“What do you mean there’s no Officer Bragg there?”

“Sorry, honey. Maybe you got the wrong precinct.”

She hung up on me before I could beat her to it. Still, it was a possibility. I double checked, but I’d called the right precinct. Closest one to Times Square.

What the hell?

Sure it was some mistake (maybe I’d mis-remembered the man’s name) I hopped a cab and went down there to see for myself.

A very kind officer named Ed Funk (I swear) listened to my story and made sure not to call me crazy to my face. No officer Bragg. No death reported yesterday at Ellis Island. Did I have the pictures? No? Well Ma’am I’m afraid I can’t help you.

I wanted to call him a shithead, but honestly, I was starting to wonder myself. Maybe I was crazy. Still, I made sure as hell to write down his name and take his badge number.

On the cab ride back to my apartment, the lightbulb went off. My hand shot down into my purse. Yes. Bragg, whoever he was, had gotten the prints. But I still had the negatives.