As for the bullet that tore a gash in my thigh, it was traced back to a gun issued to someone who worked for the Company. I was laid up with that wound, but some officers had gone after Louis Buonfiglio. They couldn’t discover for certain why he’d shot me, and no one was able to ask him—Buonfiglio had been found dead in his car, and the autopsy had determined cause of death to be a massive heart attack.
Strange and…very convenient.
* * * *
“I know very well you didn’t shoot me,” I’d snapped at Vincent that day.
“I’ll bet it broke your heart.”
“It did.” I’d been pleased to see how that curt remark surprised him. “It’s always upsetting when a fellow officer betrays one.”
“Found out it was Buonfiglio, did you?” He’d given a snort, gathered up the detritus of his lunch, and stalked out.
