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union beef?”
    “I don’t know. And frankly that theory’s least likely. But it’s one of those nothings I’d like to be able to prove.”
    Virginia McFee shot daggers at Shapiro when he said that. The mayor wondered if she knew that the filler pump on her Mont Blanc could, if pressed right, squirt ink across the table and all over Shapiro’s white shirt.
    Charlie turned to the NYPD guys. “From your point of view?”
    Police Commissioner John Finn’s voice was the kind of soft rumble that can be heard over every other sound on a crowded street. “Well, of course,” he said, “if it turns out they’re just accidents— preventable or otherwise— it won’t be NYPD’s territory. Right now, because the Winston woman died and foul play’s still a possibility, we’re investigating. Luis Perez from Bronx Homicide is the lead. He can liaise with DOI’s people.”
    Shapiro nodded. He didn’t offer the name of DOI’s lead investigator in return. Why? Charlie wondered, hoping he wasn’t seeing the beginning of a pissing match between Shapiro and Finn.
    “Mayor?”
    That was Greg Lowry. Charlie turned to him. “Mr. Lowry?”
    “Just one thing, Mayor. I’d like DOI to look into the site crews, too.”
    “Three Star’s people? It’s a little outside DOI’s jurisdiction. What are you thinking?”
    “I’m thinking, if there’s anything to find, it would be good if everyone saw DOI in on finding it.”
    Charlie nodded. “John? You have any objections?”
    “No, of course not,” said Finn, though of course he did and of course Charlie knew it. There’d be pissing and moaning at One Police Plaza when Finn sent the order down the line.
    “Okay, do it,” Charlie told Lowry. “Stop frowning, Mark. Think outside the box. Your IG just had a good idea and your mandate is whatever I say it is. All right, people.” He stood and peered down the table. The possibilities Shapiro had articulated— three accidents, preventable or otherwise; or sabotage— weren’t new. Charlie had thought of them all, and doubtless so had everyone else. But they’d had to be spoken aloud. They’d had to be on the record.
    Now they were.
    “This is it,” he said. “We went through bullshit like this three years ago and it almost brought us down. That’s not going to happen again. I have a press conference in four hours and I want to have something to say. I can tell them we’re looking into this tragic death but we’d damn well better be. If there’s anything to find and the Post finds it first, every single one of you can kiss his— or her— ass goodbye.”
    Turning his back on the meeting, he strode through the door to his office and pulled it closed behind him.
    If there was anything Charlie Barr had down, it was how to make an entrance and an exit.

CHAPTER
9
    Heart’s Content
    Ann’s voice flared: “Why the hell didn’t you tell me when you were getting out?”
    Joe turned to her. The blue of Ann’s eyes was unequal, right a shade darker than left; but unless you were bold enough to stare straight into them— as not many men were— you’d think you’d imagined it. You’d think the oddness was in you, not Ann.
    “Shit, Ann,” he said. He sipped his coffee, strong and bitter. “Maybe because I didn’t want you to know?”
    “You think that’s okay? After all this?”
    All what?
    Did she mean the icy moment, three years ago, when— from her— he’d learned about the shoring collapse on the Dolan Construction site and the death of little Ashley Moss: the moment that instantly and forever cut his life into before and after?
    Or did she mean the shock of his arrest, the surreality of his trial, the sinking certainty of his conviction?
    Or his divorce, uncontested but never for an instant unregretted? The ceaseless edginess, the round-the-clock clamor of the cellblock? The calendar days crossed off, each with a slow, identical line?
    Of all that, what could she mean?
    *
    Joe Cole wasn’t the Buildings Department inspector who’d taken cash to overlook bad shoring, or the Dolan Construction