"Oh," Lynch said sourly. "Sure. Sure."
"I'd like to ask him a couple of
questions," Malone said. "Alone."
"Alone." Lynch said. "Oh." But there was nothing for him to do, Malone knew, except bow to the inevitable. "Of course," he said. "Go right ahead."
"You can stand outside the door," Malone said. "He won't get away. And you'd better hold this." Malone, knowing perfectly well that staying armed and alone in a room with a suspect was something you just did not do—for very good reasons—unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to the lieutenant.
He left reluctantly, with his men.
Malone could understand Lynch's attitude. If Malone solved the case, Lynch would not get any credit. Otherwise, it might go down in his personal record. And, of course, the NYPD would rather wrap the case up themselves; the FBI was treated as a necessary interference. Unfortunately, Malone thought, Lynch had had absolutely no choice. He sighed gently, and turned his attention to Mike Fueyo, who was still sitting in his chair.
"Now, Mike—" he began, and was interrupted.
The door opened. Lieutenant Lynch said: "If you need us, Malone, just yell."
"You'll hear me," Malone promised. The door shut.