“Are you Detective McIlroy?”

“Does Keith Richards pick coconuts?” McIlroy’s eyes remained on the report he was reading.

“I think the surgeons might’ve removed that impulse while they were fixing the rest of his brain.”

“Ah, very nice. A woman who keeps up with her pop culture.” McIlroy rose from his chair and offered a thick hand. “You must be Ellie Hatcher.”

Ellie shifted her cardboard box for a handshake, and McIlroy quickly relieved her of the parcel, setting it on his desk. In a framed photograph that he pushed aside, Ellie recognized the men on either side of Flann McIlroy as Rudy Giuliani and Bill Bratton.

“That’s me,” Ellie said, “reporting to duty. Thank you for bringing me over.”

“You make an excellent first impression. Most of my colleagues don’t get my rhetorical questions.”

“Aging rock stars, I get. Throw out any allusions to French literature, and we might have some problems.”

“You must be wondering why you’re here.” McIlroy had a gleam in his eye.

“I go where I’m told,” Ellie said matter-of-factly.

“I got permission from the assistant chief to work a single case exclusively.”

Ellie did her best to conceal her surprise. Lieutenant Jenkins said McIlroy had suck with the brass, but the assistant chief was extremely brassy – he ran the entire Manhattan detective borough.

“My lieutenant’s not particularly happy about it, so the freedom may not last. He’s already threatened to pull the plug tomorrow if it doesn’t go anywhere, but he’s mindful of the politics. If nothing breaks – the case, you, me – we all turn back to pumpkins. So let’s just say you better not unpack this box quite yet.”

“Not a problem. Desks are overrated anyway.” Ellie tried to sound like she was taking it all in stride.