He nods. “No one’s counting on a couple carpetbagging suits from DC to keep us safe. Least of all me. Like you said, Rooney, no one cares more about this place—or knows it better—than the people who call it home. But no one’s willing to touch this thing. Not with the FBI up our ass and the superintendent rolling over like a dog. Everybody’s hands are tied.”

He pauses a moment, and I know what he’s going to say next, and I beat him to it.

“Except for mine, right?”

“That’s right.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“Chief, you want me to interfere with a federal terrorism investigation? As a civilian?”

“I want your help, Rooney. I want your eyes. Your ears. I want you to knock on doors. Knock around a couple heads if you have to. I need someone on the outside. A man I can trust. A good cop who gives a real damn about this city—”

“I’m not a cop, Chief. Not anymore.”

“Tell that to the gangbanger you chased down the other day,” he says. “You couldn’t stop yourself from going after a purse snatcher. Are you really going to sit on the sidelines now? Bullshit. I know you, Rooney. It’s who you are.”

I try to keep my expression calm and composed. But I’d be lying if I said his words weren’t touching a nerve in me.

“Look, even if I wanted to … I used to work major crimes,” I say. “My beat was homicide, gangs, drugs. We’re talking a terrorist cell infiltrating the city, setting up … whatever the hell they’re planning. Where would I even start?”

He glances down at his shoes, like he’s ashamed at what he’s going to say next.

“I wish I could tell you. Agent Morgan and his team wouldn’t say a peep after that shit-ass briefing. They’re keeping their leads and intel close to the vest. I’ve spent the last week poring over hundreds of our old case files, looking for any terrorist links. I got nothing.”

Great. So this isn’t just the biggest case I’ve ever tackled. It’s also the coldest.

“There’s always something, Chief. Maybe you’ve been sitting behind a desk for too long.”

“Let’s hope you haven’t been standing behind a stove too long,” he shoots back, lightening our collective mood just a bit as we both smile.

He extends his hand. “Thanks, Rooney.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done a thing.”

“No,” he says with confidence. “But you will. I know you too well.”

We shake, affirming our secret pact. Then Cunningham turns to go, and something comes to me.

“Chief … ” I say. “You showing up like this—why the whole fedora-and-trench-coat routine? Why not save yourself a trip and just give me a call?”