While waiting a half hour in the slow-moving line, Frankel explained how it had started out as just another Manhattan hot dog stand. The owner, Mohamed Abouelenein, had claimed that a frankfurter wasn’t a satisfying meal and switched to a Mediterranean-inspired menu a couple of years later. There had been no advertising; its popularity spread by word of mouth. Its first real appearance in the news had been in 2006 when a fight broke out ending with one man stabbed to death. The reason: cutting in line, naturally.

“I’ve been coming here since high school,” Frankel said as they crossed the street with their stuffed-to-the-brim metal tins.

Grant studied the concoction. “I think I’d be dead by now.”

They sat on the edge of a fountain beside two kids wearing Hunter College sweatshirts. Frankel watched Grant dip his fork and told him to make sure he got a lot of sauce.

“So?” the detective asked after Grant had taken a bite. “Pretty great, huh?”

“Better.” Grant didn’t elaborate; he was too busy loading up the fork again.

“They’ve franchised all over the country. But nothing beats the original.”

“Coming from a people who take great pride in tradition, often to a fault, I would have to concur.”

Frankel dug into his own platter. The next few minutes were spent making huge dents in their dishes. Frankel finally paused between bites.

“Speaking of England—have you given much thought to what you’re going to do once the new year rolls around?”

“Not really. For years I figured when the time came, Allison and I would get to do all the things we never got around to.”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” Frankel said apologetically.

“No. It’s a fair question.” Grant repressed a sigh. “Right now, I’m just praying this is all over by then.”

They went back to their meals. Then the NYPD man resumed the conversation. “You’ve really been at the Yard thirty years?”

“Just finishing thirty-four, actually.”

“I haven’t been in this job half that time. I can’t imagine doing it that long.”

“Things are different over there.” Grant finished the last bite and indicated his empty plate. “Places like this, for instance. The fact this city never seems to stop—twenty-four-seven as you say. That pace has to take a toll. Things move a bit more leisurely in England.”

“I haven’t been to London since I went with a few buddies after college. We spent most of it drunk in pubs, but I remember it being a happening place. I hear it’s even more so these days.”

“It’s there if you want it. Just not in your face every single moment.” Grant shrugged. “I’m perfectly content curling up with a good book or sitting across from my brother getting my hide fleeced in our weekly chess match.”