“Anyone sitting here?” Alves asked.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Alves took the seat across from him. “Good morning, Sarge.”

“Morning, Angel.” Wayne Mooney folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Happened to be in the neighborhood on a Monday morning. Thought I’d stop for a cup of joe.” Alves took a sip of his coffee. “Saw my old boss tucked away in the corner and thought I’d come over and say hello.”

Mooney shook his head. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t come into the Greenhills Irish Bakery and order a coffee.” Mooney stood and grabbed the full cup out of his hand and stuffed it into a trash barrel. Alves sat patiently until Mooney came back with two teas with milk and sugar and two raisin scones with butter and jam.

“Irish breakfast?” Alves asked.

“This is the light version. You should see what the painters and plasterers eat.” Mooney broke off a piece of his scone and chewed it. He stared at Alves long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Why are you here, Angel?”

“Double murder last night.”

“I heard. Two white kids murdered in Franklin Park. Not good for the city’s image. Drug deal gone bad?”

Alves shook his head.

“Funny thing. I heard that the bodies were discovered by a homicide-detective-turned-Pop-Warner-Football-coach. Angel, you’re not ready for Homicide if you have time for your family.”

“This is what I miss about you,” Alves snapped. “You know how to lay on the guilt whenever I try to be a good father. We’ll talk later about my lack of a work ethic, or, what do you call it…Irish guilt.”

“There has to be something more to you stopping in Adams Village for a cup of coffee.”

“I didn’t find the bodies. Iris did. The kids were doing a lap after practice when she found the girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Mooney said. The ruddiness of his face deepened and Alves knew he was angry. “How is she?”