Joe Citrone wrapped his plaid bathrobe around his lean frame and opened his front door just before breakfast, satisfied to find his newspaper delivered on time for a change. God knows what kept that kid half the time. When Joe was young he got up in the middle of the night to deliver the paper. The Philadelphia Inquirer was the morning paper then and the Evening Bulletin was what his father read when they sat down to dinner. Now Joe’s father had passed and only the Inquirer was left. Half the time it didn’t get delivered until after Joe’s eggs.

He picked the paper off the stoop and straightened up, stiff again. DOUBLE TROUBLE: TWIN DEFENDS TWIN IN COP MURDER, read the headline. Joe shut the door and skimmed the newspaper story until he got to the only paragraph that interested him.

Early reports that Rosato’s license to practice law had lapsed were unfounded, sources said today. The attorney was only technically in default on her yearly ethics requirements. According to one well-placed source at the Pennsylvania Bar Association, the lapse “should cast no reflection on Ms. Rosato’s ethical standing or prevent her from undertaking any civil or criminal defense.”

Strike one. It happens. They’d try again next time up at bat. Joe had options, plenty of them, but he didn’t want to resort to them if they weren’t necessary. The game had to be played an inning at a time.

Joe flipped to the sports page and scuffed into the kitchen as he read. The new rookie for the Phils was looking good, like he might pull the team out of the basement. The kid’s name was on top of the stat sheets in eleven categories, including home runs and RBIs. Joe sat down at the head of the table, the sports page in front of him. In a minute, Yolanda would serve his scrambled eggs, runny the way he liked them, and he could already smell the coffee brewing for his first cup. He could study the stats in peace.

Joe believed in the stats, in numbers. They were scientific, exact. As a young man, he had wanted to be a businessman, maybe an actuary, when he grew up. The old man was against it. Didn’t want his kid growing up better than him, the old Italian way. So Joe became a cop instead of a businessman. Then he found out they didn’t have to be two different things.

He nodded when he heard the clink of a porcelain plate hitting the table on the other side of the newspaper. The egg smell wafted up, and Joe reached for his fork behind the paper. Next he heard the gurgle of coffee splashing into his cup. The paper said the rookie played like a vet, reminding everybody of Yastrzemski. Shit. Yaz. Suddenly the telephone rang, a jangling sound that disrupted the silent kitchen. Joe heard his wife hurry to the wall phone.

“Yes,” Yolanda said. “Hold on. He’s right here.”

Joe kept reading. He knew who was on the telephone. He was in no hurry to get it. He waved a fork in the air.

“Can he call you back?” Yolanda asked into the receiver.

The phone call would be from Lenihan. He’d be all worked up about Rosato still being on the Della Porta case. Lenihan was too emotional. He would never play like a vet.

“He’s in the middle of breakfast, Surf,” Yolanda said. “It’ll be only ten or fifteen minutes.”

Joe shook his head.

“Maybe half an hour,” Yolanda added, translating.

Joe frowned at the grainy photo of the rookie making an airborne catch. Kid had legs like a colt and he was tall. Statistically, taller men made better athletes. You name it, any sport. Also, tall men were more successful. It was true. Joe was tall.

“Okay, sorry, thanks. Yes… yes… I’ll make sure he calls.” Yolanda hung up the phone. “That was Surf,” she said needlessly, and went back to the sink.

Joe nodded. Surf had nothing to worry about, because in the end, the stats held true. Joe always came out on top. He was a vet. He held the sports page to the side and scooped a forkful of buttery eggs into his mouth, where they melted.

Across town in an apartment, Surf Lenihan slammed the phone into its cradle on the nightstand. “Fucker!” he said, so loudly that his girlfriend stirred in her sleep and dragged a pillow over her head. She’d slept like the dead last night, but Surf hadn’t caught a wink. He’d watched Howard Stern on the E! channel both times, because the Scores strippers were on, and then he caught a war movie before the early local news. It had the story about Rosato getting her license reinstated on the Connolly case. They had tape of her going in and out of her office. Fuck!

Surf climbed out of bed and pulled on the navy-blue pants of his summer uniform. He knew he shouldn’t have left it to Citrone. The old man had gone about it all wrong. Got her license taken away. Leaked the twin story to the press. Like publicity would scare off a lawyer.

Surf slipped his shirt on and buttoned it up hastily. He couldn’t let Citrone and the others fuck this up. He couldn’t wait around for them to get it straight. He grabbed his gun holster off the doorknob, looped it around his shoulder, and buckled it on as he headed for the apartment door.

Lou Jacobs had done his share of scuba diving, so he figured he knew something about being dropped in the middle of a completely different world. He’d swum with stingrays off the Keys, hung with barracuda during a wreck-dive, and once eyeballed a green-and-black octopus fluttering on the sea floor. But he had never entered a world as foreign as this one; it was all women. There wasn’t another man in the joint, not even a messenger.

Lou gave his name to a receptionist with her hair in a tight braid, wondering if women could be as good lawyers as men. Sol Lubar, from the Thirty-seventh, had a woman lawyer for his divorce and she was a bitch on wheels. Lou should have had a lawyer that good when it came his turn. He’d lost the house, half his pension, and the friggin’ cat. And it was Laurie who cheated on him. Lou shook his head, still pissed off sixteen years later.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Jacobs?” the receptionist asked, unsmiling.

Lou thought she needed to loosen up. A joke, maybe. “Hey,” he said, “you know why divorce is so expensive?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s worth it.”

The receptionist didn’t smile, but Lou didn’t give up easy.

“Okay, you don’t like that one? Here’s another. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a prostitute?”

The receptionist blinked at him.

“A prostitute stops screwing you when you’re dead.”

The receptionist blanched. “That’s disgusting.”

It was his best joke. Lou thought it was funny as hell, but he decided to clam up and let the fish have the whole goddamn ocean. Later, when the receptionist told him Rosato was ready for him, he followed his nose to Rosato’s office, leaned in the doorway, and tried again. “Rosato. Stop me if you heard this one. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a prostitute?”

“A tax bracket?” Bennie said, looking up.

“No, but that’s good.”

“How about ‘nothing?’ ”

“Better.” Lou laughed gruffly. “That was a test. I guess I’m reporting for duty.”

“Wonderful!” Bennie eyed him, in his crisp navy-blue blazer, dark pants, and a white business shirt. The only dissonant note was a brown tie of shiny artificial fibers. “What is it with cops and ties?”