“Nah,” Coop said easily. “Kirsten Bolger won’t ever run away and hide. It’s not in her genes.”

He had a bedroom voice, too, Celinda thought, and planted herself in front of the closed interview-room door, hands on her hips. “What do you think you can find out from Hurley that we couldn’t? You read the interview transcript, didn’t you? It was thorough, complete. There’s not another drop of juice in him.”

Sherlock didn’t smile. “You never know what’ll pop, do you, when he sees the FBI taking over the questioning?”

Coop was thinking Detective Alba looked like she wanted to belt Sherlock. She was a large woman, all muscle, and he’d bet she could give Sherlock a good go. It was too bad they wouldn’t get any help from her. He wondered briefly why she disliked them, but he didn’t really care. When he wasn’t thinking about Kirsten Bolger, trying to figure out what she’d do next, he was thinking about Lucy, and worrying. He’d tried to call her a couple times, but she’d turned her cell off. He hated voice mail, hated it. He also believed she’d turned off her cell so she wouldn’t have to speak to him. It had to do with what she found in that safe-deposit box, he knew it.

When Alba didn’t move, Sherlock said, a hint of steel in her voice, “Thank you for showing us the way, Detective Alba. We’ll take it from here.”

And she simply took a step forward, forcing Alba to either step aside or the two of them would bump noses. Alba took a fast step to the left. Sherlock and Coop walked into the interview room and closed the door in Alba’s face before she could do more than suck in her breath.

They looked at the young man sitting on the opposite side of a banged-up metal table. Thomas Hurley looked ill and wrung out, and scared.

“Mr. Hurley?”

Thomas nodded.

“No, don’t get up. I’m Agent Sherlock, and this is Agent McKnight, FBI.”

He perked up. “You’re really FBI agents? Honestly? I’ve never seen an FBI agent.” He rose to his feet, stuck out his hand. Sherlock, smiling at him, shook his hand, then Coop.

Sherlock motioned for him to be seated again, and she and Coop handed over their creds. They watched him study their IDs, but Sherlock didn’t think he was really paying much attention, more like studying them to tell his friends what FBI shields looked like.

They sat down across from him and waited until he was done. Then Sherlock said, “Thank you for staying, Mr. Hurley. We need your help.”

“That Detective Alba, she told me not to move.” Thomas shrugged. “I’ll tell you, I think she could make the mayor freeze in his tracks.”

Coop sat forward. “From the transcript we’ve read, it seems to us you did everything right.”

“Except belt the woman who supposedly wanted to save Genny.” He sighed, fiddled with a pen. “If I’d done something, anything, Genny wouldn’t be dead.” Thomas Hurley gave Coop a weak smile. “You know what? It was Genny who hit me and knocked me down, not Monica. She was real strong, and she caught me off guard.”

Sherlock said, “We know you’re tired, Mr. Hurley, and sick over what happened to Genny Connelly last night. We know you’ve already recounted what happened a number of times, but we’d like you to talk us through it one more time, since you were up close and personal with her murderer—Monica, she called herself? She had long blond hair, you said?”

Thomas was staring at her. He felt punch-drunk, he was so tired. He heard himself say, “My sister has red hair, but it’s nothing like yours, Agent Sherlock. Sherlock? That’s really your name? Maybe I could fit it in a poem. That’s what I am, you know, a poet, when I’m not a waiter.”

He stopped talking, stared at her hard. Sherlock said, “Thank you, Mr. Hurley. You’ve never met an FBI agent, and I’ve never met a poet. Now, the woman said her name was Monica?”

Thomas leaned forward. “Yes. She accused me of putting a roofie in Genny’s drink. I couldn’t believe that. A roofie! It was a lie, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, we know. She was the one who managed to drug Ms. Connelly’s mojito without anyone noticing. Do you remember Monica coming close to where you were sitting? At the bar, right?”

“I swear I never saw her before she came running out of Enrico’s, yelling for me to stop.”

“How many times did you go to the men’s room, Mr. Hurley?”

He thought for a moment. “Only once, I think, but Genny was there, so how could Monica—?”