In a big-daddy political-shitstorm case like this, it would be all about reports, I realized. The ones that would have to be sent up the chain of command on practically an hourly basis.

I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. I needed time to think, to sift through the pieces of my blown-apart life.

I felt the knot in my stomach twist like a corkscrew. In the end, it all came down to my inability to come up with a plausible excuse for not taking the assignment. For the moment, words failed me.

"Whatever you want, Pete," I found myself saying.

My boss nodded.

"Scott Thayer," he said, shaking his head wearily. "Goddamn twenty-nine years old. Unbelievable. You guys know him at all?"

Mike blew on his coffee, shook his head.

My boss turned to me.

"How about you, Lauren?" he said.

How could I deny Scott? I thought. Only hours before, he'd stared into my eyes as he stroked my hair in his bed. Now he was lying there cold on stone, the expression of pain on his face reserved only for those who die completely alone.

The number 4 train screeched past on the elevated track on Jerome Avenue behind us. The blue-white light of its sparks snapped against the dark faces of the surrounding tenements.

"The name sounds familiar, I think," I lied as I peeled off a rubber glove.

My first lie, I thought, looking out at the sea of NYPD blue and the flashing firefight of emergency lights.

I had a feeling it wasn't going to be my last.

"GIVE ME WHAT YOU GOT SO FAR," Keane said. "Commissioner just got off the Whitestone. I need smoke to blow up his ass – and keep it coming. What's your initial read on the crime scene? Impressions – anything at all?"

"Massive lacerations and contusions to the face," Mike said. "And one bullet wound under the left jaw. Maybe more, but we're still waiting on the ME so we can roll him."

"Caliber?"

"Medium. A thirty-eight, maybe," Mike guessed with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Service weapon or badge anywhere?"

Mike shook his head grimly.

"First impression is that somebody threw Thayer an incredible beating, shot him, and then dumped him here. Somebody pretty perturbed."

"You agree, Lauren?" my boss asked.

I nodded, cleared my throat.

"Looks like it," I said.

"Why do you say 'dumped him'?" Keane asked next. "You pretty sure Thayer wasn't killed here?"

"Not much blood in the fountain. Plus, his clothes are covered in mud and grass stains," Mike said. "This park hasn't seen grass since the Iroquois Nation."

"Do your canvass forthwith," Keane said. "Talk to the ME and crime-scene, then get your asses into Thayer's office and check out his caseload. See what was open, what he was doing. The other members of his Drug Enforcement Task Force are being called as we speak. Talk to them when they get in. Talk to everybody in the squad."

Keane turned as a speeding, four-car entourage arrived beneath the elevated track from the south. He gave me a fatherly pat on the back.

"They're probably going to try to give this to those prima donnas at Major Case, but I'm not going to let them do it. This happened in our house. Make me proud."

MAKE MY BOSS PROUD? I thought numbly as Pete Keane walked away.

That was going to take some doing.

Wait a second, I thought. Where was Paul? I'd been so busy being angry at him, I hadn't even thought to check if he was okay. For the first time, I realized something chilling.

For all I knew, he could have been shot, too! That actually made some sense to me.

I tried Paul's cell first. My stomach dropped as his voice mail picked up.

I had to see if Paul was okay.

"Damn," I said, slapping my forehead with my phone as I looked up at my partner. "You're not going to believe this, but I had terrible insomnia last night, so I was up baking, and I left something in the oven. I need to swing by my house, Mike. You think you could cover for me for about half an hour?"

"What?" Mike said, shaking his head. "Biggest case of our lives and… What was it, anyway?"

"Brownies."

"Okay, Betty Crocker," Mike said with a dumbfounded shake of his head. "I got you covered for now. We have to wait around for the ME, anyway. Anybody asks, I'll tell them you went to swing by Scott's office. But you better fly, Ms. Primary Investigator. I don't think the LT is going to be too happy if you're not here when he gets back, even if you bring him a midnight snack."

I did as I was instructed. My lead foot coupled with the portable cop light I kept in my Mini had me back at my house in about eight minutes flat.

But as I crested the top of our cul-de-sac and spotted Paul's car in the driveway and the light on in our bedroom, I eased off the gas. A wave of relief washed over me.

Paul was home, at least.

THE CAR GAVE ME AN IDEA. Finally, my brain was starting to function again. I killed my headlights along with my siren and dash light and cruised toward my house like I was about to commit a burglary. I needed to figure out as much as I could before I faced Paul. I parked three houses down the street and walked the rest of the way.

The Camry's doors were locked, but with the Slim Jim I retrieved from the trunk of my Mini, it was only a temporary setback. I paused at the driver-side door as the smell hit me. Pine cleaner and bleach. Somebody had cleaned up a mess. I shook off my emotions, took a breath, and clicked on my Mini Maglite.

A few drops of blood under the passenger-side rear floor mat were all that I could find.

It took me all of three minutes to find the bullet hole.

It was underneath the driver's headrest. It had gone in but it hadn't come out. I probed the hole with the blade of the Leatherman tool I always carried and heard it click against something hard. A few saws later, the mushroomed lead slug dropped out of the hole right into my hand.

I placed it in my handbag, closed my eyes, and pieced the situation together as best I could.

Paul must have been driving when Scott, lying on the backseat, came to. Disoriented and fearing for his life, Scott probably drew his ankle gun and fired once at Paul. The first round had hit the headrest.

Paul might have turned then and struggled for the gun. Then it must have gone off again.

In Scott's jaw. Jesus, God.

I took a scalding breath of bleach before I continued my reasoning, such as it was.

After that, Paul must have panicked. Even in self-defense, he knew that a dead cop just wasn't going to go away. So he'd come up with a quick plan, the best he could do. Scott was a cop. Who kills cops? Drug dealers kill cops. So Paul had driven into the Bronx and didn't stop until he found a busy drug area. Then he dumped Scott, came back home, and cleaned the car.

I shook my head as tears welled in my eyes again. For about five minutes, I knelt over where Paul had killed Scott and wept until my eyes ached.

This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. One mistake in judgment and now three lives were totally wrecked. I finally wiped my tears and got out of the car and headed for my house. And Paul.

But first I made a little side trip.