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There was a lot of chatter over the seventh perp. I stayed at my post because that was the job and I always did my job—unless there was a woman somewhere in the way.

Thirty-two minutes after the takedown the grate to the subway lifted slightly. I watched from shadow, timing my intervention.

I could have called for backup, but by then the suspect would have escaped. I could have shot him in the leg or foot, or killed him for that matter, but that’s just not the kind of man I am. So instead I waited until one hand shot up out of the ground, snapped a cuff on it, and quickly attached the other link to the heavy metal grating. Then I put the muzzle of my service revolver to the man’s head and said, “Let me see that other paw and it better be empty.”

I received the Medal of Exceptional Merit for the arrest, bestowed upon me by the chief himself. The FBI had me go to their headquarters, where the local director shook my hand.

All that honor went away when Melquarth was put on trial. The other six bank robbers were tried together, but because Mel was captured alone and quite far from the scene, his lawyer, Eugenia Potok, was able to separate him from the rest.

Before I testified, the prosecutor “interviewed” me, suggesting that maybe I heard the accused admit to being involved with the crime. The other men refused to bear witness against one another and so had Mel.

I could not, in good conscience, say anything but what I knew on the stand. I had determined early on in my career that as a cop I would always adhere to the letter and the spirit of the law. Law for me was scripture.

Melquarth beat the charges, and I was transferred to night duty on Staten Island for the next three years.

Time passed. I was framed, incarcerated, and thrown out on my ear—so it’s easy to understand how I might have forgotten all about Melquarth. And then, only two years ago, I was sitting in my office, looking out the window, and thinking about solitary confinement.

“Mr. Oliver,” Tara Grandisle, Aja’s predecessor, said over the intercom.

“Yes, Tara.”

“A Mr. Johnson to see you.”

“Who?”

“He says he wants to discuss a case with you.”

As far as I knew, this Mr. Johnson was just another prospective client. I had no idea that he was the man who earned me three years on a Staten Island boat.

“Send him in,” I said, pocketing my snub-nosed .32 just for insurance.

When Melquarth Frost walked through the door I nearly pulled my weapon.

My visitor smiled and held his arms out, revealing open palms.

I hit the intercom and said, “We need some pumpernickel for the pastrami.”

“Okay,” Tara said. That was our code for her to clear out.

“Mr. Oliver,” Mel said.

“Melquarth Frost.”

“You can call me Mel; all my friends do.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“That might be,” he said. “But I’m yours. Can I sit down?”

I thought about the request a beat longer than was civil and then said, “Sure.”

He was wearing a medium gray suit that was loose enough for freedom of movement but tailored in such a way to look businesslike.

“What can I do for you?”

“Just did three on a nickel in Joliet,” he said, as if this was somehow an answer to my question. “My second conviction and my last.”

The man was the opposite of his suit. He was lean and dangerous-looking, with olive skin, short brown hair, and dark eyes that women must have adored. His hands were heavily muscled.