As the bad cop, she felt entitled to say, “If at some point you’d like to file a formal complaint against one of your coworkers, we’d be happy to look into the matter. Until then, however, there’s nothing we can do.”

She thought Aidan’s eyes might roll back in his head from sheer panic. Miller shot her a warning glance.

“Why don’t we start from the beginning,” Good Cop said in a soothing manner, taking out the mini-recorder, turning it on. “We’ll have a chat, get the matter resolved here and now. A little cooperation from you, Aidan, and maybe we can reciprocate by getting the word out that you’re in the clear on this. ’Kay?”

“’Kay,” the kid whispered. Snap, snap, snap with the elastic.

“So.” Miller pushed the mini-recorder closer to Aidan, got down to business. He held the kid’s attention, so D.D. seized the opportunity to roam the apartment. Without a warrant, she was restricted to only things in plain sight, but it never hurt to recon. She hit the bedroom, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

“Have you ever met Sandra Jones?” Miller was asking in the front room.

D.D. spied rumpled bedding, a pile of dirty clothes—mostly blue jeans and white T-shirts—a trash can that held used Kleenex. A corner of a magazine peeked out from underneath the mattress. Porn, she guessed, because what else would you hide under the mattress?

“Yeah, I mean, I met her. But I didn’t know her, know her,” Aidan was saying. “I saw her sometimes on the street, playing with her kid. But I always crossed to the other side of the street. Swear it! And yeah, okay, I remember her coming into the garage, now that you mention it. But I don’t work the counter. I’m in the back and only the back. Vito knows the terms of my parole.”

“What color is her hair?” Miller asked.

Kid shrugged. “Blonde.”

“Eyes?”

“Dunno.”

“She’s young. Close to your age.”

“Now, see, I don’t even know that much.”

D.D. wanted to gag. She used the tip of her pen to ease out a bit more of the magazine. Penthouse, it looked to her. No big deal. She let it go, but already wondered what else Aidan Brewster might have under his mattress.

“Talk to me about Wednesday night,” Miller was saying. “Did you go out, meet with your friends? Do anything in particular?”

D.D. eased over to what appeared to be a closet. She saw more clothes poking out, some white socks, dirty underwear. Door was open four inches. She decided to make it six. She saw a chain dangling down from the ceiling, and used it to click on the overhead light.