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EVERYONE IN THE NYPD seemed to know Walter Jackson. Some might have said it was because of his excellent skill in finding information through the internet and public records. Some people thought it was his pleasant personality and penchant for puns that made him so well-known. I always thought the simple answer was that he stood six foot six and weighed somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred pounds. Someone that size couldn’t walk down the hallway without a person asking who he was.

No matter the reason, I was always thankful that Walter worked in my squad. On every case he seemed to save me hours and hours of wasted effort by getting me accurate addresses on witnesses or pointing out flaws in theories because he had records that contradicted the theories. I was almost tired of being amazed by what he could locate on the computer, but he kept surprising me.

I stepped into his office and closed the door behind me. “You got a few minutes?”

Walter closed the reference book he was reading—something about the original neighborhoods of Manhattan—and placed it on the stack of books closest to his desk. The bookshelves behind him were stuffed with pamphlets and other volumes he found interesting. A long table was piled high with more reference materials and old notes. Somehow, within all this organized chaos, Walter always knew exactly where to find the information he needed.

“What can I do for you?” he said. The big man’s voice felt like a rumble in the closed-in space.

“I’ve been given a sensitive assignment that I’m not supposed to speak with anyone about. I’m not sure how strictly I want to adhere to that rule. I intend to talk to you and Trilling about it. But I’d appreciate you not spreading it around to anyone else or using any research avenues that might send up a flag within the department.”

I laid out everything I had about the four retired cops’ deaths. I also forwarded him the reports I’d gotten from Celeste Cantor and explained he’d have a hard time pulling anything more up on the computer since Inspector Cantor didn’t want others to be in the know. As usual, Walter didn’t ask a lot of questions. I knew he’d wait until he could read the reports and come up with some ideas in the next few hours.

He brought up on his screen the items I’d just sent him, glanced through them, and nodded solemnly. “This is some serious shit.” Without looking, he pulled a dollar out of his pocket and slipped it into a jar on his desk. The jar already had about ten dollars in it.

“I thought that was the jar you had to put a dollar in for your daughters when you made a pun.”

“Nope. Now it’s a swear jar.”

“How did that happen?”

“First of all, I’ve converted my oldest daughter to puns. Second of all, my wife insisted on the swear jar after my six-year-old called a taxi driver a shithead for speeding down our street.”

All parents had been there. It still made me laugh.

Walter said, “Let me tell you one of Nadine’s puns.”

“I can’t wait.”

“What concert costs forty-five cents?”

“No idea.”

“One with 50 Cent and Nickelback.”

I laughed politely.

Walter said, “I couldn’t be more proud if she got into the National Honor Society.”

I respected his commitment to nerdy humor.