“Most of the guys wear suits.” He’d nearly polished off his omelette and was already wondering if he could talk Tess out of some of hers. “Generally, you come in after the deed’s been done and then put pieces together. You talk to people, make phone calls, push paper.”

“Is that how you got that scar?” Tess scooted the rest of her omelette around her plate. “Pushing paper?”

“I told you before, that’s old news.”

Her mind was too analytical to let it go at that. “But you have been shot, and probably shot at more than once.”

“Sometimes you go into the field and people aren’t too happy to see you.”

“All in a day’s work?”

When he realized she wasn’t going to let it drop, he set down his fork. “Tess, it isn’t like the flicks.”

“No, but it isn’t like selling shoes either.”

“Okay. I’m not saying you never run into a situation where things might get hot, but basically this kind of police work is on paper. Reports, interviews, head work. There are weeks, months, even years of incredible drudge work, even boredom as opposed to moments of actual physical jeopardy. A rookie in a uniform is likely to deal with more heat in a year than I am.”

“I see. Then you aren’t likely to encounter a situation, in, the normal scheme of things, where you use your gun.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, not liking where the conversation was going. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m trying to understand you. We’ve spent two nights together. I like to know who I’m sleeping with.”

He’d been avoiding that. Sex was easier if it wore blinders. “Benjamin James Matthew Paris, thirty-five in August, single, six feet one-half inch, a hundred seventy-two pounds.”

She rested her elbows on the table, setting her chin on her linked hands as she studied him. “You don’t like to talk about your work.”

“What’s there to talk about? It’s a job.”

“No, not with you. A job is where you clock in every morning, Monday through Friday. You don’t carry your gun like a briefcase.”

“Most briefcases aren’t loaded.”

“You have had to use it.”

Ben drained his coffee. His system was already primed. “I doubt many cops get around to collecting their pensions without drawing their weapons at least once.”

“Yes, I understand that. On the other hand, as a doctor I’d deal more with the results afterward. The grief of the family, the shock and trauma of the victim.”

“I’ve never shot a victim.”

There was an edge to his voice that interested her. Perhaps he liked to pretend to her, even to himself, that the violent aspects of his job were occasional, an expected side effect. He’d consider anyone he shot in the line of duty, as he’d put it, the bad guy. And yet she was sure there was a part of him that thought of the human, the flesh and blood. That part of him would lose sleep over it.

“When you shoot someone in self-defense,” she said slowly, “is it like in a war, where you see the enemy as a symbol more than a man?”

“You don’t think about it.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Take my word for it.”

“But when you’re in a situation that calls for that kind of extreme defensive action, you aim to wound.”

“No.” On the flat answer, he rose and picked up his plate. “Listen, you draw your weapon, you’re not the Lone Ranger. There’s no grazing your silver bullet over the bad guy’s gun hand. Your life, your partner’s life, some civilian’s life is on the line. It’s black and white.”

He took the plates away. She didn’t ask if he’d killed. He’d already told her.

She glanced at the papers he’d been working on. Black and white. He wouldn’t see the shades of gray she saw there. The man they sought was a killer. The state of his mind, his emotions, perhaps even his soul, didn’t matter to Ben. Maybe they couldn’t.

“These papers,” she began when he came back. “Is there something I can help with?”

“Just drudge work.”

“I’m an expert drudge.”

“Maybe. We can talk about it later. Right now I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to make nine o’clock Mass.”

“Mass?”

He grinned at her expression. “I haven’t gone back to the fold. We think our man might show up at one of two churches this morning. We’ve been covering the masses at both of them since six-thirty. I got a break and drew the nine, ten, and eleven-thirty services.”

“I’ll go with you. No, don’t,” she said even as he opened his mouth. “I really could help. I know the signs, the symptoms.”

There was no point in telling her he’d wanted her to come. Let her think she’d talked him into it. “Don’t blame me if your knees give out.”

She touched a hand to his cheek, but didn’t kiss him. “Give me ten minutes.”

The church smelled of candle wax and perfume. The pews, worn smooth by the sliding and shifting of hundreds of cloth-covered haunches, were less than half full for the nine o’clock service. It was quiet, with the occasional cough or sniffle echoing hollowly. A pleasant, religious light came through the stained-glass windows on the east wall. The altar stood at the head of the church, draped with its cloth and flanked by candles. White for purity. Above it hung the Son of God, dying on the Cross.

Ben sat with Tess in the back pew and scanned the congregation. A few older women were scattered among the families toward the front. A young couple sat in the pew across from them, choosing the rear, Ben thought, because of the sleeping infant the woman carried. An elderly man who had come in with the help of a cane sat alone, two private feet away from a family of six. Two young girls in their Sunday best sat and whispered together, and a boy of about three knelt backward on the pew and ran a plastic car quietly over the wood. Ben knew he was making the sounds of the engine and screeching tires in his head.

There were three men sitting alone who fit the general description. One was already kneeling, his thin, dark coat still buttoned, though the church was warm. Another sat, passing idly through the hymnal. The third was in the front of the church, and sat unmoving. Ben knew Roderick had the front, and the rookie, Pilomento, was situated in the middle.

A movement beside Tess had Ben stiffening. Logan slid in beside her, patted her hand, and smiled at Ben. “Thought I’d join you.” His voice was a bit wheezy. He coughed quietly into his hand to clear it.

“Nice to see you, Monsignor,” Tess murmured.

“Thank you, my dear. I’ve been a little under the weather lately and wasn’t sure I’d make it. I was hoping you’d be along. You’d have a sharp eye.” His gaze traveled around the half-empty church. Mostly the old and young, he thought. Those in the middle of their lives rarely thought God needed an hour of their time. After digging a Sucret out of his pocket, he looked at Ben again. “I hope you don’t mind my volunteering. If you happen to get lucky, I might be of help. After all, I have what we might call house advantage.”

For the first time since Ben had met him, Logan wore the white clerical collar. Seeing it, Ben only nodded.

The priest entered, the congregation rose. The service began.

Entrance Rite. The Celebrant in green vestments, stole, alb, the amice worn harmlessly under the flowing robes, the gangly altar boy in black and white, ready to serve.

Lord have mercy.

A baby five pews up began to cry lustily. The congregation murmured the responses in unison.

Christ have mercy.

The old man with the cane was working his way through the rosary. The young girls giggled and tried desperately to stop. The little boy with the plastic car was shushed by his mother.

A man with a white silk amice next to his skin felt the drumming in his head ease with the familiar flow of Celebrant and congregation. His palms were sweaty, but he kept them clasped in front of him.