It was a pretty common sight in the past few years. The huge trucks, the big lights, the barricades. Due to a very aggressive and accommodating film office, Philadelphia was becoming a hub for movie production. Although some officers considered it a plum detail to be assigned to security for the duration of the shoot, it was mostly a lot of standing around. The city itself had a love-hate relationship with the movies. Quite often it was an inconvenience. But then there was Philly pride.
Somehow Mark Underwood still looked like a college kid. Somehow she was already over thirty. Jessica remembered the day he joined the force like it was yesterday.
'I heard you're in the Show,' Underwood said. 'Congratulations.'
'Captain by forty,' Jessica replied, inwardly wincing at the word forty. 'Watch and see.'
'No doubt.' Underwood looked at his watch. 'Gotta hit the street. Good seeing you.'
'Same here.'
'We're getting together at Finnigan's Wake tomorrow night,' Underwood said. 'Sergeant O'Brien's retiring. Stop by for a beer. We'll catch up.'
'Are you sure you're old enough to drink?' Jessica asked.
Underwood laughed. 'Have a safe tour, Detective.'
'Thanks,' she said. 'You, too.'
Jessica watched him square his cap, sheathe his baton, make his way down the ramp, skirting the ever- present row of smokers.
Officer Mark Underwood was a three-year vet.
Man was she getting old.
When Jessica entered the duty room of the Homicide Unit, she was greeted by the handful of detectives hanging on from the last-out shift, the tour that began at midnight. Rare was the shift that ran only eight hours. Much of the time, if your shift began at midnight, you managed to get out of the building around 10:00 AM, then head right over to the Criminal Justice Center, where you waited in a crowded courtroom until the afternoon to testify, then caught a few hours' sleep, then returned to the Roundhouse. It was for reasons like these, among many others, that the people in this room, this building, were your true family. The rate of alcoholism supported that fact, as did the rate of divorce. Jessica had vowed to become a statistic of neither.
Sergeant Dwight Buchanan was one of the day-watch supervisors, a thirty-eight-year veteran of the PPD. He wore every minute of it on his badge. After the incident in the alley, Buchanan had arrived on the scene and taken Jessica's weapon, directing the mandatory debriefing of an officer involved in a shooting, running liaison with Internal Affairs. Although he was not on duty when the incident occurred, he had gotten out of bed and rushed down to the scene to look out for one of his own. It was moments like this that bound the men and women in blue in a way most people would never understand.
Jessica had worked the desk for nearly a week and was glad to be back on the Line Squad. She was no house cat.
Buchanan handed her back her Glock. 'Welcome back, Detective.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Ready for the street?'
Jessica held up her weapon. 'The question is, is the street ready for me?'
'There's someone here to see you.' He pointed over her shoulder. Jessica turned around. There was a man leaning against the assignment desk, a big man with emerald-green eyes and sandy hair. A man with the bearing of someone stalked by powerful demons.
It was her partner, Kevin Byrne.
Jessica's heart fluttered for a moment as their eyes met. They had only been partnered a few days when Kevin Byrne had been shot this past spring, but what they had shared that terrible week was so intimate, so personal, that it went beyond something even lovers felt. It spoke to their souls. It appeared that neither of them, even over the course of the past few months, had time to reconcile these feelings. It was unknown whether Kevin Byrne was going to return to the force and, if he did, whether or not he and Jessica would be partnered again. She had meant to call him in the past few weeks. She had not.
The bottom line was that Kevin Byrne had taken one for the company-had taken one for Jessica-and he deserved better from her. She felt bad, but she was really glad to see him.
Jessica crossed the room, arms out. They embraced, a little awkwardly, separated.
'Are you back?' Jessica asked.
'The doctor says I'm on forty-eight, off forty-eight. But yeah. I'm back.'
'I can hear the crime rate dropping already.'
Byrne smiled. There was sadness in it. 'Got room for your old partner?'
'I think we can find a bucket and a crate,' Jessica said.
'That's all us old-school guys need, you know. Get me a flintlock and I'll be all set.'
'You got it.'
It was a moment Jessica had both longed for and dreaded. After the bloody incident on Easter Sunday, how would they be together? Would it, could it, be the same? She had no idea. It looked like she was going to find out.
Ike Buchanan let the moment play out. When he was certain it had, he held up an object. A videocassette. He said: 'I want you two to see this.'
7
Jessica, Byrne, and Ike Buchanan huddled in the cramped snack room that held a bank of small video monitors and VCRs. After a few moments, a third man entered.
'This is Special Agent Terry Cahill,' Buchanan said. 'Terry is on loan from the FBI's task force on urban crime, but just for a few days.'
Cahill was in his mid-thirties. He wore the standard-issue navy-blue suit, white shirt, burgundy-and-blue- striped tie. He was fair-haired, combed and collegial, good-looking in a J.-Crew-catalog, buttondown kind of way. He smelled like strong soap and good leather.
Buchanan finished the introductions. 'This is Detective Jessica Balzano.' 'Nice to meet you, Detective,' Cahill said. 'Same here.'
'This is Detective Kevin Byrne.'
'Good to meet you.'
'My pleasure, Agent Cahill,' Byrne said.
Cahill and Byrne shook hands. Cool, mechanical, professional. You could slice the interagency rivalry with a rusty butter knife. Cahill then turned his attention back to Jessica. 'You're the boxer?' he asked.
She knew what he meant, but still it sounded funny. Like she was a dog. You're the schnauzer? 'Yes.'
He nodded, apparently impressed.
'Why do you ask?' Jessica asked. 'Plan on getting out of line, Agent Cahill?'
Cahill laughed. He had straight teeth, a single dimple on the left. 'No, no. I've just done a little boxing myself.'
'Professional?'
'Nothing like that. Golden Gloves mostly. Some in the service.'
Now it was Jessica's turn to be impressed. She knew what it took to square off in the ring.
'Terry is here to observe and make recommendations to the task force,' Buchanan said. 'The bad news is that we need the help.'
It was true. Violent crime, across the board, was up in Philadelphia. Still, there wasn't an officer in the department who wanted any outside agencies butting in. Observe, Jessica thought. Right.
'How long have you been with the bureau?' Jessica asked.
'Seven years.'
'Are you from Philadelphia?'
'Born and raised,' Cahill said. 'Tenth and Washington.'
