under his left arm, leather straps making their usual indelible creases in his starched white shirt. Under the harsh fluorescence, his features looked just about as starched. Then his gaze moved over me and his expression softened, his voice melting with it.
“What do you need, sweetheart?”
For you to put your arms around me, that’s what I need. For you to explain your cousin’s ugly accusations. I need you to make love to me . . .
“Can we talk? Privately.”
“Yeah, Quinn.” Matt stepped out from behind me. “Make it as soon as possible.”
A dunking in liquid nitrogen would have been warmer than the look Quinn gave my ex. His eyes found mine again, as if searching for an explanation. Then he looked back to Matt.
“Give me a second.”
“Why’s your flatfoot working so late?” Matt loudly asked after Quinn departed.
“Lower your voice,” I whispered when a female detective glanced our way. “Mike’s launching an undercover investigation. It starts tonight.”
My gaze followed Quinn as he strode back over to a cluster of desks in the corner. He spoke for a minute to the tight group of detectives he oversaw, one of whom I recognized immediately by his ruddy face and carrot-colored cop hair: Finbar “Sully” Sullivan.
Sully was wiring up another man for surveillance. (I knew this because when I was helping Quinn on a case a short time ago, Sully had wired me.) This second man was also familiar—Sergeant Emmanuel Franco.
Because Sully was still prepping him, Franco’s flannel shirt was open, revealing a weight lifter’s six-pack and part of a tattoo. A hard hat covered his shaved head and one hand gripped a bright orange vest. The construction-guy costume made sense for his new undercover assignment.
After the trendy Manhattan club near the Williamsburg Bridge was cleared of dealing ecstasy and Liquid E to its clientele, the nearby construction site’s workers became the squad’s new target.
Matt nudged me, pointed across the room. “That younger guy your flatfoot’s talking to, the one in the hard hat with his shirt open, he looks familiar.”
“No,” I lied, “he doesn’t.”
“Sure he does. That’s the cop who interrogated us last December. Franco was his name. I remember now. Sergeant Emmanuel Franco,” Matt spat. “I’ll never forget that mook.”
I gritted my teeth. Our daughter had failed to inform her father that she’d had several “hot dates” with Sergeant “Mook” after our Christmas party. With Joy back in France, I figured their relationship was over and it didn’t matter, anyway. So why bring it up?
Quinn returned and motioned for us to follow him. “I don’t have a private office,” he said as we crossed the busy floor. “We’ll have to talk in an interview room.”
“That’s fine,” I said, expecting as much.
Like the NYPD Bomb Squad, which was also based at the Sixth, the jurisdiction of Mike’s OD Squad spanned all five boroughs. With his work mostly in the field, there were no proper offices for his small crew, just that tight cluster of desks in the open squad room.
“I’m not too keen on interview rooms,” Matt said as he dodged two suits and a uniformed officer. “You’re not planning to chain me to anything, are you, Quinn?”
“I don’t know, Allegro. That’s entirely up to you.”
Mike shut the door and we sat down at a metal table with four equally uncomfortable metal chairs. The interview room’s walls were concrete block and the only window had one-way glass.
The space had all the warmth of a closet at the city morgue. But the stifling feeling was exactly the point. Detectives didn’t bring suspects in here for tea parties. They brought them here to extract confessions, and the only differences I could see between this airless space and the dimly lit confessional where I’d recited my girlish sins was the kneeler—and the lighting. In Father Pentanni’s box, I could hardly see a thing. Here in Quinn’s confessional the glare was even harsher than in the squad room.
After we sat, I began to explain the situation.
“Just show him,” Matt said, cutting me off.
I chafed at my ex’s tone, but I didn’t say a word. Matt distrusted cops (and all authority figures)—partly because of his run-ins with the NYPD and partly because of his bad experiences with corrupt officials in banana republics. I knew how difficult it was for my ex-husband to come here with me. The last thing I wanted to do was get into an argument.
I set the backpack on the table, pulled out the package.
Quinn almost never showed emotion on the job. But as