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TERRI HERNANDEZ HELD her hand out to stop Rob Trilling from jumping out of the car. She said, “Hang on. They’re just trying to scare him.”

A blue Tahoe came barreling down the side street, fast.

Over the receiver they heard the other newcomer, clearly the younger man’s muscle. “Put that knife away before I shove it up your ass.”

There were some chuckles, then the main man said, “Stop fooling around, Nestor. We’ve got a lot to talk about with these guys.”

Trilling was still on edge. But when the blue Tahoe drove right past the warehouse, it showed Trilling how much his imagination was playing tricks on him. He wished he could stay as calm as Terri Hernandez.

The same man said, “We need to see something from you other than nice clothes and a fancy car.”

The outsider said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you may think you’re a hotshot, but we know the streets. We don’t do business like we used to do. We need each other.”

The conversation was getting tense again. How many times could someone make snotty comments without some kind of retribution?

Hernandez shifted in her seat and reached back to make sure her holster was secure.

Over the wire, they heard the outsider say, “Watch how you talk to me. I don’t like the disrespect I’m hearing. We’ll do business when I say.” There was a garbled transmission and it sounded like people were moving around.

Hernandez said, “I hope they’re not getting ready for some kind of fight. We’re not interested in the drug deal. We just want to know who committed the homicides. I wish they’d talk about that.”

Trilling said, “Would they discuss that kind of stuff in a group? I don’t know. I’m new to all this.”

“I think the killer is someone in that warehouse. I could be wrong. As homicide detectives, we make a lot of assumptions, but in this case it feels right to me. They’re all involved in criminal activity. Drug dealers aren’t known for their discretion. Maybe we should go back and talk to that asshole José Silbas again and see what else he knows.”

“We didn’t leave on the best of terms with him.”

Hernandez frowned and said, “I’m sorry I lost my cool at the end of that interview. But it seems clear to me that Silbas had his wife murdered while he was in prison. Pissed me off.”

“And Jaime Nantes tried to shoot someone over a drug debt. But we’re still using him as an informant. Like you said, none of them are Boy Scouts.”

Hernandez said, “Don’t use my own words against me. That just confuses things.” She gave him a little smile.

Trilling felt like he had just crossed some kind of threshold. It was the most pleasant thing she’d ever said to him. Then the transmission came in clearly again. The voices were still raised and tense. Trilling’s stomach tightened. He’d already been in one gunfight inside a warehouse. He wasn’t interested in doing it again if it could be avoided.

The outsider said, “I’ve got to make a few connections, then I’ll get back in touch. You guys keep your shit together and don’t draw any attention.”

The main man said, “Don’t think you’re some kind of gangster. Don’t tell us what we need to do. We’re not even sure we’re going to work with you.”

The door at the far end of the warehouse opened and two people stepped out into the dull sunlight. The clouds cast an eerie patchwork of shadows over that end of the street. Hernandez picked up a camera with a telephoto lens from the console. She snapped photos of the two men as they walked from the warehouse, one bulkier than the other. Trilling glanced again at the two outdated images Walter Jackson had sent him of Antonio Deason. It was impossible at this distance and in this light to make an ID, plus the more slender man of the two kept his head down. He was dressed in a button-down shirt and nice slacks. It wasn’t professional enough to work on Wall Street, but it was too formal for a meeting with drug dealers in the Bronx. Trilling wasn’t surprised when he stopped at the Porsche. Hernandez snapped a few more photos as both men slipped in, then the Taycan shot down the street.

Hernandez and Trilling listened to the receiver and heard normal conversation in the warehouse, most of it in Spanish.

Hernandez explained to Trilling that they were all mumbling about what a slick asshole their visitor was. But it sounded like he could make them some money, so they were inclined to do business with him anyway.

Trilling said, “What’s that mean for our case?”

Hernandez shook her head and said, “I have no idea.”