Two floors. Blond brick. Occupied a quarter of a block. Most NYPD precinct houses were twice the size. Rogan reached for the front door, then paused. “You know this is going to blow, right?” “As in vuvuzela-levels of blowing. Come on, Double J, let’s get it over with.” They made their way to a desk sergeant at the front counter. Rogan explained they were from the NYPD and were hoping to talk to someone about Anthony Amaro. “Yeah, sure. Let me find him.” Now that they were here, they both realized how bad this was going to look to local police. They had come here—to their jurisdiction, from New York City, to talk to a witness who might know something about five women who died right here, in this city—and hadn’t bothered to make a courtesy call to the UPD. Now, to top it off, Amaro had been released, just outside their town, because of mistakes made by the NYPD. Ellie knew Rogan had been holding back his thoughts, so she decided to express them for him. “I know. Max should have looped in Utica law enforcement, even before putting together a fresh-look team.”
