Sergeant Nyman escorted Jimmy to the main lobby of the precinct, where he did indeed collect his wallet, his phone, keys. In front of her staff, she addressed Jimmy at the front entrance. What she said didn’t surprise him.
“Mr. McSwain, please, be a stranger.”
Jimmy curtailed the smile that hit his lips, then slipped out the doors into the dark night of Staten Island. He wasn’t sure he could return to his motel room—wasn’t it a crime scene? Should he just return home to Manhattan, to a world which provided comfort? The Ferry ran all day and night, but still, he was a distance from the St. George terminal. He could simply ask for a different room, the bill not his concern—it was all on Paul Connelly, the client. But then he remembered the note Nyman had jotted down.
He pulled it out, rea
