Amanda had been the first female officer to disabuse them of this theory. She had been at the bank cashing her paycheck when a robber decided to take an early withdrawal. One of the tellers had panicked, and the robber had started to pistol-whip her. Amanda shot him once in the heart, what was called a K-5 for the circle it corresponded to on the shooting range target. She'd told Faith once that she had gotten her nails done afterward.

Otik Simkov, the doorman from Anna Lindsey's building, would have benefited from knowing this story. Or maybe not. The little troll had an air of arrogance about him, despite being stuffed into a too-small, Day-Glo orange prison uniform and open-toed sandals that had been worn by a thousand prisoners before him. His face was bruised and battered, but he still held himself upright, shoulders squared. As Faith entered the interrogation room, he gave her the same look of appraisal a farmer might give a cow.

Cal Finney, Simkov's lawyer, made a show of looking at his watch. Faith had seen him on television many times; Finney's commercials had their own annoying jingle. He was as handsome in person as he was on the set. The watch on his arm could've put Jeremy through college.

"Sorry I'm late." Faith directed the apology toward Amanda, knowing she was the only one who mattered. She sat in the chair opposite Finney, catching the look of distaste on Simkov's face as he openly stared at her. This was not a man who had learned to respect women. Maybe Amanda would change that.

"Thank you for speaking with us, Mr. Simkov," Amanda began. She was still using her pleasant voice, but Faith had been in enough meetings with her boss to know that Simkov was in trouble. She had her hands resting lightly on a file folder. If experience was anything to go by, she would open the folder at some point, unleashing the gates of hell.

She said, "We just have a few question to ask you regarding—"

"Screw you, lady," Simkov barked. "Talk to my lawyer."

"Dr. Wagner," Finney said. "I'm sure you're aware that we filed a lawsuit against the city this morning for police brutality." He snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers, which he dropped with a thunk on the table.

Faith felt her face flush, but Amanda didn't seem fazed. "I understand that, Mr. Finney, but your client is looking at a charge of obstructing justice in a particularly heinous case. Under his watch, one of the tenants in his building was abducted. She was raped and tortured. She barely managed to escape with her life. I'm sure you saw it on the news. Her child was left to die, again under Mr. Simkov's watch. The victim will never regain her vision. You can see why we are somewhat frustrated that your client has been less than forthcoming about what, exactly, was going on in his building."

"I know nothing," Simkov insisted, his accent so thick Faith expected him at any moment to start talking about capturing Moose and Squirrel. He told the lawyer, "Get me out of here. Why am I a prisoner? I am soon a wealthy man."

Finney ignored his client, asking Amanda, "How long will this take?"

"Not long." Her smile indicated otherwise.

Finney wasn't fooled. "You've got ten minutes. Keep all your questions to the Anna Lindsey case." He advised Simkov, "Your cooperation now will reflect well during your civil suit."

Unsurprisingly, he was swayed by the prospect of money. "Yeah. Okay. What are your questions?"

"Tell me, Mr. Simkov," Amanda continued. "How long have you been in our country?"

Simkov glanced at his lawyer, who nodded that he should answer.

"Twenty-seven years."

"You speak English very well. Would you describe yourself as fluent, or should I get a translator here to make you more comfortable?"

"I am perfect with my English." His chest puffed out. "I read American books and newspapers all the time."

"You are from Czechoslovakia." Amanda said. "Is that correct?"

"I am Czech," he told her, probably because his country no longer existed. "Why do you ask me questions? I am suing you. You should be answering my questions."

"You have to be a United States citizen in order to sue the government."

Finney piped up. "Mr. Simkov is a legal resident."

"You took my green card," Simkov added. "It was in my wallet. I saw you see it."

"You certainly did." Amanda opened the folder, and Faith felt her heart leap. "Thank you for that. It saved me some time." She slipped on her glasses and read from a page in the folder. "'Green Cards issued between 1979 and 1989, containing no expiration date, must be replaced within 120 days of this notice. Affected lawful permanent residents must file an Application to Replace Lawful Permanent Residence Card, form I-90, in order to replace their current green card or their permanent lawful resident status will be terminated.'" She put the page down. "Does that sound familiar to you, Mr. Simkov?"

Finney held out his hand. "Let me see that."

Amanda passed him the notice. "Mr. Simkov, I'm afraid Immigration and Naturalization Services has no record of you filing form I-90 to renew your legal status as a resident in this country."

"Bullshit," Simkov countered, but his eyes went nervously to his lawyer.

Amanda passed Finney another sheet of paper. "This is a photocopy of Mr. Simkov's green card. You'll note there's no expiration date. He's in violation of his terms of status. I'm afraid we'll have to turn him over to the INS." She smiled sweetly. "I also got a call from Homeland Security this morning. I had no idea Czech-made weapons were falling into the hands of terrorists. Mr. Simkov, I believe you were a metalworker before you came to America?"

"I was a farrier," he shot back. "I put shoes on horses."

"Still, you have a specialized knowledge of metal tooling."

Finney muttered a curse. "You people are unbelievable. You know that?"

Amanda was leaning back in her chair. "I don't recall from your commercials, Mr. Finney—do you have a sub-specialty in immigration law?" She gave a cheery whistle, a pitch-perfect imitation of the jingle on Finney's television commercials.

"You think you're going to get away with a beat-down on a technicality? Look at this man." Finney pointed to his client, and Faith had to concede the lawyer's point. Simkov's nose was twisted to the side where the cartilage had been shattered. His right eye was so swollen the lid wouldn't open more than a slit. Even his ear was damaged; an angry row of stitches bisected the lobe where Will's fist had split the skin in two.

Finney said, "Your officer beat the shit out of him, and you think that's okay?" He didn't expect an answer. "Otik Simkov fled a communist regime and came to this country to start his life all over again from scratch. You think what you're doing to him now is what the Constitution is all about?"

Amanda had an answer for everything. "The Constitution is for innocent people."

Finney snapped his briefcase closed. "I'm calling a press conference."

"I'd be more than happy to tell them how Mr. Simkov made a whore suck him off before he'd let her go up to feed a dying six-month-old baby." She leaned over the table. "Tell me, Mr. Simkov: Did you give her a few extra minutes with the child if she swallowed?"