‘Not murder,’ she jeers, doing my accent. ‘Sez you. What are you, Daniel? Albanian?’

‘I’m Irish, American too. My mother was from Manhattan. It’s on the screen.’

She checks it. ‘Your mom moved to Ireland from New York? Isn’t that a little ass to mouth?’

Now she’s talking about my mother, it’s like we’re in the schoolyard. But it’s tactics, might even rile someone a little shorter in the tooth. I have to admit, this Deacon woman stirs shit good.

‘I think you mean ass backwards.’

I’m watching Goran through all this. The senior officer taking everything in, letting Deacon have her head, for now. This is their routine. Mother and tearaway daughter, I can see how it could work on a guilty person. Not that I ain’t a guilty person; I’m just not guilty of this.

What I want to do is cut through the bullshit, stop playing the game and really talk to these people.

‘Look,’ I say, palms up, which is body talk for trust me. ‘I liked Connie, loved her a little maybe. Can we skip the regulation back-and-forth and see if I can’t actually help out? Come on, I’m not right for this. Once upon a time I was a professional. Do you seriously think I would shoot Connie, then leave her not ten yards from where I’m sitting drinking coffee? How does that make sense?’

Goran nods slowly, accepting the truth of my argument.

Deacon believes it too, but she sticks to her role just in case I’m a better actor than she is. ‘How do we know what kind of psycho you are, Daniel? Maybe you didn’t get enough killing in the army. Maybe you want us to catch you.’

I’m staring at Goran now, head to one side. ‘Okay. I see what you’re doing. You’ve got nothing, so you’re shaking the tree.’

Deacon closes the laptop. ‘Shaking the tree? Is that some kind of racist comment, McEvoy?’

I do my best to ignore this accusation. ‘Ask me something relevant,’ I say to Detective Goran. ‘The clock is ticking. Your actual murderer is probably halfway across the GW bridge by now.’

Goran is not ready to share just yet and covers the file with her forearm. ‘This looks like a crime of opportunity, Mister McEvoy. Right place for him, wrong place for her. Some crack-head looking for bag money.’

It’s a theory, but not a great one. In Ireland we would say she was patting my bottom and closing the door behind me.

‘You’re in Cloisters, Detective. We’re not exactly overrun with crackheads. This is the roughest joint in town and I haven’t even seen a needle in a couple of years. How many crackheads you know can make a shot right between the eyes?’

Goran’s chin comes up. ‘You saw the wound, Daniel. How’d that happen?’