Ronald Cummings pushed through it. He surprised Shaw by nodding with familiarity to Tiffany, who gave him a smile. “Officer. The usual?”

Shaw raised an eyebrow.

The supervisor said to him, “We people get out too... Yes, please, the usual, Tiff. How’s Madge?”

“Doing well. Still training. I tell her a half triathlon is as good as a whole. She’s, like, no it isn’t. Kids these days.”

She fixed him a latte, or some other frothy concoction, and both Cummings and Shaw sat. Not many free tables. Open laptops were scattered throughout the place like cherry blossoms in April.

Cummings sipped and diligently wiped away his white mustache. “I have to tell you something and I wanted it to be in person.”

“I gathered.” Shaw drank a bit of his coffee.

Tiffany appeared with what seemed to be an oatmeal cookie. She set it before Cummings.

“You?” she asked Shaw.

“I’m not a sweet guy. Thanks anyway.”

A smile, more affectionate than flirtatious.

When she’d walked away, Shaw looked over at the supervisor.

“It’s really good. Tiffany makes them herself.” He nodded at the cookie.

Shaw said nothing.

“Okay. There’s a hold on the operation against Knight. This, by the way, I am absolutely not telling you.”

“Hold?”

“There’s a warrant, but the feds’re sitting on it.” Cummings looked around and leaned forward. “It looks like one of Knight’s clients — who hired him to break a fake-news story or two — was a lobbyist working for a certain politician. Maybe there’s a link to this individual, maybe not. But if Knight’s arrested and his name surfaces, then his future plans’re derailed. I mean, plans for a trip to Washington. A trip that would last four or eight years.”

Shaw sighed. He now understood why the feds had not been at the Elizabeth Chabelle briefing.

Cummings chewed some cookie. “And you’re about to ask: What about us? The Task Force or the California B of I. Making a state case against Knight.”

“I was.”

“We have to stand down too. That word came from Sacramento. Only for twenty-four hours. Make it look like we’re marshalling evidence or following up leads or some nonsense. Then we all — feds too — hit his last-known locations. Flashbangs, tanks, big splash.”

“By then he’ll be on the beach in an extradition-free country.”

“Pretty much. We caught one plum — Foyle. And we’ve closed down his operation.”

“And the Whispering Man gets away.”

“The... Oh, the game. Standish told me you were... bothered about Kyle Butler. And Henry Thompson. You wanted Knight arrested.”

Or dead.

“You’ve called in all your favors?”

Cummings had lost interest in his heavy-duty baked good. The coffee too. “Favors I didn’t even have. And word is, we sit tight.”

“Twenty-four hours?”

The man nodded.

“And there’s nothing you can do?”

“I’m sorry. The only way Knight’s going to prison is if he strolls into the Task Force with his hands up, says, ‘I’m sorry for everything,’ and surrenders.” He gave a tired smile. “LaDonna told me you do this percentage thing? Well, you and I both know the odds of that happening, now don’t we?”

Shaw asked, “You, or the feds, have any idea where Knight is?”

“No, we don’t. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.” Cummings glanced into Shaw’s eyes and must’ve seen something in them that was troubling. “I know how you feel, but don’t do anything stupid here.”

“Tell that to Kyle Butler and Henry Thompson.” Shaw rose and picked up his helmet and gloves. He nodded to Tiffany and headed for the door.

“Colter,” Cummings said. “He’s not worth it.”

The supervisor said something more but by then Shaw was outside into the cool evening and didn’t hear a word.

71

Jimmy Foyle might’ve been expecting a visitor but he clearly wasn’t expecting this one.

He blinked as Colter Shaw walked into the interview room at the Joint Major Crimes Task Force. Coincidentally, it was the room where Shaw and Cummings had had their get-together a day or so ago. To Shaw it felt like ages.

Foyle sat down across from him. While there were rings cemented into the floor, the man wasn’t shackled. Maybe the turnkeys had assessed Shaw as being able to deflect an attack.

The designer muttered, “I have nothing to say to you. This is a trick. They want to get a confession. I’m not saying anything.” The man’s lips tightened.

Shaw had to admit he felt some sympathy for him. What would it have been like to throw your entire life into your art and then, at his young age, to realize that you’d lost your spark? The muse had deserted you?

“This is just for me. What you’re going to tell me doesn’t go anywhere else.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything. Go to hell.”

Calmly Shaw said, “Jimmy, you know what I do for a living.”

He said uncertainly, “You go after rewards... or something.”