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seen him at the window, but it was pretty foggy.
    It didn’t matter. Therkelson was on it. He had gone in five minutes after him and recorded the cop and reporter’s whole convo with the shotgun mike in his duffel bag. Devine had listened in, and he was pretty pumped. Because overall, it seemed like they were good. That Pretty Boy had contacted a reporter could have been very bad, but they had taken him out in time. The reporter didn’t know anything, and neither, apparently, did the clueless cop.
    They had even found what they were looking for on the notes on Pretty Boy’s phone. The green light was staying green. The Pretty Boy problem had been solved. The boss man was going to like this little turn of events.
    Devine smiled as he took another dainty, savoring spoonful of the fig-and-goat-milk ice cream they’d gotten from a trendy place on East Broadway, Ice & Vice.
    He’d bought the latest Zagat’s foodie guide when they got into town. When they weren’t working, he and Therkelson had been hitting all the newest and coolest eateries. Dinner was going to be parrilladas mixtas from some happening Tex-Mex joint called Javelina in Union Square. He couldn’t wait.
    He knew a little about food. How to actually prepare and cook it instead of just ramming it into your piehole like mail into a mailbox, the way Therkelson did. Growing up, his grandfather owned the second-best diner in Dyersburg, Tennessee. By thirteen, he was working behind the flat top, cracking eggs two at a time for the truck drivers and line workers from the stove factory just across the interstate.
    Might have been a cook. Maybe even a frou-frou New York jackhole celebrity one. Except Pop-Pop died and his grandma sold The Spoon—officially called the Wood N Spoon Diner, but everybody just called it The Spoon.
    Therkelson opened the door and got into the driver’s seat in a hurry. “Hey, snap out of it, Devine,” he said, starting the truck.
    “We got movement. They’re coming out. Should we follow the reporter or the cop?”
    “The cop, of course,” Devine said, scraping ice cream off the wax cup. “Stay on the cop. The reporter doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

Chapter 11
    Following my afternoon meeting with Len Brimer, I went back to the Major Case squad room. Parked in my cubicle, I was drinking a Diet Mountain Dew and polishing off the last crumbs of a Cronut when I received an email from the hotel with the additional footage I had requested.
    With the new whistle-blower angle Brimer had told me about still fresh in my mind, I wanted to take a closer look at the other two guys who’d been in the bathroom with our mysterious John Doe.
    I watched the video over and over again. John Doe goes in, followed by a big blond dude and a shorter guy with dark hair. The short guy waits in the hall. As I looked more carefully, I noticed the short guy in the hall checked his watch twice before going in. I also noticed the way he was standing in the hall, head slowly swiveling back and forth like a guard or a sentry. As if maybe he knew that his big buddy was dealing with John Doe and was making sure no one intervened.
    After John Doe came out, the expression on his face might not have been embarrassment at throwing up, but panic after barely fighting off two attackers. The two guys who came out about a minute after him didn’t look too beat-up, I saw, as I let the tape run on. But the quick, determined way they split, the short one going to the front desk and elevator bank as the other bigger guy headed up the back stairwell following John Doe, was definitely of note.
    About seven minutes later, the big blond guy came back out of the rear stairwell, met up with the short guy, and then they left.
    I thought about that. Two men go into the back stairwell that leads to the roof and only one leaves seven minutes later? I couldn’t say for sure if the blond guy had thrown our John Doe off the roof, but I couldn’t rule it out.
    I was still