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IT WAS NOT long after dark. Rob Trilling was feeling a little worn-out from the funeral and meeting so many people. But he still had commitments. He’d been helping Terri Hernandez out on one of her cases, a series of homicides, including one in Manhattan North’s jurisdiction. Now he sat in the passenger seat of a city-issued Ford Explorer, looking through binoculars at a warehouse. Some people called it a “clubhouse.” Nice way to spend a Saturday evening.

From the driver’s seat, Terri Hernandez said, “It’s getting late. We’ll give it another ten minutes, but I have a birthday party for my younger sister I’m not going to miss. She’s dating a big, goofy white guy who loves the band Kiss. I don’t want to miss his official introduction to my father.”

Trilling didn’t answer. They’d been watching people come and go from this building for a couple of hours. Informants said members of this gang they were currently surveilling were responsible for the deaths of two rival gang members, whose bodies had washed up in the East River.

The gang had turned from street-level drug sales to importing cocaine and heroin. A smart move. Less exposure and higher profits, if more hassle. It looked like the two dead men had been trying to do the same thing.

All he and Hernandez were doing now was figuring out who was a member of the gang and who they did business with. So far, they’d identified seven gang members and five associates. The killer had to be one of the people they’d already identified. Now they just had to figure out which of them it was. Then make a case. Then take it to court. Easy.

Trilling had a special interest—these people were the remnants of one of the gangs Gus Querva used to run. They purposely didn’t use a gang name. But that didn’t change what they were. Before getting killed by a sniper, Querva had been a drug lord pretending to be a community activist, and Trilling hated what he’d done to the community, and how the media had covered his supposed investments in the neighborhood.

Terri Hernandez seemed agitated. Trilling knew she and Bennett were close, but she was nothing like his talkative senior partner.

“How much younger is your sister than you?” Trilling asked.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re never going to meet her.”

Trilling held back a retort. Instead, after a few seconds, he said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“I don’t like guys like you. Jocks who get moved into homicide after barely any time on patrol.”

“I never asked to be moved.”

“I did, for years, before I finally got my shot.”

“I get that. But I’m not a jock.”

“You look like one.”

Trilling said, “Looks can be deceiving. For instance, you look like a nice, pleasant person.”

Hernandez sighed loudly. “Look, I know you didn’t ask to move into homicide. It wasn’t right how everyone piled on you when Gus Querva got shot. But it’s just frustrating to see someone who’s been on the job less than two years already in basically the same position as me, when I’ve been on eight years.”

“We’re not in the same position. I’m still on temporary assignment and not even a detective. I’d say you’ve moved up the ladder well.”

“You can say whatever you want, but you’ve got a lot to prove before I take you seriously.”

Trilling nodded. “That sounds fair.”

Hernandez groaned in irritation. “What’s it take to get you worked up?”

“More than just a reasonable conversation, I guess.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or just messing with me.”

Trilling was careful not to answer but let a little smile form, which he knew would drive her crazy.

She groaned again.

That made his smile grow.