Soon a thirtyish man in a suit stepped into the lobby and greeted her. He was clearly surprised to see that an NYPD detective came in such a package and couldn’t quite restrain the flirt as he led her through the labyrinthine and equally sterile halls to the CEO’s office. He charmingly asked her about her job—what it was like to be a cop in New York, what were her most interesting cases, did she watch CSI or The Mentalist, what kind of gun did she have?

Which reminded her of the inked manager of Java Hut.

Men…

When it was clear that this theme of conversation wasn’t working, he took to telling her about the company’s achievements. She nodded politely and immediately forgot all of the factoids. With a frown he glanced at her leg; she realized she’d been limping and instantly forced herself into a normal gait.

After a trek they came to a corner office in the one-story building, Mr. Walker’s. A spray-haired brunette at an impressive desk looked up, defensive, probably because her boss was being visited by the NYPD. Sachs noticed that many of the shelves here were occupied by a collection of plastic and lead soldiers. Whole armies. Sachs’s first thought: Dusting would be a bitch.

The flirter who’d escorted her seemed to try to think of some way to ask her out on a date but nothing occurred to him. He turned and left.

“He’ll see you now,” the PA said.

As Sachs stepped into Harry Walker’s office, she couldn’t help but smile.

A weapons manufacturer had to be narrow of face, unsmiling and suspicious, if not sadistic, right? Plotting ways to sell ammunition to Russia while simultaneously shipping to Chechnyan separatists. The head of Walker Defense, however, was a pudgy and cherubic sixty-five-year-old, who happened to be sitting cross-legged on the floor, putting together a pink tricycle.

Walker wore a white shirt, which bulged at the belly over tan dress slacks. His tie was striped, red and blue. He offered a casual smile and rose—with some difficulty; a screwdriver was clutched in one hand and a set of assembly instructions in the other. “Detective Sachs. Amanda?”

“Amelia.”

“I’m Harry.”

She nodded.

“My granddaughter.” He glanced at the bike. “I have a degree from MIT. I have two hundred patents for advanced weapons systems. But can I put together a Hello Kitty trike? Apparently only with great difficulty.”

Every part was carefully laid out on the floor, labeled by Post-it Notes.

Sachs said, “I work on cars. I always end up with an extra bolt or nut or strut. But things seem to run fine without them.”

He set the tool and instructions on his desk and sat behind it. Sachs took the chair he gestured at.