It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but the day was already heavy with humidity. Unusual for September, but the weather had been nothing but unusual lately, so we were used to it. Sullivan wore olive drab safari shorts and heavy hiking boots, a black shirt with a half dozen pockets, a black Yankees cap and sunglasses. And a black leather shoulder harness securing his regulation Smith & Wesson .38. The perfect plainclothes disguise. Who’d ever guess he was a cop? He had a headset around his neck with a cord leading to a little black box hitched to his belt. I had the coffee. A Viennese cinnamon for me and a double latte for him. So much for working-class sensibilities. “You’re recording this?” I asked him. “Digital, baby. Cheaper than a steno.” “I’ve got one of those. Amazing things. Tell me when to keep my voice down.” “You’re here as a witness. Totally legit. I cleared it with Ross.” I followed him to the front door where he told the recorder we were cutting the yellow tape and entering the building.
