Davis couldn’t help wondering how the people in the diner would react to knowing they were dupes. The fat lady behind the counter, going over receipts. The two white guys in flannel and trucker caps, chewing on Reubens and grunting at each other. The mom with a gaggle of kids, hushing them with force-fed fries.

Davis felt he could take the measure of a man or woman by the way they handled the news that they weren’t real. It was uncomfortable, intimate, and fascinating to watch. Some got angry, some got morose. Others laughed. You saw something about a person in that moment that they wouldn’t ever know—couldn’t ever know—about themselves.

His watch buzzed as the waitress arrived with a plate of fries for him and topped off his coffee. Davis had momentary sadistic visions of himself guessing the reactions of the people in the room, then pulling out his badge and showing it around to see if he was right. Trouble was, Chaz might do something like that if he got too bored.

Chaz got back from the restroom as Davis was munching on fries. “Sure,” Chaz said, sitting, “you’ll put mustard on those.”

“Mustard belongs on fries.”

“Like it belongs on burritos.”

“Disgusting.”

“You just aren’t willing to live, Davis,” Chaz said, stealing a fry. “Try new things, you know?”

“Once again, this isn’t new,” Davis said, checking the message on his phone. “You literally have been trying to get me to eat like you for three years.”

“It’s why I’m a good detective,” Chaz said. “Tenacity. What’s hottie pants say?”

“Hottie pants? Maria?”

Chaz nodded.

“She’s like twenty years older than you.”

“And hot. What does she say?”

“They found the gun in real life,” Davis said. “It was down there in the storm drain where Estevez threw it. Soaked in ten days’ worth of grime, but they rushed it through ballistics and it came back a match for the bullet. We might have to testify.” They now had enough evidence to convict Estevez, and the testimony of two hardworking cops would only reinforce that.

Chaz grunted. “Would still feel better if I’d been able to gun that punk down. Pay him back, you know?”

“You don’t even know what he did,” Davis said dryly.

“Killed someone. That . . . um . . . girl?” He shrugged. “Anyway, want to play hooky for the rest of the day?”