They let everyone go except me and one of the janitors who sometimes does the morgue. He's Hispanic, tattooed and huge with well-marbled muscle, obviously scared shitless. I don't know his name and somehow don't feel right asking. He's the same way, probably for different reasons.

The cop from the street comes to get me first. "Sorry to keep you like this, " he says with what sounds like sincerity. "I know it's important for you to get home on time. I've got a little daughter. I barely spend any time with her as it is. You have any family to get home to?"

He wants me to pause so he can ask what's so hard about the question. Unfortunately, I'm not quick enough to realize this in time. "Too personal?" he says. "New relationship, maybe? I know what that's like. When do I start calling her my girlfriend, all that crap."

I let myself think for the space of a breath. "I assume you know I left with a woman last night," I say. "You can just ask."

The cop chuckles. "I have to try subtlety until we actually sit down under the bright lights," he says easily. "Part of detective training. Want to let me know her name?"

"She never told me her full name."

"What did she tell you?"

Not a moron, then. "Tanyah," I say. "With an H. She said."

"African-American, slim, mid-twenties?"

"Yes." It was no description at all.

"Understand why I'm asking?"

"Yes."

"Know the victim?"

"No."

"Mauricio Quinoñes," he says. "Volunteer in ped-onc. Headed to Harvard Med next year. Very nice to all those dying kids, I understand. Whoever did it cut up his face and neck real bad. I understand you suffered an assault not long ago."

"That's right."

"I'm sorry to hear it. You've recovered well. And, as a victim yourself, I hope you'll be understanding when I ask whether Tanyah is staying with you."

"No. It was kind of a one-night thing." I try to look dumb and lecherous; the cop's look suggests I tried too hard. "If you round up to one."

"All right. Well, if you learn anything about her whereabouts, you let us know. And my apologies in advance if your apartment ends up a little messy—we got a warrant to search for her DNA."

It's bullshit, half a second's thought and I know it's bullshit, but I can feel what that half second of rage and caged-bear fear does to the muscles of my face, I can see smug amusement in the cop's eyes as he pretends not to notice. He looks up at the ceiling in front of him, miming reassessment. "Wait, you're Drake Speer," he says. I'm barely listening. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Speer, that's absolutely incorrect. No one's going to touch your house. I had someone else in mind."

They've actually found a conference room with bright lights; when they slam on like glaring white moons it makes me cringe. The questions are slower there, more basic, dumber. It shocks me that I can answer them all truthfully; I pause at least once to craft a lie before I realize I don't need to. I feel so guilty about taking Tasha home that I've actually forgotten she probably didn't murder this kid.

I can't even see the other cop in the glare, but I make a point of getting the first one's badge. A. Hart, I read. Chicago PD. "You related to one of the trauma nurses?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, too neutrally. "Sister-in-law. You know her?"

He knows I know her. "Yeah," I say. "We're friends. I see her a lot on trauma since I switched to day shift."

"She works nights."

He's trying to unbalance me. "No," I say, "I see her on my day shifts."

"That so? Well, Meena's a hard worker."
"I know she doesn't have a lot to come home to."

This makes Officer Hart's face get very ugly. "Interesting you should bring that up," he says. "Do you know, this hospital was the last place he was seen?"

"I thought he walked out on her," I say.

"Me too," says Hart. "Did I say he didn't?"

In my mind I backpedal and splutter, explaining why I thought he was suggesting what I thought he was suggesting. I manage not to rise to it. Instead I say, "No, I guess not."

"Is there a reason I should think he didn't walk out on Meena, Mr. Speer?"

"Not that I know of."

"Is there someone else who knows a reason?" Officer Hart is leaning forward just a degree, his nostrils and eyelids pulled back just a hair. I can practically feel the heat pour off him; I can taste ozone and iron. I feel myself leaning forward too, my lips opening just enough to expose a sliver of teeth.

"Abe," says the detective, an A. Holmes. "Can you get us some coffee? It's been a long night."

Hart gives him a long look. I can hear their breaths, Hart's more ragged than Holmes'. Hart gets up and leaves the room.

I take a moment to let my mind settle.

"Who's the janitor?" I ask. "My compadre in the conference room."

"I can't tell you."

"He works here. I'll figure it out."

Holmes rolls his eyes. "Wilfredo Quinoñes," he says. "Big brother. Checkered past. We have to be thorough."

"Does big run in the family?"

Holmes chuckles. "You trying to tell me my partner's barking up the wrong tree?"

"Slim, African-American, mid-twenties," I say. "I'm not trying to tell you anything." A lie, of course, but if I say A linebacker couldn't stuff Wilfredo Quinoñes in a morgue drawer, it might sound like protesting too much.

Holmes' eyes flash for one second toward the door, after the absent Hart. "Mr. Speer, I'm desperate for a coffee, but I do remember how foul your brew is here. If you'd rather not wait for it, we don't need to keep you."

He doesn't need to tell me twice.