When he puts the drink down, Thomson hunches forward and clasps his hands together like he has something to confide. He glances over his shoulder before speaking.

“I’m in a position to help you,” he says. “Only you’re gonna have to help me first.”

“Don’t take this wrong, Joe, but can I see some ID?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He smirks. “I’ll reach slow so you don’t jump to any conclusions.”

True to his word, he edges a wallet out of his back pocket, sliding it across the table. I flip it open, a sergeant’s badge catching the light, and match the photo to the face in front of me.

“You’re looking a little beat down these days,” I observe.

“Yeah, well.” He takes the wallet back. “You would be, too.”

“What are you offering me?”

“It’s a two-way street. I need something from you first.”

“What’s that?”

His mouth opens, but he can’t seem to form the words. He tries again, fails, then rubs his lips with the back of his hand, glancing away. A cough rumbles in his lungs. His cheeks color. The signs are pretty unmistakable. Thomson’s embarrassed.

“Spit it out,” I say.

He clears his throat, takes another sip. “What I’m looking for – and it’s not negotiable – is a blanket immunity. The information I share, I want it in writing that nothing will come back to bite me. You understand? No prosecution, but on top of that, no trouble at work, either. I come out looking like a hero, or I don’t take another step.”

A tremor runs up my spine, but I try to look indifferent. “You’ve lost me, Joe. Are you saying you want to confess to a crime?”

His mouth twitches. “This isn’t a confession, no.”

“Why don’t you give me an idea what we’re talking about then.”

“When I have something in writing, something I can take to an attorney and double-check, then we’ll talk. Not before.”

“You’re a cop, Joe. You know it doesn’t work that way.”

“What I know is that sometimes, for the right people, that’s exactly how it works.”

“Let me put it another way. You’re asking me to pull strings I don’t have the juice to pull. If there’s somebody in this department who can deliver what you’re demanding, it isn’t me.”

“Wrong,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re the only one. You’ll fight for it in a way nobody else will, because of who’s involved.”

My tremor turns into a vertebral earthquake. “Who is involved?”

He smiles. “Not yet, March. Here’s what you need to do. Your ex-partner Wilcox, the one who’s in Internal Affairs? He can deliver what I need. You go to him and explain, and he’ll smooth the path. Those guys have a magic wand they wave to get the prosecutors to see things their way. Why are you laughing?”

I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head slowly. “You don’t know Wilcox, do you? If it’s a favor from him you want, then you’ve really come knocking on the wrong door.”

“It’s not me who wants it,” he says. “It’s you.”

“That’s my point. Wilcox is my ex-partner, the operative word being ex. That’s Latin for ‘no longer on speaking terms,’ in case you didn’t know.”

“Whatever. Don’t sell yourself short, March. You’ll make it happen. Besides, this will work to his benefit, too. Tell him that. If he gives me what I want, he won’t be working in Internal Affairs anymore. He’ll be running it.”

“That’s a big promise,” I say, wiping my damp palm on my thigh.

“And I can deliver.”

He sounds confident, but as soon as the words are out, he turns to scan the room again, like he’s expecting a knife in the ribs. When he looks back at me, there’s a hunted look in his eyes, maybe a haunted one, too. I start wondering how much of this premature age he put on over the last few days.

“You make it hard for me to say no,” I tell him. “But unless you’re prepared to give me something, I can promise you I won’t lift a finger. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not real big on career advancement.”

“All right,” he says, leaning forward, sliding the drink aside. “I’m not giving you any names. This isn’t even a preview. But that case you’re working on, the Morales hit…?”

“What about it?”

“What I have for you is gonna blow it wide open. I mean wide.”

He pushes away from the table, takes another look around.

“As in what?” I ask.

He taps the table with his index finger. “As in shooters, March. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

And then he turns to go.

“How do I get in touch?” I call after him, trying to be heard over the music.

He pivots, putting a hand to his ear. I stick out my thumb and pinkie, jamming them phone-like to my head.

“You don’t,” he says. “I’ll call you.”

Nothing sinks in for the first minute or so. Then I feel a stupid grin on my lips. I wipe it with the back of my hand, but can’t get rid of the smile. A blur of faces swirl around me. I want to kiss them all. I’m happy as a drunk, in love with the world, all the sappy clichés rolled up into one.

Cavallo can sit on that dna test as long as she wants. Joe Thomson just threw me another lifeline. Last time this happened I screwed it up. But I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I’m back in this thing.

Back to stay.

I put a few more dollars on the table for luck, then head for the door, still dizzy from the turn of events, gazing at life through a gauzy adrenaline-induced tunnel. Circling the bar, paying no attention to my surroundings, thanks to the thoughts blaring in my head, I come face-to-face with the waitress Marta. She stops short, almost ditching the tray of drinks in her hand. Her eyes light up with recognition.

I step around her, but not quickly enough.

“You,” she says, grabbing my sleeve with her free hand.

I twist away. “Excuse me – ”

“Wait just a second,” she hisses, loud enough for people at the bar to turn.

Not wanting a scene, I’m torn. I can brave whatever she’s about to say, or I can make a dash for the door. As tempting as retreat is, I’m in no mood to run.

She slides her tray onto the bar, then gets right up in my face. “I know what you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You want me to say it in front of everybody?”

A couple of young men in striped, tall-collared shirts are watching, trying to decide whether they should take an interest or not. I’ve had crisis resolution drilled so deep into my psyche that my automatic impulse is to diffuse the tension. But I don’t want to diffuse anything. There’s a part of me that would like nothing better right now than a fight. I couldn’t be beaten, not by anyone.

They step forward, shoulder to shoulder for support. To my surprise, Marta turns on them, freezing the men with her glare.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” she says, ticktocking her finger at them.

They shrug their way back to their drinks, pretending nothing’s happened.

“And you,” she says, back to me. “What gives you the right -?”

I whisk my jacket back just far enough for her to get a glimpse of badge and maybe a little gun just behind. It’s a well-practiced gesture, perfect for shutting people up mid-sentence. On Marta it has a curious effect.

“You’re a cop?” she asks, shaking her head. “And you think that means you can do anything you want? You can go up to random women and start pushing them around? For what?” She jabs her finger at my chest. “Because she wouldn’t go home with you?”

“What’s the problem, Marta?”

I find Tommy at my elbow. He takes her by the arm, nudging her back.

He’s acting friendly, but Marta shuts down at the touch, suddenly petulant. “This is my problem.”

“He’s cool, though,” Tommy says. “Hey, you don’t want to make any trouble for him.”

She pulls free, eyes on the floor. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“No, really, I’m serious. He’s one of the good guys.”

The men from the bar pause. One of the bartenders holds a mobile phone in his hand, his finger poised over the call button like he’s going to detonate a bomb any second. I start going into resolution mode, flashing the badge, motioning for everybody to calm down.