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investigations that would be plain and simple and would involve nothing more complicated than money. She took the podium proud and lulled in her willing audience.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, I know you are eager to hear about the confrontation situation last night. I read your coverage this morning and can confirm that we have opened an investigation, but frankly I have nothing to add at this point.”
    This last bit was a tease. Tantalizing them, as though in the next moment or two she would have something to add. As though any of them didn’t know that DIMAC, like every other authority, was required to wait forty-eight hours before interviewing an officer involved in a shooting. As though there wasn’t a special provision in state law prohibiting the release of any information whatsoever about an investigation of a police officer. Of course the reporters would know this. They would know too that the press conference was a precise and meaningless burlesque. But they would also know that the real story would flow out over a phone call or a beer at a quiet nearby bar. And if you didn’t show your face at the public presser, you wouldn’t get invited to hear the real story later.
    She could tell herself she was getting out because she didn’t like the sight of blood or because she was afraid she’d be fired. But she knew it was really about the money. Her husband had tenure but was never going to get a real raise. The apartment had seemed spacious ten years ago, with a little nook that didn’t quite count as a second bedroom where Adam had put the desk and worked on his tenure file. Soon the nook was a nursery and the office was in the middle of what used to be the living room. And now Henry was five and didn’t really fit in a nursery any more.
    They could have moved to New Jersey, they could have struggled through, or she could have taken a private sector job that would pay the astronomical salary you need to raise a family in New York. The last option didn’t feel like selling out when you’re walking away from twelve years of city service. Christine Davenport had served the general public plenty. Once the money came in, they could get a bigger apartment, a house in Brooklyn maybe. Adam would have a longer drive, but that would only mean more time to ponder the deeper meaning of The Mill on the Floss before giving a lecture to students who couldn’t be bothered to leave New Jersey even for college.
    Davenport went on. “I am not going to be able to speak about last night’s shooting now. In fact, I am not going to be at liberty to speak about it ever. Because as of now, I am stepping down as the commissioner of this agency. I have spent the last two decades pursuing justice. For the Manhattan District Attorney, for the State of New York, and here at DIMAC. I have done everything I can to put the people first. And now it is time for me to move on to a new set of challenges. I leave you in the capable hands of Leonard Mitchell, whom I believe you all know. Leonard will serve as acting commissioner until further notice. And let me add that I think he would make a capable and qualified replacement for me when that decision is made.”
    Davenport smiled politic at Leonard as he finally stood up off the wall. This had at least gotten his attention. She hadn’t told him beforehand; it only would have gone to his head. Or he would have called the press and leaked it himself, always trying to sound important. Now she could see him preening, finally ready to be the center of something. Davenport almost lost her place in her speech watching him. Be careful what you wish for, kid . That afternoon, she knew he would have a quick, horrid introduction to his new job.
    After each monthly meeting, there was always a parade of discontents desperate to bring their complaints in person. People too invested to just call the agency on an ordinary day and have their case assigned to a line investigator. Sitting through the intake after