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different. A lot of things.”
    “I don’t need friends. I’ve got you.”
    Tears formed in MacNally’s eyes. He turned away so Henry wouldn’t see him cry. His thighs were so cold they were numb. He rubbed his gloved hands across the threadbare denim of his Levi’s to get some feeling back into his legs. It gave him something to do while he composed himself.
    “I wanna turn the radio back on,” Henry said.
    “We need to go through things one more time.” MacNally pulled at his muffler, straightening out the folds in the thick wool where it crossed his neck. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to do?”
    Henry rolled his eyes. “Sit here and wait for you to come back. Keep a watch on the bank’s entrance. When I see you come out, I put the car in drive. You get in and I floor it.”
    “Yeah, but don’t press the pedal too hard too fast. Do it just like we practiced, okay?”
    Three weeks ago, MacNally had taken Henry to a parking lot in a Pittsburgh suburb, where he taught his son how to handle a Chevy just like this one. Henry was tall for his age, just like his father, and had no difficulty reaching the pedals. They practiced for a solid week in secluded parking lots until he had demonstrated good control of the vehicle, then graduated to streets, after dark, that saw little traffic.
    When they abandoned that Chevy—they’d stolen it in Florida and had been driving it too long for MacNally’s comfort—he was intent on finding as close a match as possible to ensure Henry would be able to handle it properly under pressure.
    “It’s important we do this right. It’s dangerous. But we need the money for food. We don’t have much of a choice. Besides, banks have a lot of money, they aren’t gonna miss the few bucks we’re gonna take.” He reached over and brushed back Henry’s dirty blond hair. “And I’m gonna buy you a birthday present. Tomorrow, as soon as we get to a safe place.” What was safe, MacNally didn’t know. But he didn’t want his son to be nervous. “What do you want?”
    “I don’t want nothing.’”
    “
Any
thing. You don’t want anything.”
    “Okay. Sorry.”
    “So c’mon. What would you like?”
    Henry looked around a moment, thinking. “An Elvis record.”
    “Nah, we’ll get you something better than that. It’s your tenth birthday. How about a bike?”
    Henry sat up straight. “Really?”
    “If we do this right. Yeah. I’ll get you a bike.”
    “I never had a bike. Can it be a Royce Union?”
    “Sure.”
    “A black one?”
    MacNally smiled. “If that’s what you want. Black it is.” He looked at his watch, then leaned forward in his seat and let his eyes roam the street ahead and behind them. “I don’t know how long we can sit around in this car. And I don’t know how good the cops are in this city. We’ve just gotta do it and get as far away as fast as possible. You ready?”
    “Ready.”
    MacNally pulled his gaze over to his son. “Okay then. Just like we planned. I’m going to pull up in front and when I get out, you move behind the wheel.” He got a nod from Henry, then he drove a block east and took an open curb spot in front of Township Community Savings Bank. He shoved the gear into Park, then looked out the window at the blue and black TCS logo on the brick building.
    MacNally took one last glance at Henry, gave the boy a smile and a wink to mask his own building apprehension, and then popped open his door.

8
    Vail followed Inspector Burden into the Hall of Justice, home to the SFPD Homicide Detail. They passed through the metal detectors, then walked across the vast seventies style lobby, which was appointed with green marble walls and a thirty-foot ceiling.
    After reaching the fourth floor, they hung a right toward Room 400. Above a set of opaque glass doors, anachronistic metal Helvetica lettering spelled out Bureau of Inspectors.
    Inside, Burden led Vail through the administrative area, where several blue-walled cubicles were