I tickled Paul under his arms until he sat up. "You're the one who's corny, buster."

"Hey, I just thought of the coolest thing this windfall is going to do for us," he said.

"We can up our anytime minutes? We'll be able to simonize now at the car wash?" I said and grinned. This was the way Paul and I used to be – silly.

"Very funny, Lauren," Paul said. "I'm serious. You can finally quit that screwed-up job of yours."

I stared at him. Paul had always been supportive of my career. Was he serious?

"I know how important being a cop is to you, and I've never said this before," he said. "But, c'mon. The hours. The smell of death. Do you have any idea how you look when you come home sometimes? God, I hate it. I've always hated it, actually. It takes too much out of you."

I stared into space, remembering the recent confrontation I'd had with Mike Ortiz. Maybe Paul was right. I loved my job, but family was more important. I'd certainly proved that during the past week.

"Maybe you're right," I finally said. "This is what we've always dreamed about. You and me and our baby together. Now it's here. It's just… wow. It feels surreal. Don't you think?"

"You're my world," Paul said, tears starting in his eyes. "You always have been, Lauren. This job offer – it's just an offer. I'll do whatever you want. Go. Stay. I'll quit my job, if you want."

"Oh, Paul," I said, wiping his eyes. "Our ship really has come in, hasn't it?"

MIKE'S DESK WAS EMPTY when I came into the squad room the next morning. When I asked my boss where Mike was, he reminded me of the mandatory two-week leave for officers involved in a shooting.

As I sat down, I felt another stab of guilt about what I had said to Mike. How do you like that? Mike was traumatized, extremely psychologically and emotionally vulnerable, and I had gone and threatened him. Some partner I was. Some friend.

I rocked back in my chair, looking around at the sallow walls of the squad room. So I was actually going to leave. It almost seemed crazy, after all the work I'd done to get here. I remembered how intimidated I'd been when I finally received the assignment. Bronx Homicide was one of the busiest and most renowned squads in the world, and I was unsure about what I could contribute.

But I'd done it. It had taken a lot of hard work, guts, and straight A's in college Spanish to make a place for myself here, and I'd managed to pull it off.

But everything I'd accomplished was pretty much gone now, I knew. As I sat there, I could feel it. Or couldn't feel it, actually. What sustains you as a cop is the pure joy of being one of the good guys. That's where the movies usually get it wrong. Most cops I knew were good people. The best.

But with everything that had happened, I'd squandered that feeling. Good guys don't cheat. Good guys don't lie.

Paul was right, I thought, turning on my computer.

I was a stranger here now. I didn't belong anymore.

It was time to get out, before something else happened.

I BROUGHT UP SCOTT'S FILE and, for the better part of an hour, went over all the reports I'd written, every one. Then I planned to go over them again.

The news of my pregnancy and Paul's good fortune would cover the reason behind my early retirement, but some cynical eyebrows would still be raised. Definitely the IAB's. Before I made things official, I needed to make triple sure I'd covered my ass. Not to mention my tracks. And Paul's.

I was forty minutes into the paperwork when my LT came out of his office, carrying a set of bolt cutters and a cardboard box. He dropped them both loudly on my desk.

"I just got a call from the deputy chief's office," he said. "Scott's wife, Brooke, requested that someone clean out Scott's locker and bring his stuff by her house. You're elected."

Yeah, like I really wanted to see Brooke Thayer again. Wallow a little more in the devastation I'd helped cause that family.

"What about the guys on his task force?" I said. "Wouldn't his partner, Roy, like to do it?"

My boss shook his head.

"How about you, boss?" I said. "Maybe it would be good for you to get out of the office. Get some sun."

Keane tilted his stoic Irish brow at me.

"As nice as it is of you to think about my well-being," he said, "Scott's wife asked specifically for you."

I nodded my head. Of course she had. I didn't really think I'd get off that easy, did I?

"How's this? You get that done and take the rest of the day," my boss said. "I think you came back too early anyway. If you want my opinion. Who knows when your IAB buddies might come back. I was you, I'd milk the dizzy thing for at least another week."

"Aye, aye, boss man," I said, saluting him as I stood.

I didn't know why, but I was going to miss Keane.

The second-floor DETF offices were, thankfully, empty. Good, I thought, going back into the locker room and snipping through Scott's Master Lock with the cutters. I was starting to realize why cops made people nervous. Guilty people, especially.

There wasn't much in Scott's locker. I removed a spare uniform, a couple of cardboard boxes of.38 rounds, a Kevlar vest. Behind a dusty riot baton, I found a fancy bottle of cologne, Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone before I dabbed some on my wrist. There was a bang as I dizzily head-butted the door. Yep. It was the same stuff Scott had worn that night with me.

I was lifting out a pair of dress shoes from the floor of the locker when I spotted a fat envelope underneath them. Oh, Jesus!

I'm not kidding, I dropped the black shoes as if they were burning coals.

I didn't want to look in the envelope, but I knew I had to.

I opened the flap with a pencil. It was money, just as I'd suspected. A lot of it. Four or five fat rubber-banded knots of worn bills. Mostly hundreds and fifties, but there was also an impressive number of twenties and tens.

Ten, maybe fifteen thousand dollars, I thought as a migraine exploded above my left eye.

Let's see, I thought. How does fifteen grand get into a Narcotics cop's personal locker? Scott didn't trust banks? The tooth fairy was making precinct rounds?

Or, more likely, he was bad.

Scott was a bad cop, wasn't he?

"Scott," I whispered as I stared at the dirty green, crumpled edges of the bills. "Who in God's name were you?"

What was I supposed to do now? Hand it in to my boss? Scott's case was all but closed. Did I really need the lid popping back open? Then I realized the solution was simple.

I tucked the envelope into the right shoe as far as it would go and dropped the shoes into the box.

If Brooke wanted to open up that can of worms, so be it, I thought, slamming the locker shut. It was up to her, not me.

Bringing ugly truths to the forefront was definitely not in my job description anymore.