“What?” Lapidus asked, his eyes going wide. “Are you… How did he…?”

“Shot in the chest three times. We rushed in when we heard the noise, but it was already too late.”

Once again, the whole room was silent. Nobody moved. Not Lapidus. Not Quincy. No one.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Gallo added.

Grabbing at his own chest, Lapidus sank in his seat. “W-Was it for the money?”

“That’s what we’re still trying to figure out,” Gallo explained. “We’re not sure how they got it, but it looks like they may’ve had help from Shep.”

Lapidus looked up. “What do you mean, they?”

“That’s the other part…” DeSanctis said, jumping back in. He glanced at Gallo, almost like he was getting permission. When Gallo nodded, DeSanctis cut across the room and lowered his lanky frame into one of the two seats in front of Lapidus’s desk. “As near as we can tell, Shep was killed by either Charlie or Oliver.”

“Oliver?” Lapidus asked. “Our Oliver? That kid couldn’t-”

“He could – and he did,” Gallo insisted. “So don’t talk to me about some bullshit little-boy innocence. Thanks to these two, I’ve got a man with three holes in his chest and a financial investigation that just flipped to a homicide. Add that to the missing three hundred and thirteen mil and we’ve got one of those cases that Congress holds hearings about.”

Still collapsed in his chair, Lapidus just sat there – the consequences already settling heavy on his shoulders. Lost in thought and refusing to face anyone, he stared anxiously at the Japanese bronze letter opener on his desk. Then, out of nowhere, he shot up in his seat. His voice was racing. “On Friday, Oliver used my password to transfer money to Tanner Drew.”

“See, now that’s something we should know,” Gallo said as he took a seat next to DeSanctis. “If there’s a pattern of misapprop-” Cutting himself off, Gallo felt something on the cushion of the seat. Reaching under his thigh, he pulled out a blue-and-yellow pen emblazoned with the logo of the University of Michigan. Michigan, he thought. The same place Joey’s boss, Chuck Sheafe, went t-

“Where’d you get this?” Gallo blurted, jamming the pen toward Lapidus. “Is it yours?”

“I don’t think so,” Lapidus stammered. “No, I’ve definitely never seen it…”

Gallo pulled off the cap, furiously unscrewed the barrel of the pen, and shook both pieces over the desk. Out popped a pen refill… a metal spring… and from the back part of the pen: a clear plastic tube filled with wires, a miniature battery, and a tiny transmitter. A pinhole in the base held the built-in microphone.

“Son of a bitch!” Gallo exploded. He winged the pen against the wall, where it barely missed the calligraphy scroll.

“Be careful!” Lapidus shouted as Gallo leapt out of his seat.

Knocking his chair to the floor, Gallo raged toward the door, grabbed the oval doorknob, and tugged as hard as he could.

“Can I help you?” Lapidus’s secretary asked from her usual spot behind her desk.

Gallo barreled past her and looked up the hallway… near the bathrooms… by the elevator. He was already too late. Joey was long gone.

The backseat of the black gypsy cab is covered with a stained brown towel that smells like feet. Under normal circumstances, I’d roll down the bubbling tinted windows for some air, but right now – after hearing those sirens – we’re better off behind the tint. Ducking down so no one can see us, Charlie and I haven’t said a word since I waved down the car. Obviously, neither of us will risk talking in front of the driver – but as I stare at Charlie, who’s curled up against the door and staring vacantly out the window, I know it’s not just because he wants privacy.

“Make a right up here,” I call out, peeking above the headrest so I can get a better view of Park Avenue. The driver makes a sharp turn on 50th Street and gets about halfway up the block. “Perfect. Right here.” As the car jerks to a halt, I toss a ten-dollar bill between the armrests, kick open the door, and make sure he never gets a good look. We’re only a few blocks from Grand Central, but there was no way I was running on the open street.

“Let’s go,” I call to Charlie, who’s already a few steps behind. I head straight for the front door of the Italian bakery right outside the cab. But the moment the driver speeds away, I turn around and walk out. This is no time to take chances. Not with myself – and certainly not with Charlie.

“C’mon,” I say, rushing back toward Park Avenue. The sharp December wind tries to blow us back, but all it does is make the surrounding after-lunch crowd bundle up and hunch over. Good for us. As soon as we turn back onto Park Avenue, I bound up the concrete steps. Behind me, Charlie looks up at the ornate pink brick structure and finally understands. Nestled between the investment banks, the law firms, and the Waldorf, it’s the one island of piety in what’s otherwise an ocean of the ostentatious. More important, it’s the nearest place I could think of that wouldn’t kick us out – no matter how late we wanted to stay.

“Welcome to St. Bart’s Church,” a soft voice whispers as we step inside the arched stone foyer. On my left, from behind a card table covered with stacks of Bibles and other religious books, a pudgy grandmother nods hello, then quickly looks away.

I shove two dollars into the see-through donation box and head for the doors of the main sanctuary, where – the instant they open – I’m hit with that incense and old wood church smell. Inside, the ceiling rises to a golden dome, while the floor stretches out with forty rows of maple pews. The whole room is dark, lit only by a few hanging chandeliers and the natural light that filters through the stained glass along the walls.

Now that lunch is over, most of the pews are empty – but not all of them. A dozen or so worshipers are scattered throughout the rows, and even if they’re praying, it only takes one random glance for one of them to be Crimestopper of the Week. Hoping for something a bit less crowded, I glance around the sanctuary. When a church is this big, there’s usually… There we go. Three-quarters down the aisle – along the lefthand wall – a single unmarked door.

Trying not to be too quick or noticeable, Charlie and I keep the pace nice and smooth. There’s a loud creak as the door opens. I cringe and give it a fast push to end the pain. We rush forward so quickly, I literally stumble into the stone room, which is just big enough to hold a few benches and a brass votive stand filled with burning candles. Otherwise, we’re the only ones in the private chapel.

The door slams shut and Charlie’s still silent.

“Please don’t do this to yourself,” I tell him. “Take your own advice: What happened with Shep… it’s not my fault and it’s not yours.”

Collapsing on a wooden bench in the corner, Charlie doesn’t answer. His posture sinks; his neck bobs lifelessly. He’s still in shock. Less than a half-hour ago, I saw a co-worker get shot. Charlie watched someone he thought was a friend. And even if they barely knew each other – even if all they did was talk a few games of high school football – to Charlie, that’s a lifetime. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The sight alone makes me taste the lingering vomit in my throat. “Charlie, if you want to talk about it…”

“I know,” he interrupts, his voice shaking. He’s fighting to hold it together, but some things are too strong. This isn’t just for Shep. On our left, the candles burn and our shadows flicker against the stone wall. “They’re gonna kill us, Ollie – just like they killed him.”

Moving in close, I palm the back of his neck and join him on the bench. Charlie’s not a crier. He didn’t shed a tear when he broke his collarbone trying to ride his bike down the stairs. Or when we had to say goodbye to Aunt Maddie in the hospital. But, today, as I open my arms, he falls right in.