Jessica glanced across the bar. A pair of pretty college girls in halter tops were eyeing Mark, whispering, giggling. He was a good-looking young man. 'So how come you're not married, Mark?' Jessica vaguely remembered a moon-faced girl hanging around back in the day.
'Got close once,' he said.
'What happened?'
He shrugged, sipped his drink, hesitated. Maybe she shouldn't have asked. 'Life happened,' he finally said. 'The job happened.'
Jessica knew what he meant. She'd had a few semi-serious relationships before becoming a cop. All of them fell by the wayside when she entered the academy. Afterward, she found that the only people who understood what she did every day were other cops.
Officer Nihiser tapped his watch, drained his drink, stood.
'We've got to run,' Mark said. 'We're on last out and we've got to get some food in us.'
'And this was just getting good,' Jessica said.
Underwood stood, took out his wallet, pulled out a few bills, handed them to the barmaid. He put his wallet down on the bar. It fell open. Jessica glanced at his ID.
VANDEMARK E. UNDERWOOD.
He caught her looking, scooped up his wallet. But it was too late.
'Vandemark?' Jessica asked.
Underwood looked around quickly. He pocketed his billfold in a flash. 'Name your price,' he said.
Jessica laughed. She watched Mark Underwood leave. He held the door for an older couple on his way out.
As she toyed with the ice cubes in her glass, she observed the ebb and flow of the pub. She watched cops stroll in, stroll out. She waved to An- gelo Turco from the Third. Angelo had a beautiful tenor voice, sang at all the police benefit functions, many of the officers' weddings. With a little training he could have been Philadelphia's answer to Andrea Bocelli. He even opened a Phillies game once.
She saw Cass James, a secretary and all-around sister confessor from Central. Jessica could only imagine how many secrets Cass James held, and what kind of Christmas presents she must get. Jessica had never seen Cass actually pay for a drink.
Cops.
Her father was right. All her friends were on the force. So what was she supposed to do about it? Join the Y? Take a macrame class? Learn to ski?
She finished her drink and was just about to gather her things to leave when she sensed someone sitting down next to her, on the very next stool to her right. Seeing as there were three stools open on either side of her, it could only mean one thing. She felt herself tense up. But why? She knew why. She'd been out of the dating pool for so long, the mere thought of fielding an advance, fueled by a few scotches, scared the hell out of her, as much for what she might not do as for what she might. She'd gotten married for many reasons, and this was one of them. The bar scene, and all its attendant games, never appealed to her much. And now that she was thirty-and the possibility of divorce loomed on the horizon-it terrified her more than it ever had before.
The figure next to her lurked closer, closer. She could feel warm breath on her face. The nearness demanded her attention.
'Can I buy you a drink?' the shadow asked.
She looked over. Caramel eyes, dark wavy hair, a two-day scruff. He had broad shoulders, a small cleft in his chin, long eyelashes. He wore a tight black T-shirt and faded Levi's. Just to make matters worse, he was wearing Acqua di Gio by Armani. Shit.
Just her type.
'I was just about to leave,' she said. 'Thanks anyway.'
'One drink. I promise.'
She almost laughed. 'I don't think so.'
'Why not?'
'Because with guys like you it's never one drink.'
He feigned heartbreak. It made him even cuter. 'Guys like me?'
Now she did laugh. 'Oh, and now you're going to tell me I've never met anyone quite like you, right?'
He didn't answer her right away. Instead, he looked from her eyes, down to her lips, back to her eyes.
Stop it.
'Oh, I'll bet you've met a lot of guys like me,' he said with a sly grin. It was the kind of smile that said he was in complete control.
'Why do you say that?'
He sipped his drink, paused, played the moment out. 'Well, for one thing, you're a very beautiful woman.'
Here we go, Jessica thought. Bartender, get me a long-handled shovel. 'And two?'
'Well, two should be obvious.'
'Not to me.'
'Two is that you are clearly out of my league.'
Ah, Jessica thought. The humility pitch. Self-deprecating, handsome, polite. Bedroom eyes. She was absolutely certain that this combo had gotten scads of women into the sack. 'And yet you still came over and sat next to me.'
'Life is short,' he said with a shrug. He crossed his arms, flexing his muscular forearms. Not that Jessica was looking or anything. 'When that guy left, I figured it was now or never. I figured that, if I didn't at least try, I would never be able to live with myself.'
'How do you know he's not my boyfriend?'
He shook his head. 'Not your type.'
Cocky bastard. 'And I'll bet you know exactly what my type is, right?'
'Absolutely,' he said. 'Have a drink with me. I'll explain it to you.'
Jessica cruised his shoulders, his broad chest. The gold crucifix on the chain around his neck winked in the bar lights.
Go home, Jess.
'Maybe some other time.'
'There is no time like now,' he said. The sincerity in his voice dripped. 'Life is so unpredictable. Anything could happen.'
'For instance,' she said, wondering why she was prolonging this, deep in denial about the fact that she already knew why.
'Well, for instance, you could walk out of here and a stranger with far more nefarious intentions could do you terrible bodily harm.' I see.
'Or you might step into the middle of an armed robbery in progress and be taken hostage.'
Jessica wanted to take out her Glock, lay it on the bar, and tell him she could probably deal with that scenario. Instead, she just said: 'Uh- huh.'
'Or a bus might jump the curb, or a grand piano might fall from the sky, or you might-'
'— get buried under an avalanche of bullshit?'
He smiled. 'Exactly.'
He was cute. She had to give him that. 'Look, I'm really flattered, but I'm a married woman.'
He drained his drink, spread his hands in surrender. 'He's a very lucky man.'
Jessica smiled, dropped a twenty on the bar. 'I'll tell him.'
She slid off her stool, walked to the door, using all the determination in her arsenal not to turn around and look. Her undercover training paid off sometimes. But that didn't mean she didn't work her walk for all it was worth.
She pushed open the heavy front door. The city was a blast furnace. She walked out of Finnigan's, around the corner, down Third Street, keys in hand. The temperature hadn't dropped more than a degree or two in the last few hours. Her blouse stuck to her back like a damp washcloth.
By the time she reached her car she heard the footsteps behind her and knew who it was. She turned. She
