“What’s our next move?” Frank asked.
We were sitting in the squad room, our desks smashed up facing each other, both of us alone in a room filled with desks. Downstairs the usual hum of a regular business precinct house continued unabated. People were being questioned. Crooks were being escorted back and forth from the holding cells to interrogation rooms. Someone was hollering and sounding definitely upset.
Normal. Just another day at the office.
Frank was at his desk, resting his ship’s prow of a hard jaw on one hand and staring down at the thick folder of Yasmine Hollander. He looked gloomy. Which is not to say he looked that much different. Frank is not handsome. He looks like a cross between a modern-day Neanderthal and a miniaturized King Kong all wrapped up in the same package. N
