name didn’t end in a vowel… because it wasn’t Italian.