Deputy Police Commissioner Vincent Burke, hard-nosed commander of the NYPD Counter-Terrorism Force, was sitting at his desk in his headquarters office, chair turned around toward a television newscast. 

The flat screen over his credenza showed stock footage of a large Arab man walking out of the U.N. Building – the man who was killed in the crash with Nina Galleon. A black Mercedes pulled up to him, the rear door was held open, and the man squeezed inside the car. 

The newscaster’s voiceover continued as the Mercedes drove off: 

“… killed in a car accident Tuesday. An embassy spokesperson said Mr. Hasan’s remains would be flown to Riyadh for a traditional desert burial in an unmarked grave near his tribal village.” 

The story had broken that afternoon. 

Burke pointed the remote and zapped the sound, turned around and said, “And here we sit with our thumbs up our ass.” 

He gave a stony look to the uniformed cop standing nervously facing the desk – the cop who took Weecho’s camera at the crash. 

Burke let the man’s unease feed on itself, and then said, “So tell me why we don’t have those pictures we should be looking at right now.”      

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The one dish Weecho knew how to make, what he told her was the house specialty, was macaroni and cheese. Cheap, filling, you can change the flavor depending what kind of cheese you use. Not all cheeses work, so you have to know what you’re doing.   

The batch he made after they’d gotten settled in at the loft seemed to go down okay, them eating at the workbench that doubled as a table. Juna asked for seconds, a good sign, was feeding pieces to Wanda, who knew an easy touch when she saw it. 

They’d decided to call the cops after all. From a pay phone outside a gas station a couple of blocks from the creek. Weecho told them some kids who were fishing in the creek found a body. Gave the location, hung up and got out of there before they could be traced. 

Hoped the cops would see to it that Hoodie Guy got a decent grave. 

They’d taken a roundabout walk through a drizzle, Juna with her hood up, Weecho trying to picture Soul Patch sneaking up on her boyfriend, who probably didn’t hear him because his hood was up.   

After a couple of more blocks a raw wind came in. Weecho could see Juna was getting cold, was cold himself, asked if she was hungry and here they were. 

He put the macaroni bowl back in the toaster oven to keep it warm. “Let me know if you want more.” 

“I’m fine,” Juna said. 

Weecho set a tea kettle to boil on the two-ring stove.    

There hadn’t been much talk since they’d gotten here, Juna keeping mostly to one-word answers. Feeling him out, he believed. While he was cooking, she’d taken a shower, didn’t mind that it was rustic. The tradeoff being the view when she sat on the toilet, the Brooklyn Bridge out there lit up at night. For somebody coming from bayou country, the sight was impressive. Not that she’d mention it. Thinking this Weecho, with his cat and his loft and all that photography and computer gear, well, he must be doing something right. Made you overlook the fact he could use some height on him.  

When she came out, she’d changed into dry clothes, ones Weecho had given her that looked a little tight when she sat down, jeans snug in the hips. But girls were naturally bigger there, and this one he could see wasn’t even close to being heavy.   

 After they’d finished eating he said, “You wanna see the shots I took at the crash?” Time to get into it, get her talking again. 

“Why not?”   

They cleared the dishes off the workbench, Juna sitting with Wanda in front of the wide computer screen while Weecho started showing the shots in sequence. He pointed out her hoodie friend in the one, said that’s what had given him the idea to go back there and write that message. 

He showed her the one where Nina Galleon was pinned in the wreckage. 

“Check this,” he said, and slid over the magazine that had Nina on the cover. “That’s her, you can believe it. I had her in my hands.” Realized Juna had probably seen that. Never mind what’s happened between Nina and him since. 

Juna nodded at Nina’s picture on the screen. “They had her out of there fast as they could.” 

Weecho frowned. “What do you mean, They?”   

“After you ran,” Juna said, “two black SUVs pulled up. Guys in windbreakers jumped out and took over from the cops. Before the fire guys even had the flames out. I had my view from up in the building, could pretty much see everything. The car was still smoking when they brought in a flatbed. Winched the car on, tied a tarp over it and took it away, bodies still inside. SUV escort front and back.” 

That didn’t sound like your average crash scene.  

“Something more than a wreck happened here,” Weecho said. “And the cops and the ones who set it up know I got these pictures.” 

They stared at the screen, Juna distant now. 

“They torched her,” she said, “and they shot my friend.” 

Weecho kept staring at the picture of the wrecked Mercedes. “It took big balls to pull it off like that. Out in the open, broad daylight.” 

“You sound like you’re impressed.” 

“I’m saying that’s what we’re up against.”  

She looked at him. 

He turned to her. “I mean that is what we’re talking about.” 

Silence. 

“Right?” 

They let that hang until the tea kettle let off a whistle. 

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They sipped tea from chipped mugs and looked at more pictures. Weecho had found some cookies left over from one of his shoots for dessert. He went through the crash shots again and they talked – about what those six guys in the container could’ve been brought into New York for, about the dead Arab guy with Nina, about 9/11 even, which had happened only a couple of blocks from here. It got late, Wanda asleep in Juna’s lap. 

“Where do you keep her litter box?” 

“She goes off and does it someplace else,” Weecho said. 

“That’s pretty casual.” 

“It’s a big building.” 

Finally they had to think about sleeping. No way it would have been right for her to leave at this hour, even if she had a decent place to go to. And it was still raining. But there was only the one mattress on the floor, and a single-bed mattress at that. Juna saw him looking at it. 

“It’s big enough for two,” she said. “Just keep your hands to yourself. I’ll be out of here first thing in the morning.” 

They took turns brushing their teeth, Weecho having only the one toothbrush. He gave the dishes a quick rinse while she took off her sneakers and got under the comforter, the one he’d dragged around all those years from relative to relative. 

He emptied his pockets onto the workbench, kept his pants on and turned out the light. Went over to the mattress, kicked off his Nikes, bent down and got in next to Juna. 

Pulled up the comforter and lay there. About as ready for sleep as if he’d mainlined caffeine. 

“You comfortable?” he said. 

“I’m fine.”  

She didn’t sound tired. Maybe wanted to talk some more. Except they’d been talking all evening, after they got going. Weecho didn’t think he was turned on by her. Hadn’t changed his view she was plain.  

“What was it you ran from?” he said. No harm asking again. 

She didn’t answer. Maybe he should’ve left it alone. For now anyway. The rain was still coming down, he listened to it tick against the windows. Thought maybe she’d fallen asleep. 

“I had a sister killed herself,” she finally said. 

Careful what you ask about.  

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened?” 

He waited. Another long silence. The wind picked up, the rain ticked louder. Wanda hopped up and plopped down where she always did at the foot of the mattress. 

Just when Weecho thought that was the end of the story, Juna spoke up. “A guy took pictures of her with another girl, naked in bed, going at it. He put the pictures online, it freaked her. In New York it’d be nothing. But in the land of the righteous, where we were, it was bigtime shame. She couldn’t deal with it.” 

She was right. Girls Weecho knew here, even straight ones, tried stuff like that all the time. But here was here. 

“Why’d you run?” Weecho said. “I mean, it’s terrible, but it wasn’t you.” 

“I took a baseball bat to the guy’s head,” she said. “The one who posted the pictures. He’s still in a wheelchair. Probably will be the rest of his life.” 

“Oh.” 

 They lay there a long time, not saying a word. Baseball bats and plastic pistols. Girl knew how to improvise. Which wouldn’t be a bad thing if they got into a situation. Finally, he could tell by her breathing she was asleep. It’d been a full day. 

By then he was about to nod off himself. But first, like he did every night, he stared up at the ceiling, sent some thoughts up there to whoever might be on the other side. Like please make it okay there for Nina Galleon (who he realized might show up again any time). And for Juna’s sister, long as she’d come up. And the hoodie boyfriend. And of course, like always, try to get a break for his mother.   

And please, no eel dreams. 

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Juna could tell he thought she was asleep. Was pretty good at faking it. Easier than having to push him away if it came to that. Not that she’d have minded if he tried – he had some hot aspects to him. Just not tonight, out of respect for her friend, who she hardly knew but they’d looked out for each other. They’d had a fling, but that was mostly just circumstances. 

On second thought, this Weecho might have at least given it a shot. Maybe he didn’t like girls. Or maybe the baseball bat thing turned him off. She could still feel it hitting that guy’s head, asshole jerk. Well, she wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.