He almost smiled at that one. "Then get in the car."

"I have an important meeting this afternoon."

"We'll have you back by then."

I expected a beat-up Chevy Caprice, but the car was a clean Ford. I sat in the back. My two new friends sat in the front. We did not speak for the ride. There was traffic at the George Washington Bridge, but we just hit our siren and sliced through it. When we were on the Manhattan side, York spoke.

"We think Manolo Santiago might be an alias."

I said, "Uh-huh," because I didn't know what else to say.

"You see, we don't have a positive ID on the victim. We found him last night. His driver's license reads Manolo Santiago. We checked it out. It doesn't appear to be his real name. We ran his prints. No hits. So we don't know who he is."

"And you think I will?"

They did not bother answering.

York's voice was as casual as a spring day. "You're a widower, Mr. Copeland, right?"

"Right," I said.

"Must be tough. Raising a kid on your own."

I said nothing.

"Your wife had cancer, we understand. You're very involved in some organization to find a cure."

"Uh-huh."

"Admirable."

They should only know.

"This must be weird for you," York said.

"How's that?"

"Being on the other side. You're usually the one asking the questions, not answering them. That's gotta be a little strange."

He smiled at me in the rearview mirror.

"Hey, York?" I said.

"What?"

"Do you have a playbill or a program?" I asked.

"A what?"

"A playbill," I said. "So I can see your past credits, you know, before you landed the coveted role of Good Cop." York chuckled at that. "I'm just saying, it's weird is all. I mean, have you ever been questioned by the police before?"

It was a setup question. They had to know. When I was eighteen years old, I worked as a counselor at a summer camp. Four campers- Gil Perez and his girlfriend, Margot Green, Doug Billingham and his girlfriend, Camille Copeland (aka my sister) sneaked into the woods late one night.