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her purse. Evan Nussbaum, Det. 114th Precinct, City of New York. It would be one quick phone call, one quick urgently whispered sentence—the truck driver and Desirio are sitting together in a diner—as if each of them carries an electric charge and their union produces instant ignition, and Nussbaum would be here immediately. But she has stolen 1.3 million dollars. Not spent a dime of it, no, but moved it, transferred it, and therefore stolen it . . . and therefore can hardly risk more contact with a detective of the New York Police Department. A moment later, the big truck driver and Desirio are up out of the booth and heading toward the door. And at the same time, clearly choreographed—obviously summoned by cell phone—a big silver sedan pulls up to the door of the diner and Desirio and the truck driver look both ways before ducking purposefully, wordlessly, into the back of it. Shit. As the sedan pulls away and stops in a moment at a red light, Elaine steps out of the shadows, raises her hand high above her head, waves it around irrationally, frantically. As if to halt the silver sedan purely on the strength of her authority, through the power of her righteousness, for the obviousness of the vehicle’s illicitness. But the frantically waving hand is, in fact, searching for a telltale flank
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