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“I did what I could.”

“He puts people like that away all the time.”

“The incredibly popular police commissioner will protect me,” Quinn said.

Renz smiled around the cigar. “Thash true.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and held it up. “You want one of these? Against the rules, but so what? We’re celebrating the arrest of the real Skinner.”

“No, thanks.”

“You’re gonna go home and smoke one of your Cubans. That’s okay. I’m gonna hold a press conference this afternoon, talk about how our policy under my administration is never to give up on a case until all avenues are explored and all questions answered. We owe it to the public.”

“I’ll be watching on TV,” Quinn lied. He’d already seen Renz blow enough smoke for one day.

“You did a good job, Quinn. If you were still in the department, I’d present you with a commendation. But you can understand why I won’t mention your name or Julie Flack’s in the press conference.”

“Sure. It’s your press conference. Your political ass.”

Renz smiled and blew more smoke.

Quinn and Pearl stood and watched the workmen put the finishing touches on laying the brownstone’s upstairs carpet. The gray-haired man doing the artful and delicate trimming around the baseboard finished with his tucking knife and then stood up and grinned, admiring his work. He glanced over at Quinn and Pearl.

“Beautiful,” Quinn said. The spread of beige carpet lay wide and pristine, a geometrically perfect blank space awaiting an identity. Outside the tall windows, their panes distorted by the years of three centuries, the city hummed and bustled, but the old building’s thick walls reduced the sounds to subtle punctuation.

“It makes a hell of an improvement,” the carpet layer said.

Quinn agreed.

Pearl gave Quinn’s arm a squeeze. “It looks like home.”