The question needs a genuine response, not the lies she told Father Staggs. But Nomi can’t reveal everything either. “I’m okay, just a little hungover. And this case is getting hotter than I’d like.”
“Look at me, babe.” Irma hunkers forward. “Watch your ass with this. Galetti’s a businessman, but he’s still a snake. And Lamonte’s not screwing around—you saw what he did to Cevolatti.”
“I’m not doing anything to disrupt Arthur Galetti’s business,” Nomi demurs.
“No, but you’ve got a client who wants to disrupt his business. For whatever reason, your client’s work is necessary for what Galetti’s doing. You said Lamonte’s got her daughter as collateral to keep her working?”
“Yeah, and I’m getting the kid back.” Nomi feels her stubborn streak levitate right to the surface. “I’m not leaving a seven-year-old girl with a guy who has priors for pandering.”
“Well, if you get a clear shot, just take Lamonte out.” Irma ashes her smoke and laughs. “It’d save me a whole lot of trouble and paperwork in the long run, you know?”
This is the thing that Nomi has always loved about her ex-partner, and one of the reasons it was so damn hard to let policing go: She’d finally found someone on her wavelength, with the same sense of humor and the same rough brand of ethics.
Irma cocks her head. “You ever miss the station house, hon?”
Guilt was another thing that had made leaving hard. Being a woman cop is a tough row to hoe, and Nomi still feels as bad now about leaving Irma to hoe it alone as she did two years ago.
“I miss you.” She steals a sip of soda, shrugs. “Sneaking around like this to stay connected is a pain. And I miss having colleagues. But so long as Balter is still ruling the roost at Tenth Precinct, I’ve got to steer clear.”
“You don’t want to lock horns with the commanding officer who kicked you out—I get it.” Irma dabs out her cigarette. “Balter can be an asshole.”
Irma doesn’t know the half of it. But they can’t get into it today, because just like that, time’s up. She and Irma used to spend hours together in the cruiser, and now all they get is the time it takes Irma to smoke a Winston.
They exchange final news—gossip from the station, brief missives about family, last hugs—then they go collect their sandwiches. Nomi pays for Irma’s soda and her chopped cheese.
After giving her ex-partner a five-minute head start, Nomi exits back into the breeze along West Forty-Ninth. It’s nearly two in the afternoon. She hitches her tote and does her usual street check, pulls her hat down as she walks past a graffiti mural, a tobacconist, a set of fire escape stairs draped with Old Glory.
In her mind, she turns over the stuff Irma said about Lamonte and Galetti—He’s a snake ... Lamonte’s not screwing around.Is she getting in too deep? But the NYPD is only interested in nailing Galetti; bit players like Solange Jackson and her daughter get caught in the crossfire. Who’s looking out for them? The idea of leaving Brittany Jackson to Lamonte’s tender mercies makes Nomi feel sick.
Cars go by. Across the street, a guy pulls a wheeled pallet of carpet rolls in the other direction, toward Ninth Avenue. On Nomi’s side, a hunched bum in a dirty jacket and a khaki beanie is on the approach. She prepares to give him a wide berth, but as their paths cross, he reaches out and grabs her by the elbow, swings in beside her.
Nomi jerks, pulls back to give a swing of another kind. “Hey—”
“It’s me,” Simon Noone says. “Please don’t punch me.”
“Noone?” She feels her facial muscles go slack. “What thefuck?”
He’s almost unrecognizable in grubby brown drill trousers, a gray sweatshirt with dirty cuffs, a zipped nylon jacket the color of phlegm. The khaki beanie he’s wearing makes his hair bunch at the sides and the back. There are sweat stains on his clothes and smears on his face. Even his posture is different.
But when he removes his cheap plastic sunglasses, his eyes come into view, and there’s no disguising those. “You’re heading for the subway, yes?”
Nomi’s squinting, horrified. “What the fuck are you evendoinghere? Did youfollowme?”
“Yes?” He seems confused by the question, which is ridiculous. “I saw you come out of Florent as I was walking home from work, and—”
“Andwhat?” She wrenches her elbow out of his grip, slaps his sunglasses from his hand. They clatter on the sidewalk. “You figured you’d tail me for a while and find out what I’m up to? Do you know howfucked upthat is? Jesus Christ, Noone!”
His cheeks pink as he glances at the sunglasses, back to her. “There was a guy in the street. He was watching you, when you came out of the café. An older guy, stocky—”
“No.” This is something concrete she can refute. She’s been doing her street checks; she’s not a rank amateur. “I don’t believe you. There is no guy.”
“There was a guy!” A touch of desperation from Noone, but she’s onto him now. His hands spread helplessly. “Look, I’m sorry—”
“Listen to me.” She grabs a handful of his disgusting jacket, jerks hard. “I’m going to use small words so you understand. This isn’t a game. This is myjob, and I know what I’m doing—I’ve been doing it for literally years. I don’t need some kind of self-appointed guardian trailing me around.”
“Nomi—”
“Get out of my face.” She pushes to release him, steps away, turns back. “And stop following me! You’re not a fucking detective, and we are not partners. You want something to do after work, get a fucking hobby!”
