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I HEARD THE first media report about Celeste Cantor’s arrest before I even got home that night. Every publication and TV station associated with the city was leaning in on this story. I didn’t blame them—it was a big deal. But I noticed the pieces on the story had more gusto than usual. The media love to bring up police misbehavior almost as much as they like to ignore great police work.

It is something cops had to come to terms with a long time ago. Especially me.

I wondered if Harry Grissom’s travel companion, Lois Frang, regretted not being in the city for this. She was a reporter for the Brooklyn Democrat and had proven to me on our last big case that she was a very good journalist. One I trusted and didn’t mind talking to. She also tended to tell the entire story, not just the sensationalized talking points most news organizations put out.

I had texted Harry earlier to give him a brief outline of the case. He might be on vacation, but I knew he’d be upset if he read this in the paper or heard it on the news rather than hearing about it from me.

Once again, the only one still awake when I got home was Brian. My eldest son was interested in the case. He’d seen a couple of brief stories on the arrest of Inspector Cantor but with no details. It was awfully nice to sit with my son, watch the news for a little bit, and unwind before I tried to sleep.

Mary Catherine didn’t stir as I slipped into bed. I even managed to get out of the bedroom the following morning without waking her. Technically, I was now on leave because of the shooting. So I made a giant breakfast for all the kids and got them all off to school without a hitch.

Dennis Wu texted to tell me that Celeste Cantor was in stable condition and expected to make a full recovery. Everyone available was looking for Kevin Doyle. I knew a guy like that was smart enough to get out of the city. He’d probably left last night. Still, I appreciated hearing from Wu. Maybe he wasn’t entirely the unredeemable asshole we’d all made him out to be.

I slipped back into bed after bringing Mary Catherine some toast and juice. We cuddled for a few minutes. Then she lay across my chest and looked at my tablet.

Mary Catherine said, “So far I haven’t seen your name in the news stories.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. This case is a black eye for the NYPD.”

We watched a video report. Someone had leaked everything about the Land Sharks. The story talked about how the group hadn’t reported seized money or admitted it into evidence, though the reporter also mentioned that it was believed the Sharks had put most of the money into more elaborate investigations and ultimately even toward the building of a tremendous youth center in the Bronx. I smiled at that, thinking about the other youth center built with Richard Deason’s money.

I knew most reporters would discount any of the information about what the Land Sharks did for the community. I couldn’t blame them at all. No one hates a crooked cop more than another cop.

We kept watching the next few stories. One had to do with the owner of a Brooklyn diner who’d been shot behind his restaurant. His tearful niece named Tammy went on and on about how she’d miss him. Witnesses said a tattooed man who looked like a biker had just walked up and shot the diner owner. That was the kind of homicide I’d like to be on for the next few months. Something simple and direct.

The last story was a short one about a fugitive named Kevin Doyle. I was surprised they didn’t associate it with the story about Celeste Cantor being arrested, but maybe no one had yet made the same connection Walter Jackson did. The same old photo of Doyle from the Department of Defense flashed on the screen.

As Mary Catherine snuggled up close to me, I wondered what had become of Kevin Doyle.