The four of them touched glasses and drank to that. Denny Coughlin wound up chewing on an ice cube.

“What happened at the morgue?” Coughlin then said. “What’d you find out?”

Payne told him.

Coughlin shook his head slowly in disgust. Then he checked his watch and said, “These things never start on time. But we need to get the show going. Bring those drinks with you.”

Then First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughin marched out of the bar and through the doorway.

When Matt Payne, Jim Byrth, and Tony Harris entered the Grant Room, Commissioner Coughlin was already standing beside the dark wood lectern at the front of the room. He was talking to Captain Frank Hollaran, who stood in front of a flag of the United States of America. The flag was on a wooden staff that was held upright on the floor by a round golden stand.

All the tables were full except the one at the back of the room. Payne, Byrth, and Harris got to three of its five empty seats just as Hollaran stepped up to the lectern.

Exactly at the time that they sat down, Hollaran used his left hand to pull the microphone from the lectern.

He said, “Good evening, all. As most of you know, I’m Captain Frank Hollaran of the Philadelphia Police Department. Thank you for being here tonight. Now, if you’ll please stand and join me, we’ll get the formalities of tonight’s meeting out of the way.”

The room rose to its feet en masse. Everyone faced the American flag and placed their right hands over their hearts.

Hollaran, microphone to his lips, then surprised the hell out of Byrth by belting out in a rich baritone voice “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Everyone near Byrth, including Matt Payne and Tony Harris, sang along with gusto. But none in harmony. Nor in tune. And all seemed oblivious to that fact.

As they all sang, “… the land of the free and the home of the brave!” Byrth couldn’t help but glance and grin at Payne.

Matt must be tone-fucking-deaf.

Everyone took their seats.

Still, I liked that.

Byrth looked around at the people. They were as Payne had described in the car, upper-middle-class types who were clearly of comfortable means.

And it’s good to be among people who actually know all the words to our national anthem.

And are respectful of it.

Hand over heart. No talking during its singing. No yelling “play ball!” at its end.

A real class act.

Hollaran now said, “If you’ll please join me in welcoming First Deputy Police Commissioner Denny Coughlin…”

The room filled with polite applause as Hollaran handed the microphone to Coughlin.

“Hear, hear, Denny!” a dashing gentleman seated at a table closer to the lectern called out as he pounded the tablecloth with an open hand.

Byrth saw Payne make eye contact with the gentleman. He looked to be about fifty. He wore a crisp seersucker suit and red bow tie. He was enjoying a cigar the size of a small baseball bat. He nodded politely at Payne.

Payne saw that Byrth was watching and leaned over.

“D. H. Rendolok,” Payne whispered as he nodded in Rendolok’s direction. “Can usually be found at the bar lost in his thoughts and an enormous cloud of Honduran cigar smoke. His father-in-law was one of our finest police commissioners, under a previous mayor. His wife gave up a lucrative law practice to become one of the most respected judges in Eastern Pennsylvania, if not the entire Eastern Seaboard. D.H. won’t tell you himself, but he volunteers time as a consultant in building structure analysis in a highly classified homeland security project. Good people.”

Byrth nodded. He then looked at Coughlin.

The big Irishman smiled warmly. He held up his hand to get them to stop. “Thank you. That’s quite kind of you.”

The crowd became quiet.

Coughlin said: “As usual, I must begin by saying that this session is off the record. What’s said here in the Grant Room stays in the Grant Room.” He grinned. “My old pal Ulysses would want it that way.”

He got the expected chuckles.

“That said, I want to repeat Frank’s sincere thanks for all of you taking time to be here. It tells me that not only do we have fine citizens who care about our great city, we also have people who care about what their police department is doing.”

Byrth saw more than a few heads nodding. But he also heard behind him what sounded like a derisive grunt. And some mumbling.

He turned and saw two men right behind him, at the next table.

Byrth did not hear exactly what had been said. But the tone and body language-and knowing smirks-clearly suggested that it had been derogatory.

The two men were murmuring between themselves. They looked to be between thirty-five and forty-and terribly smug. One had what could be described as a three-day growth of beard. It was what in some circles passed for a fashion statement and in certain other circles qualified for insubordination. The other was skinny and frail, appearing almost sickly.

“Inbred” comes to mind, Byrth thought.

Or “professorial.”

Well, at least the bearded one looks like he could be a college teacher.

One tenured or someone still living on Daddy’s Money-same difference.

When the bearded one noticed Byrth looking at him, he made a face that was at once condescending and disdainful. Then the bearded one looked at Payne in his undersized loaner blazer and at Harris in his wrinkled well-worn blazer. He made a similar look of condescending disdain.

He’s clearly decided that we’re all interlopers.

I’m surprised he hasn’t called for security to have us booted out.

Byrth turned his attention back to Coughlin. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Payne had not missed any of that exchange.

Byrth looked at Payne, who shook his head just perceptibly in a gesture of mild disgust.

“It’s been another challenging day in our fair city,” Coughlin was saying. “You very likely have seen part of it on tonight’s newscasts. We had two deaths at the motel on Frankford that blew up around two o’clock this morning. We believe the explosion was caused by a lab manufacturing illegal drugs. Two other people were injured in the blast and taken to Temple University Hospital’s Burn Unit ICU. Then, later in the morning, there was a shooting at the Reading Terminal Market. It was a multiple murder, including that of innocent bystanders. Our detectives and investigators found evidence that that shooting was also drug-related. Then, just before noon, an assassin disguised as a hospital orderly snuck into the Burn Unit’s ICU and murdered one of the victims from the motel explosion. The assassin-”

He pulled the microphone away and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me.”

Hollaran brought him a glass of water from their table.

“Thank you, Frank. As I was saying, that assassin was pursued through the streets of Philly on foot by one of our Homicide sergeants. The assassin shot at the sergeant. Just before he unfortunately got away, the sergeant, we believe, wounded him. The shot was made to his leg in an effort to stop him, not cause fatal injury.”

My ass, Payne thought. I wanted that sonofabitch dead.

I was aiming for a chest shot, hoping it might turn into a head shot.

Breathing so hard, it knocked my aim off-that’s why I only winged the sonofabitch!

Byrth looked at him and smiled conspiratorially.

Payne thought, He just read my mind!

He grinned back.

“Finally,” Coughlin went on, “about the time of that foot chase, the Marine Unit of the Philly PD recovered from the Schuylkill River the body of a young Hispanic woman.”

One of the few females in the audience gasped audibly.

“Yes,” Coughlin said softly. “And I’m saddened to say that that story gets worse. Before this poor young woman was put in a black trash bag and weighted and tossed in the river, she had been beheaded.”