I’m working late in the office, although I use the word “working” loosely.

Basically, I’m hanging around for two reasons. One, I’m hoping to get a call from Ron Ranes regarding the conversation he was supposed to have with his client, Daniel Lewinsky. Second, Jessie is working late hours digging into the hospital records, so I’m waiting to take her home.

Nate is here also, for no particular reason that I can tell. One thing is for sure; we’re not accomplishing anything.

But whatever the reasons for my being here, it turns out to be lucky, because the desk sergeant tells me that Daniel Lewinsky is on the phone. I’m surprised, because I would have thought the call would come from Ranes.

There’s a recording system for incoming phone calls, which can be activated with the press of a button. I press the button, because I want a record of everything Lewinsky has to say.

“Hello, Daniel. What can I do for you?”

“I want to turn myself in,” he says. “I want to make a deal. But it’s got to be now. I want to do it now.”

“Smart move. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“No. He’s going to kill me. I’m afraid to leave the house.”

“Who’s going to kill you?” I ask.

“Joey Silva. I’ll tell you everything. All about the drugs, how we do it. And I know people that he’s killed.”

“Okay, stay where you are. We’ll come get you. What’s your address?”

He tells me, and I know the area. It’s a very upscale neighborhood in Alpine.

“I’ll have cops there in ten minutes,” I say, and hang up.

Jessie just happens to be walking into my office as I’m ending the call, and she wants to come with Nate and me. First, we have the dispatcher get cars to the location; they’ll be on the scene much faster than we will. The instructions are to stay there until we arrive.

Nate is the Dale Earnhardt of the department, so he drives. He makes it in fifteen minutes, ten faster than I could have done it. There are six cop cars in front of Lewinsky’s house, and some neighbors standing outside. They must figure something significant is happening, and they are right.

As we walk toward the front door, Sergeant Luke Moore comes out, having seen us coming. “Where is Lewinsky?” I ask.

“Upstairs in his bedroom.”

“Bring him down,” Nate says.

Moore looks confused. “What do you mean … carry him? Forensics isn’t even here yet.”

Before I can ask the question, Moore sees the look on my face and says, “You know he’s dead, right?”

Actually, no.

We go inside and find Lewinsky upstairs, dead from a bullet hole in the back of his head. There were no obvious signs of a struggle; Lewinsky didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, put up much of a fight.

About a half hour after our arrival, Ron Ranes shows up, and we send word to allow him into the house. He’s already heard what happened, and is upset about it.

“He called us to say he was turning himself in,” I say. “Ten minutes too late.”

“He was? Why?”

“I assume it’s because you told him what we talked about.”

“I never spoke to him,” Ranes says. “I left a message for him to call me, but he never did.”