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I ORDERED A Chicken Parmesan so as not to seem suspicious to the surly waiter. He looked like he was probably related to the family who ran the place. It was something about his deep-set dark eyes and Roman nose. I guessed it was his sister or cousin playing guitar in the band. The drummer and bass player had crooked noses and healthier complexions.

A young man, around sixteen years old, joined the group with a handheld microphone. As the band started playing the opening to “Crimson and Clover,” the teen with a microphone strayed too close to the speaker and caused a horrendous feedback squelch. This seemed to be a pretty common occurrence. None of the staff even acknowledged it. That’s what clinched it for me that the band was part of the family. No restaurant owner would put up with that otherwise.

I got a text from Wu saying Doyle and Trilling were headed into the restaurant. At almost the same time, the front door opened, and Doyle spoke to the hostess for a moment. When she led him to a booth, I saw Trilling move on to the bar and take the last stool. I felt confident there was no way anyone would notice me in the corner. I decided that the cover the column provided was a plus as well.

About fifteen minutes later, right on schedule, Wu texted me from the outside that Inspector Celeste Cantor had just parked her car down the street and was walking toward the restaurant. Until that exact moment, I had doubts that Doyle had been telling us the truth. Something inside me wanted Cantor to not be involved. But that’s not how real life happens.

Cantor walked directly to the booth, leaned down, and kissed her cousin on the cheek. Then she slid into the booth across from him.

It was a shock to see my friend of twenty years strolling into the restaurant to meet a hit man she’d hired to kill numerous former colleagues. It didn’t matter that the two of them were related. Cantor was part of this scheme, and there was no way I was going to let her get out of this restaurant unless she was under arrest. I felt like I had to make this right for all the dead retired cops.

I casually slipped an earpiece into my right ear. I could hear everything that was said in the booth. So could Trilling and Dennis Wu. We had a small transmitter in Doyle’s front pocket. The others would key off of whatever I did. When I made my move toward the booth, Trilling was to join me from the bar. Wu’s job was to secure the outside in case Cantor tried to run. It was a simple plan. But every cop knows a plan can go sideways awfully fast. Or as the old saying goes, everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face. I was hoping to avoid anything like that.