Bridges considered Mourad. Here was a man with a job, a job that required a background check. He was suited up to head to work. Here was his gash, all set for work, and work calling because she was late. There was no sign that anyone else but these two, who worked, who could afford this shithole, lived here. And how had he thought that Aziz Arkoun lived here anyway? From that cocksucker Kamal. He suddenly saw that his own appetite to keep this off the books, to not check anything on this Aziz because he was not sure he would not end up wanting to waste him, had led to this mistake with two people who, he could see, were respectful of law enforcement, put up no argument, did want to see the badge but made no fuck-assed shit about warrants. Any guy who worked airport security knew that mentioning warrants was for people who were going to be very fucked over, very soon. So it all tracked. The girl was about what a guy like this guy could get, this guy was on the right side of things, and shitheel Kamal was going to pay. He clapped Mourad on the back.

“So you work over there with Miller and those other losers.” To his discomfort, Mourad didn’t respond. He tried again. “It’s just like some scumbag to give the address of a cop who hassled him at the airport. This is why they need to crawl up the asses of those statehouse donkeys and get all our addresses sewn up shut. I mean, any dickbrain doing card fraud knows how to get an address. Shit.”

As if through a curtain, Mourad felt the hand on his back. He completely misread these tries at conciliation. He heard insults, he heard cursing. Here was how it ended, he thought. Here was how. He had no idea how he was going to feel, but he knew one thing; he was thankfully beginning to feel numb.

“Miss,” Bridges said, looking at Heather as she walked in, “I owe you an apology. This has been a terrible mistake.”

It was the sound of Heather’s voice that brought Mourad back. She was saying, “What? What did you? Are we? I—and he—”

“Heather,” Mourad breathed. She really should not talk. Might set him off.

“It’s cool, really,” Bridges said.

Mourad awoke a little to the possibility that Bridges was being friendly.

“She’s shook up is all,” Bridges said. “I don’t count it as disrespect.”

“She shouldn’t be asking questions,” Mourad said, feeling his way into his role.

“Ah, that’s Miller-think. That motherfucker makes you guys into some kind of commando unit. I told him he was crazy.”

“You know Miller,” Mourad said, as if he revered his ultimate boss Captain James T. Miller, whom he did not know, had never met.