Except for one other man, the place was empty—one of the advantages of working Sunday morning. The area given over to the gold shields was cramped, a maze of waist-high cubicles stuffed with standard-issue metal desks, functional chairs, and basic computers. The walls were whitewashed cinder block, the water-streaked ceiling held dim fluorescent lighting, and the flooring was composed of white crushed-rock tile scuffed dirt gray. There were a few stabs of humanity, courtesy of several desktops holding wilting potted plants or an occasional child’s homemade ceramic mug or paperweight, some scattered personal pictures. The majority of the domain, of course, was given over to business.

Papers abounded.

Loose-leaf sheaves were piled high on any flat surface that would hold them, or posted chockablock on bulletin boards. They spilled out of file cabinets and from plastic bins that also contained thick wads of forms and reports. Street maps were taped to the wall, dotted with crimes that had been coded by different-colored pins. There were two interview rooms and between their peacock blue doors was a bulletin board overlaid with police sketches of felons at large.

One particular printed poster caught Decker’s eye. It showed the American flag, the caption reading: THESE COLORS DON’T RUN. Below the poster was another bulletin board filled with snapshots of bleeding, ash-covered officers from September 11.

Novack caught him staring. “You know, being in the Job, you think you’ve seen it all.”

Decker let out a wry laugh. “Guess what?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Novack pointed to the room’s other occupant. “That’s Brian Cork from Vice standing over my desk. Hey, Bri, say hello to Lieutenant Decker.”

Cork looked up. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.”

They gathered at Novack’s desk. Cork appeared to be in his forties, around five-ten, with big shoulders and a growing beer gut. Around the chest and arms, he was a mound of muscle. If the precinct had a football team, these guys would have been perfect ends. Cork had a round, ruddy face, with thin, almost bloodless lips and pug features. He also had a broken nose perched on his face like a pattypan squash. He was scanning through the postmortem pictures of Ephraim.

He said, “So you’re a lieutenant in L.A?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing out here, messing with this trash?”

“I was wangled into coming out here to be the translator for the cops. The vic was a brother-in-law to my brother. I told him I’d poke around. I was just telling Micky that I think I’ve outlived my usefulness. Even the family is sick of my face. Pretty good trick since I’ve only been here for two days.”

“Family…” Cork made a face. “I’ve got six brothers and sisters. Three of them are cops, so you know it’s gotta be bad news right away. We get together every Christmas. It always starts off full of good cheer, but by the end of the evening, more punches are thrown than at a boxing match. Sheez, I’ll take the street over pissed-off siblings any day of the year.”