“I’m sitting in the back of their car answering questions.” Ted could hear an angry voice in the background. “His partner’s a dick,” Lester whispered, and then continued at a normal volume, “Duran’s got a different take on things. About who killed Richie, at any rate.”

“He knows something he’s not telling you. Can you convince him to meet me somewhere?”

“What’s up?”

“Tell him I know where we’re going to find Nicky Greco.”

-74-

-74-

Archer Avenue and Sutphin Boulevard. The redevelopment of downtown Jamaica had finally reached this crossroads. Shopping malls and new apartment buildings, many with a view of all eight Long Island Rail Road tracks, sprouted in every vacant lot. But tucked in between there were two- and three-story survivors where you could still get a pair of shoes resoled, have your hair braided, or eat a three-star lunch while standing at a linoleum counter.

Ted hugged the building side of the pavement as he walked north, letting the afternoon shadows and the crowds of pedestrians keep him hidden. In the middle of the block, he ducked into a Chinese restaurant. Lester was sitting with the detectives, Duran and Kasabian, at a four-top near the door. The cops were drinking coffee facing each other by the window. Lester had a glass of clear liquid that Ted hoped was water. As the window was half-covered in menus and photos of the delights within, the men were hidden from the street but had a clear view of the courthouse steps.

“Finally,” Lester said. He was healing. His bruises, now a greenish yellow rather than dark blue and purple, looked less angry. His eyes were clear and had lost their watery dullness. And he was dressed in a bright plaid jacket only a size or so too big for him. He must have found another thrift shop. “It feels like I’ve been stuck with these two for half my life. They can’t help themselves. Even a conversation about baseball feels like an interrogation.”

“Sit down,” Duran said, indicating the empty seat next to him. “And then you can tell me about Nicky Greco.”

“In a minute,” Ted said. His stomach felt full from the burrito, but his nose told him he was still hungry. He went to the counter and ordered two kinds of panfried dumplings and a plate of noodles with scallion-and-fiery-beef sauce. Even with a bottle of water, the tab came to less than twenty bucks. The woman behind the counter was a perpetually smiling plump Asian woman—Chinese, he guessed—so short she had to stand on a milk crate to see over the counter. He took out the last of Cheryl’s money. A single hundred dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he said.