Officer Nova and the detective assigned to the case, Lou Carnellis, had been putting together a lineup for identification. They used Interview Room One to do it, because it was the only room with the one-way mirror and observation booth.

Kolarich stood with Nova and Carnellis on the opposite side of the plate glass. “He hasn’t requested counsel?” he asked Carnellis.

“Nope.” Carnellis had lost most of his hair and sucked on lollipops ever since he quit smoking, so most people called him Kojak or Telly, the name of the actor who played the TV cop. Kolarich called him Carnellis. Kolarich was friendly with the police officers, but didn’t want to get too friendly. He wasn’t their pal. Sometimes he had to be the heavy. Easier to do that if you aren’t drinking buddies.

Five men entered the room, each of them holding a card with a number. Kolarich knew that two of them had come from county lockup, and two worked here in the station but had dressed down to civilian clothes. And the man holding the placard that said 2 was Marshall Rivers. Rivers was muscular and bald, with a thick goatee that emphasized his scowl. Kolarich would have identified him even if he hadn’t known already. The guy was bad. Those eyes, something menacing just radiating off him, like he’d never known good, he only had one direction and it was through you. A shudder crossed Kolarich’s shoulders.

The lineup wasn’t bad. Two others were completely bald and two had receding hairlines. All of them were stocky enough. One of them, a weight-lifting rookie officer, was bigger than Rivers, the rest of them comparable but probably not as big as the suspect. Three of them had facial hair, and two did not. The key was to make sure that Rivers wasn’t the only anything—not the only big guy, not the only bald guy, not the only goatee. He had to fall somewhere in the middle, or the lineup wouldn’t hold. It was like a game of Goldilocks.

Rivers, he noticed, had his arms behind his back. He was covering up the tattoo on his right forearm, which Caridad Flores had described.

“Tell everyone to put their hands behind their backs,” said Kolarich.

Carnellis did so, operating a microphone on the console.

“We’re good to go,” he said.

Caridad Flores came in with Officer Alvarez, Nova’s partner, and Lisa the translator. Kolarich explained the drill to the witness, though she probably already knew it. When she turned toward the plate glass, her face tight with fear, a small gasp escaped her and she choked up. Kolarich smelled something, then heard the sound of tiny droplets, then saw it for himself: a small pool at the feet of Caridad Flores. She had wet herself.

“Número dos,” she whispered through her hand. She turned away, and Gina Alvarez put an arm around her.

“Now, arms at their sides,” Kolarich instructed. Carnellis gave the command, and Marshall’s tattoo came into view. Caridad looked again and let out a large cry.

“Número dos!” she repeated.

Kolarich nodded. Officer Alvarez hustled her out of the room.

Caridad Flores was hovering over her baby when Kolarich returned to Interview Room Two with Lisa the translator. They all sat down.

“I’d like you to sign a written statement,” said Kolarich.

The witness listened to the translation, then said something back so quickly that it failed Kolarich’s four years of Spanish at Bonaventure. She was upset, that was clear enough. Her eyes filled, and she pressed her hands against her chest.

“She wants to know if that’s necessary,” said Lisa.

“Tell her yes.” Kolarich looked at Caridad Flores. “Sí, por favor.”

The witness and Lisa talked back and forth a moment in animated terms. Kolarich gave up trying to follow them.

“She says,” Lisa started, then let out a sigh. “She said she may not be positive about everything that happened.”

Jason gave a grim smile. It was how he expressed frustration when it was inappropriate to throw something or shout an obscenity.

“Tell her that with his criminal record, he’ll go away for a very long time,” he said, hoping it was true.

After another lengthy exchange, Lisa shook her head, while Caridad Flores stared at a wall, refusing to look at him.

“Ask her where she’s from,” he said to Lisa.

She did. Kolarich heard the answer: Sixty-fifth and Roseland.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

Lisa knew that. So did the witness.

“Ask her,” said Kolarich.

“Ask her what? I already did.”

“Lisa,” said Kolarich, scolding her. “Ask her if she’s here legally.”

He could have added a few things, like I can keep her here all night and find out, but he wanted to start with a light touch.

When the question was translated, Caridad Flores broke into a sob, then a number of por favors spilled out of her mouth.

Shit. She was undocumented. She wanted nothing to do with law enforcement. She wasn’t going to sign a statement. It probably had something to do with a fear of Marshall Rivers, but her bigger fear was being deported.

“Okay,” said Kolarich. “It’s okay.” He patted the air. Caridad Flores looked at him, unsure of what was happening, what was going to happen.

Kolarich said, “Give me a few minutes,” and left the room.

Kolarich quickly found Detective Carnellis. “Put him in Three,” he said.

“Three? Why Three?”

Kolarich gave him a look. The question between them was obvious, as was the answer. Interview Room Three didn’t have one-way glass. Nobody would be able to observe the interrogation.

“Put him in Three,” Kolarich repeated.

Kolarich found a phone at one of the detectives’ desks. He balanced it between his ear and shoulder and fished the card out of his wallet.

Lisa the translator came up behind him. “You’re going to call Immigration on her?”

Kolarich dialed the phone.

“Jason,” she said. “You’re going to get this poor girl deported? Or locked up until trial? She has a baby.”

Kolarich looked at her. “Tell me honestly, Lisa. You think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that this woman will show up and testify against the offender?”

Lisa blinked twice. “No,” she conceded.

“So without her, I have no case on the attack. She’s all I’ve got, Lisa. She’s it. So if she’s unwilling to testify, I need another avenue. Just . . .” He waved at her. “Tell Caridad it will all be fine.”

He finished dialing and the phone rang.

“You tell her,” Lisa spat. “I’m not going to lie to her.” She stormed off.

“Patrick Romer,” the voice answered, in that crisp, federal-law-enforcement tone.

“Romie, it’s Jason Kolarich.”

When his call was over, Kolarich went to Interview Room Three, where the suspect was sitting with his left hand cuffed to the metal table. Kolarich tended to trust his first vibe, which had been negative, but now he was seeing him up close, and he let it wash over him as he walked in and introduced himself to Marshall Rivers. Rivers was wearing a plain white T-shirt, torn and straining against his muscular upper body. His head was freshly shaved, and he wore a goatee. He had a bad complexion and eyes that screamed out at Kolarich. Menacing—that word stayed with him. This man was bad. Trouble. He wore a dull expression, but those predatory eyes gave him away. The kind of guy who could part a sidewalk of pedestrians just by walking in a straight line.

Three women, Kolarich thought to himself. The first one, the case was pleaded out; the second time, the woman was scared off.

He didn’t want to miss the third time.

“You need anything, Marshall?” he asked. “Take a piss, cup of water, cigarette?”

He hoped that Marshall smoked, or chewed tobacco, something that Kolarich would do, too, if so. It formed a bond, a small thing, but meaningful.

Rivers shook his head but didn’t speak. A smirk played on his face. A tough guy. Not afraid of nothin’.