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Fedderman asked, having caught the tail end of Quinn and Pearl’s conversation. He was standing by Mr. Coffee, pouring some of the steaming liquid into his mug. His white shirt cuff, which usually came unbuttoned because of the way he gripped pen or pencil, was still fastened, indicating that the day was young and he hadn’t yet made any notes.
    â€œI think we all know the answer to that,” Pearl said.
    Quinn went over and poured a mug of coffee for himself. Added some cream and stirred longer than was necessary. He was waiting for Sal Vitali and Harold Mishkin to arrive, the detectives who had worked so long as a team in the NYPD, and now were employed by Q&A. It was almost nine o’clock. Time for the morning meet, at which they all shared knowledge. Quinn was determined that everyone knew the same version of what was going on. It prevented a lot of wasted time and effort.
    As Quinn took a careful, painful sip of the near-boiling coffee, Sal and Harold arrived. Sal, short and stocky and full of decisive movement, had a full head of wavy black hair just beginning to gray, and a voice that sounded like gravel in a bucket. His partner Harold was slender and balding, with a slight forward lean and a bushy gray mustache. He looked more like an actor who should be playing Mr. Chips in a movie than a cop. Sometimes Harold was difficult to figure out, especially for Sal. Both men were carrying flat white boxes with grease stains that somehow hadn’t gotten on their clothes.
    â€œWe got doughnuts,” Sal rasped.
    Over by the coffee machine, Fedderman said, “We got coffee.”
    â€œWe got cholesterol,” Harold said.
    Sal glared at him. “Don’t be crass, Harold.”
    Pearl said, “Do you have something with cream filling?”
    â€œWe did,” Sal said. “Also with chocolate icing. Harold ate it.”
    â€œWhy?” Fedderman asked, sounding angry and puzzled. “He’s the one concerned about cholesterol.”
    â€œI’ll compensate at lunch,” Harold said.
    â€œYou should have slapped it out of his hand,” Pearl said to Sal.
    Quinn listened quietly. He knew that for whatever reason the ongoing angst among his detectives aided in their collective thought process. They were like oysters who needed agitation to produce pearls. They all knew that, but none of them would admit it except to him or herself. Better to maintain the productive balancing act.
    Quinn walked over and leaned with his haunches on his desk. Crossed his arms. Pearl knew what his choice would be and brought him a chocolate-iced cake doughnut from one of the grease-stained boxes. Quinn took a sample bite. Terrific. He wasn’t sure where Sal and Harold got their doughnuts, or if they paid for them, and figured it wiser not to ask.
    He glanced at his watch. Six minutes after nine. Everyone was here except for Jerry Lido, the Q&A tech whiz, who might be too hungover to struggle out of bed.
    Nobody was talking right now, so Quinn jumped in:
    â€œAll the girls’ families have been notified,” he said, “at least in time for them not to learn about their daughters’ deaths on the news.”
    â€œMusta been all kinds of hell,” Harold said. He had too much empathy for a cop, and occasionally threw up at crime scenes.
    The street door opened, and warm air and exhaust fumes wafted into the office. A car horn honked three times, fast, outside, as if something had drawn the driver’s attention. Or as if to announce something with a trumpet. Coincidental, surely.
    Officer Nancy Weaver entered. The NYPD liaison Renz had mentioned.

9
    W eaver had worked with Q&A before. She would fit right in, as long as she and Pearl didn’t actually come to blows.
    She was an attractive, compactly built brunette in her forties, with a keen intelligence and an overactive libido. She’d gotten the hell beaten out of her on her last go-round with Q&A, but she still had