Turner stared at Conroy's face on the screen of the office phone. "Go on," he said to Angie. "You go with her " The tall black girl with the resistors woven into her hair stepped forward and gently put her arm around Mitchell's daughter, crooning something in that same click-infested Creole. The kid in the T-shirt was still gaping at her, his jaw slack. "Come on, Bobby," the black girl said. Turner glanced across the desk at the man with the wounded hand, who wore a wrinkled white evening jacket and a bob tie with thongs of braided black leather. Jammer, Turner decided, the club owner. Jammer cradled his hand in his lap, on a blue-striped towel from the bar He had a long face, the kind of beard that needed constant shaving, and the hard, narrow eyes of a stone professional. As their eyes met, Turner realized that the man sat well out of the line of the phone's camera, his swivel chair pushed back into a corner.

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