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“How come?”

“She arrived to claim Russo’s body. Nice gal. I figured the least I could do after she flies all the way here was to buy her a meal.”

“Where’d you go?”

“You wouldn’t know it. Zola.”

“I know it. By that spy museum.”

“Yeah. Well, anyway, she tells me that Russo came here to meet with this writer, Marienthal. The sketch is the one Rosenberg, the Fox reporter, gave our artist. Good, huh?”

“Looks like the picture.”

“That’s what I mean. What say we pay Mr. Marienthal a visit this morning?”

“Why don’t we call him first?”

“I’d rather surprise him,” Mullin said, standing and twisting against the pain in his back.

They went to the unmarked car assigned them that day.

“So tell me about dinner last night,” Accurso said as Mullin started the engine and pulled out of the lot.

“What’s to tell?”

“What’s she look like?”

“Nice-looking. Not a kid. A little overweight, maybe.”

“I guess you’d notice that,” Accurso said playfully.

“Whatta you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I just—I just find it strange you’d take her to dinner. How many women have shown up here over the years to claim a body? Plenty, right? You ever take any of them to dinner?”

Mullin ignored his partner and drove in the direction of Marienthal’s apartment on Capitol Hill. They were on Seventh Street, approaching Eastern Market, when Accurso asked Mullin to stop.

“What’s up?” Mullin asked.

“I want to get some fruit, Bret. I told Katie I’d bring fruit home.”

“You crazy, buying it here? They charge a fortune.”

“I’m not going inside. There’re a couple of nice stands outside, on the other side. Cheap, too.”

“Yeah, all right,” Mullin said, pulling into a no-parking zone by the market and across from a mini-shopping center.

“You coming?” Accurso asked after he’d exited the car and saw that Mullin hadn’t moved.

“Go on, go on. I’ll stay here.”

Mullin watched the passing parade while waiting for Accurso to return. Ten minutes later, he saw his partner, carrying a plastic shopping bag, round the corner of the building that had housed greengrocers and butchers since 1873. Accurso was within ten feet of the car when he stopped and looked across the street. “Look!” he shouted.

Mullin swiveled his head. A small branch of a local bank was nestled between a video rental store and a dry cleaner. Two men were in front of the bank, by its ATM machine. One of them, an older man, had his back against the machine and had raised his hands. The second man, considerably younger and wearing a T-shirt and jeans, with a red bandanna wrapped around his head, pointed what looked like a gun at the older gentleman.

Accurso didn’t hesitate. He dropped the bag of fruit to the ground, pulled his revolver from its shoulder holster, and headed across the heavily trafficked street, holding a hand up in an attempt to stop motorists from hitting him and yelling, “Hey, hey, police! Drop the gun!”

Mullin grabbed their mobile radio from the dash, struggled out the driver’s-side door, and also withdrew his weapon. Accurso had reached the other side of the road as Mullin started across. He was stopped by the sound of a single gunshot snapping through the air. Mullin, who was only a few feet into the road, stared in disbelief. Accurso was on the ground; the ATM bandit had taken off to his right and disappeared around the back of the stores.

“Vinnie!” Mullin shouted as he threaded his way through automobiles that had stopped when their drivers saw what was going on. He reached his partner, fell to his knees, and asked, “Where you hit, buddy?”

“It’s okay,” Accurso said, trying to get to a sitting position. “My leg. That’s all. Just my leg.”

Mullin saw a crimson puddle forming around Accurso’s knee. He barked into the radio, “Officer down! Officer down!” and gave the location.

“Get the shooter,” Accurso said.

“Yeah, later, Vinnie. He’s gone. You see him?”

Accurso whimpered against a sharp pain. “Yeah, I saw him.”

“Good.”

“Let Katie know I’m okay.”

“Sure.”

“And give her the fruit. She wanted fruit.”

“Yeah, I