FIFTY-ONE

AFTER flashing his gold shield to get us through the crime-scene perimeter, Franco turned onto Fifth and switched on his siren.

For twenty-plus blocks of Manhattan traffic, I vented enough steam to make fifty espressos, ranting my head off over the unmarked car’s wail.

Eyes on the road, Franco said nothing during my diatribe, save for the occasional “uh-huh” and perfunctory nod of his shaved head.

Around 25th Street, he hung a right, and finally cut the siren.

In the ensuing silence, my volcano melted down to an exasperated stare. The young sergeant sheepishly glanced my way.

“Sorry, Coffee Lady. Try not to take it personally.”

“But I saw the whole thing. I’m a witness!”

“Not to Lieutenant McNulty and his men. To them, you’re an uncooperative witness.”

“What are you talking about? I was willing to cooperate fully with any investigation.”

Turning south on Seventh, Franco suppressed a smile.

“What’s so funny?”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “When you’re on the Job, cooperative has a more . . . nuanced meaning.”

“Oh, really?”

Franco nodded.

“Fine. Educate me.”

“Okay . . . if you had told McNulty, ‘Gee, Lieutenant, I was sure I heard gunshots, but then I realized it was fireworks,’ then he’d consider you a cooperative witness.”

“But that’s not what happened. I was sure it was fireworks, right from the start.”

“That’s why he sent you home. We have a name for that, too: witness correction.”

“Excuse me?”

“As tactics go, it’s unofficial, but effective.”

“I need more.”

“Right. Say there’s a hit-and-run. You have four witnesses. Three will testify they saw a black car do the deed, and one says it was blue. It’s not smart to confuse the issue in your report by including the one dude who insisted it was a blue car, especially when you find a black car with a drunk driver and the victim’s blood on the grille. That’s witness correction.”

“But what if you didn’t find the black car right away with all that forensic evidence? Maybe the three witnesses who saw the black car had a bad angle. But the guy who saw the blue car was right.”

Franco took a breath and blew it out. “His testimony would be something we’d consider . . .”

And ignore. The sergeant’s tone made that perfectly clear.

“I just can’t believe Mike went along with sending me home.”

“Aw, don’t go blaming Lieutenant Quinn. It’s not his crime scene. And he’s got to pick his battles—especially with McNulty.”

I collapsed back against the seat. “I suppose if anyone actually wrote up my view of the incident, it would make McNulty’s men sound blind and trigger-happy.”

“Not to mention tanked up.”

“Well, I admit—I had a few drinks tonight, too. But I kept a cool enough head to figure out the truth of what was happening. Why couldn’t they?”

“Because two members of McNulty’s special task force were shot.”

“No, Franco. Just one—and it was a ricochet. I saw it.”

“Not tonight. Ten days ago, give or take. They were the third and fourth victims of our cop-hunting shooter.”