Then the hit man took another bow, like he had after he shot down Jiang An-Lo.

The Butcher turned away, and he left the apartment the way he came in. Let the hotshot detective try to figure that one out. There was a method to his madness though – always a method to every move he made. He knew what he was doing, and why, and when.

THAT NIGHT WITH THE BUTCHER shook me more than anything that had happened to me before as a policeman. A killer inside my house. Right in the living room with my kids.

And what was I supposed to make of it? That I'd been warned? That I was lucky to be alive? Oh, lucky me? The killer had spared my family. But why had he come after me in the first place?

The next day was one of my worst on the police force. While a squad car watched over the house, I was called into three separate meetings about the screwup at Jiang An-Lo's. There was talk of a departmental review, the first I'd been involved in.

On account of all the unscheduled meetings, plus the extra paperwork and my regular workload, I was late picking up Maria at Potomac Gardens that night. I felt guilty about it.

I hadn't gotten used to her spending time inside a project like Potomac Gardens, especially once it got dark. It was dark now. And Maria was pregnant again.

It was a little past seven fifteen when I got to the projects that night. Maria wasn't waiting out front as she usually was.

I parked and got out of the car. I started to walk toward her office, which was located near maintenance, on the ground floor. Finally, I began to jog.

Then I saw Maria coming out the front door, and everything was suddenly right with the night. Her satchel was filled with so much paperwork that she couldn't get it closed. She had an armful of folders that wouldn't fit in the bag.

She still managed to wave and smile when she saw me coming her way There was almost never anger from her over mistakes I made – like being more than half an hour late to pick her up.

I didn't care how corny or old-fashioned it was, but I was excited to see her, and that's the way it always was with us. My priorities had shifted to Maria and our family first and then my job. It felt good to me, the right balance.

Maria had this excited way of calling out my name. "Alex! Alex!" she shouted, and waved one hand as I jogged to meet her in front of the building. A couple of neighborhood gang-bangers leaning on the front fence turned our way and got a laugh at our expense.

"Hey, beautiful," I called. "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem. I was working too. Hey, Reu-ben! You jeal-ous, chico?" she called to one of the bangers propped against the fence.

He laughed and called back, "You wish, Maria. You wish you had me 'stead of him."

"Yeah, sure. In your dreams."

We kissed – not a big show because we were in front of where she worked, and the bangers were there watching, but enough of a kiss to show we meant it. Then I took her work folders, and we started to the car.

"Carrying my books," Maria teased. "That's so cute, Alex."

"I'll carry you if you want me to."

"I missed you all day. Even more than usual," she said, and smiled again. Then she tucked her face into my shoulder. "I love you so much."

Maria sagged in my arms first, and then I heard the gunshots. Two distant pops that didn't sound like much of anything. I never saw the shooter, no sign. I wasn't even sure which direction the shots had come from.

Maria whispered, "Oh, Alex," and then she got quiet and very still. I couldn't tell if she was breathing.

Before I realized what was happening, she slid away from me, down onto the sidewalk. I could see that she'd been hit in the chest, or high on her stomach. It was too dark and confusing to tell anything else for certain.

I tried to shield her, but then I saw a lot of blood pumping from her wound, so I picked her up in my arms and began to run.

Blood was all over me too. I think I was shouting, but I'm not sure exactly what happened after I realized Maria had been shot, and how bad it looked.

Close behind me, a couple of the gangbangers were tagging along. One of them was Reuben. Maybe they wanted to help. But I didn't know if anything could help Maria now. I was afraid she was dead in my arms.

ST. ANTHONY'S HOSPITAL wasn't far away, and I was running as fast as I could with Maria bundled and sagging heavily in my arms. My heart, the rushing blood, created a loud roar in my ears, like being caught under or maybe inside an ocean wave that was about to crash over both of us and drown us on these city streets.

I was afraid I might trip and fall because my legs were wobbly and weak. But I also knew I couldn't go down, couldn't stop running until I was at the ER.

Maria hadn't made a sound since she had whispered my name. I was afraid, maybe in shock, and definitely affected by tunnel vision. Everything around me was a fuzzy blur that made the moment seem even more unreal.

But I was definitely running.

I reached Independence Avenue and finally saw St. Anthony's glowing red Emergency Room sign less than a block away

I had to stop for traffic, which was heavy and moving fast. I began to shout for help. From where I was standing, I could see a clique of hospital attendants huddled together, talking among themselves, but they hadn't seen me yet and couldn't hear me over the traffic noise.

There was no other choice, so I edged my way out onto the busy street.

Cars swerved and skidded around me, and a silver station wagon stopped completely. An exasperated father was at the wheel, kids leaning forward from the backseat. No one honked, maybe because they could see Maria in my arms. Or maybe it was the look on my face. Panic, despair, whatever it was.

More cars braked to let me through.

I was thinking to myself, We're going to make it. I told Maria, "We're at St. Anthony's. You're going to be all right, sweetheart. We're almost there. Hang on, we're almost at the hospital. I love you."

I reached the other side of the street, and Maria's eyes suddenly blinked wide open. She looked at me, peered deeply into my eyes. At first she seemed confused, but then she focused on my face.

"Oh, I do love you, Alex," Maria said, and she gave me that wonderful wink of hers. Then my sweet girl's eyes closed for the last time, and she was gone forever from me. Even while I was standing there holding on to her for dear life.

MARIA SIMPSON CROSS DIED in my arms – which was something I told almost no one, except Sampson and Nana Mama.

I didn't want to talk about our last few moments together; I didn't want anyone's pity, or their prying. I didn't want to satisfy some people's need for petty gossip, the latest dramatic story to whisper in hushed tones. All through the murder investigation over the next several months, I never discussed what had happened in front of St. Anthony's. That was between Maria and me. Sampson and I talked to hundreds of people, but nobody gave us a lead on her killer. The trail went cold fast and stayed that way. We checked out the crazy mob killer but discovered he'd been on a flight back to New York the previous night – apparently he left town shortly after he left my kitchen. The FBI helped us there because a cop's wife had been shot. The killer wasn't the Butcher.

At two o'clock the morning after she died, I was inside our apartment, still wearing my holster and gun, pacing the living room with a screaming Janelle in my arms. I couldn't get the idea out of my head that our baby girl was crying for her mother, who had died that night just outside St. Anthony's, where Jannie had been born six months before.