For French, the day was tough, but not impossible. He did have friends, and good friends would risk a lot. Late afternoon, he met one of those good friends in an alley two blocks from the station, a narcotics detective named James Monroe. After the old, white dude, he liked to say. A ten-year cop, he was dark-skinned and lean, with a hard face under gold-rimmed shades and eight inches of Afro.

“The APB went out ten minutes ago. Citywide. All departments.”

French nodded grimly. “I heard it on the radio.”

“It’s worse, though. Captain Martin ordered it statewide. SBI, FBI, highway patrol. I’m sorry, brother. I hate to be the messenger.”

French squinted into the bright light shining off the streets and buildings. Going statewide was an escalation. It meant Captain Martin considered his son a flight risk. The larger problem was that cops took statewide alerts seriously, and were much more likely to go in hot. “What about Burklow?”

“Still trailing Martinez and Smith. For a big guy, he can ghost along pretty good.”

“And the ladies are still with us?”

“Come on, man.” Monroe showed his teeth. “You know the ladies love you. More importantly, they love the kid.”

That was the cornerstone of French’s loose network: those who actually knew his son. The ladies included Captain Martin’s assistant, two dispatch supervisors, and a desk sergeant named Irene Devine who used to bounce Gibby on her knee. Not much happened in the station that one or more of them didn’t know about. The plan was simple: find Gibby before he got picked up, shot, or made things worse; keep Gabrielle in total ignorance for as long as possible. But the first part needed to happen fast, before the second part blew up in his face. He’d looked everywhere he knew to look, burned every possible bridge. “What aren’t you telling me? Come on, Monroe. I see it in your face.”

“All right, man. Shit.” Monroe’s frown deepened. He pulled off the shades, and showed some seriously unhappy eyes. “Captain Martin called a press conference for five fifteen. He’s going live, man. He wants Gibby’s face on the six o’clock news.”

French’s fingers tightened into a fist. He couldn’t help it.

Monroe understood. “He thinks he’s helping, all right, that a press conference is the best way to bring Gibby in and keep him safe.”

But French didn’t see it like that. A clean takedown required control, and a press conference ceded that control to a city full of fucking idiots. “Where’s the press conference?”

“Usual.”

That meant the station house media room. Thirty seats. Good lighting. The captain was very proud of it. The time was 4:37. Thirty-eight minutes before they opened the doors, and the news crews piled in. “Martinez and Smith will be there?”

“What do you think?”