ThirtyLess than a dozen men worked at desks. Bridget supposed more officers worked the day shift, and most who worked the night shift were out on the streets walking their beat. One sat with a fat cigar in his mouth, his feet up, and his leering eyes on them.
The two officers who’d escorted June left off, but the one who’d taken the knife from Bridget stepped in to usher June across the narrow room. The officer who’d raised Bridget’s chin remained with her. He pointed to a chair beside his desk. “Sit down.”
She sat, but flinched when he swung a hand, flipping off Papa Henry’s hat. She grabbed it from the floor and held the leather to her chest. He’d placed his own hat on his desk, the number 53 visible now on its silver plate.
“Who wrote that filth?” The question asked of June across th
