“That’s me,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a situation we hope you can provide some answers to,” the second cop said. This cop was butch but also looked like he had done a lot of drugs during high school. You could see it on his slack, pock-marked face. He reminded me of a dog, but I couldn’t remember which type. They looked at me like I was going to invite them in.

I didn’t.

“What situation is that?” I asked.

“Mr. Blume, do you know a man by the name of Anthony Taylor?”

Alarms instantly went off in my head, but I tried not to let it show. “I do,” I answered as nonchalantly as I could.

“Well, Mr. Taylor committed suicide last night.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, as guilt hit me again. Was there anything else I could screw up?

“And we also saw in his planner that he met with you yesterday,” the first cop said. “As you were an acquaintance of his, we thought we’d check to see what, exactly, you were meeting about?”

“That’s private information,” I said, but I was pretty sure they’d tear that defense to shreds…which they did, promptly.

“He killed himself and as far as we know, you are the last person that saw him alive. You know that the privacy shite won’t work here.” Moustache said.

They were right, so all I could do was shrug. “He thought his wife was cheating on him but didn’t have the courage to confront her about it,” I informed them. I had stepped in front of the doorway, making sure they knew damn well that I wasn’t going to invite them in. Yes, they were just doing their job but for a reason I could not explain, I had a sense of responsibility for Anthony…not what he had decided to do, but in the personal ramifications of working with him.

“And?” the dog-faced cop with the hazy eyes said.

“And he turned out to be right. I presented him with the evidence yesterday.”

“Evidence?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Pictures.”

The two cops shared an expression that enraged me…an expression that basically translated to: Get a load of this worthless son of a bitch. And damn them if it didn’t make me feel like shit.

“You didn’t think there would be repercussions?” Moustache glared.

“No. I’ve helped a few people with these kinds of things. There’s always some anger and regret, but it comes to one of two conclusions: the cheated spouse either leaves or the marriage mends itself.”

“Tell me, how long you been living in London?” The short cop flicked through a notebook and glanced at me.

“Who said I was living here?”

The first cop smiled. We ran your name through our system. Seems you entered the UK about six months ago. Never returned to the United States. At least not on the record. So unless we’re mistaken, you’ve been here for at least half a year.”

“It’s a long visit,” I said.

“Aye,” the second cop nodded along. “I’ll say. I’m just curious, Mr. Blume. Where you been stayin’ during this long visit, here?”

“I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Of course you don’t,” said the first cop. “Course, if you chose not to, we would be obliged to imagine you aren’t staying anywhere. Which means you’re a vagrant.”

“A foreign vagrant,” his partner added.

“And that’s not good.”

“Not good at all.”

“Course if you are staying somewhere, we don’t have to worry about that.”

I sighed, looking from one to the other, scowling at each of them. Finally, I told them the truth.

“Now,” the first cop went on, “of course since you are staying here, paying a monthly rent and all, you are in fact in violation of the travel visa you entered the country on.”

I shook my head. “You asshole.”

“I’m afraid you can probably guess what we do to visitors who violate their visas, can’t you?”

When I said nothing, the second cop answered for me. “We deport them.” He grinned and fluttered his fingers at me. “Bye-bye. Back to America.”

I stared at them, my heart frozen in my chest. They couldn’t deport me; I still had work to do here. I still needed to solve Sarah and Tommy’s murder. Lord knew that these two idiots wouldn’t be able to. I had to stay.

“Come on,” I croaked.

“Sorry, mate,” the first cop smiled smugly. “Just doing my job. Maybe next time you overstay your welcome somewhere you’ll be smart enough to stay out of trouble.”

“You don’t understand,” I insisted. “I used to be a cop. If you —“

"No you don't understand," The tall cop cut in. "By my calculations, if you ain’t got a job in two weeks it’s back to New York for you. Got it?”

"Maybe you could become a photographer? The other cop chimed in sarcastically, "Just how much did Anthony Taylor pay you for those pictures?"

“This conversation is over, gentlemen,” I said.

I shut the door with force. It slammed in their faces, and I waited a moment, sure that they would knock again, but they decided to leave me alone. I could hear their muffled voices and footfalls echoing back down the corridor and to the steps beyond. They had no evidence of my wrongdoing, and for now they couldn’t charge me with anything.

Shaking, I walked to my desk and picked up the camera. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I slammed it down on the desk. When it did not break, I threw it hard to the floor. It cracked, the lens popping out and the body splintering.

I stood for a moment trembling, as anger and grief washed through me.

It’s not your fault, Sarah’s voice finally whispered to me. My own voice would have pushed more and more guilt on. In a way, I guess I deserved it. But, as always, it was Sarah that was the voice of reason. Not your fault…

I collapsed into my chair, deflated, and fired up my computer. I had nothing to do, but I desperately wanted to use my time in some way other than occupying real estate at the pub.

Anthony Taylor was dead and in less than two weeks the cops would be back, and next time I wouldn’t be able to keep them out. I’d be bundled on the first plane back to America, flying away from any hope of justice for my family. I couldn’t leave this country, not yet. I had a job to do.

I started off by opening my browser and shopping for a new camera. I had fourteen days to get it together, or everything was lost.

FOUR

It was a comfortable betrayal.

Three days after the two police came by my office and tried to suffocate me with a guilt trip about Anthony Taylor, I got another knock on my door. I was taking practice shots with my new camera, getting used to the zoom, flash, and all of that stuff. It was another Canon. I had never considered myself loyal to any brand, but for some reason, I found cameras to be the exception. I was also nursing a hangover from pounding beer the night before. It had been a rough night — one of those where the memories of Sarah and Tommy were demonic poltergeists haunting my apartment. Forcing me to remain in limbo between sleep and consciousness.

I looked up to the door, somehow certain that this would be the two cops again. Maybe they found my name somewhere else in Anthony’s personal belongings.

I almost didn’t answer it but figured that would be stupid. And besides, I still felt as if I owed Anthony something.

I was relieved to see that the two cops were not standing there. Instead, there was a short but muscular man in his forties with thinning midnight black hair and intense eyes. Most people would have been alarmed by his intimidating appearance, but I knew differently. Amir Mazra was one of the kindest and most insightful men I’d met. He was the owner of the restaurant below and originally from Iran or Afghanistan or somewhere like that. Right then I realized I’d knew little about the Middle East and felt ashamed for a second.

“Hey Amir,” I said.

“Thomas. Come on. Let’s have lunch.”

“Downstairs?” I asked, looking to the floor. “No offense, but I smell it every day. It smells delicious, but I’ve had my fill.”