Munteanu shone the light on the prone figure. The man’s back was still. No rhythmic rise and fall. He clicked the heavy lock and stepped inside. He knelt, ignoring the smell of cheap wine and sweat, and pressed two fingers to the man’s thick neck.

“Domnule polițist! Domnule polițist! There’s a man in here! He’s not breathing!”

This wasn’t a drunk who’d had too much. This was a body dump.

“Munteanu,” she said, not a question.

Munteanu’s blood chilled. That was Agent Secuiu. Secuiu was a brute, a man who believed the law was a suggestion and that his fist was the final verdict. Officially, Secuiu was on administrative leave pending an internal investigation for excessive force. Unofficially, he still walked the streets, doing favors for people who didn’t exist.

He picked up the phone to call his captain, then stopped. Secuiu had friends. Powerful friends. The captain might be one of them. One wrong call and this report would vanish. Munteanu would be transferred to a rural outpost in the Delta, and the dead man with the soft hands would be cremated as an “unidentified vagrant.”