Eddie got out of the car with her, then stood with his arms resting on the roof of the Camry. The flat-roofed one-story marina building blocked most of the pier. He could see a clear line of about thirty boats. Any one of a dozen of them could have been the Bright Star. He knew it wouldn't seem the same-nothing ever looked as good as its memory.

The Harbor Unit was already in place, cruising the row of boats. Two radio cars from the precinct went past the parking lot, pulling right up to the edge of the docks. Uniformed cops got out near the dock, looking around for whomever they were supposed to meet. No one ever tells the precinct guys enough.

When he thought about it, Eddie could see Lana in Sophie. Beyond the beauty, he could see mannerisms: the slow, crinkly smile; the way she held her fist close to her waist, with the thumb on the outside; how her eyes became damp at the mere mention of the word love. He knew Babsie was right about Sophie. As the days passed, he would have come to the same conclusion. But after he saw Kate this morning, it was as if all the air had gone out of him. He'd collapsed emotionally, ready to blow kisses to the crowd, forgive those who'd trespassed against him. Sophie took advantage of that. Or maybe, just maybe, Babsie had a point about the pretty blonde thing.

Precinct radio cars were following one another around, looking for a leader. They should decide in advance on one radio frequency for these things, then everyone is on the same page. Another uniformed cop approached, walking from the south, possibly private security trying to figure out what was happening.

The big blue Emergency Services truck arrived. One of the feds put his fingers in his mouth, whistled, and waved them over, the same way it was done before the invention of the telephone. All the cell phones, all the pagers, but a good whistle still works best.

The Emergency Services boss got it organized quickly. He sent the plainclothes cops up to the docks to move people quietly away from the Bright Star. Emergency Services crews strapped themselves into riot gear and dragged out the big shields as several other precinct cars cruised past. Babsie came running across the grass. Even in a skirt, she ran like an athlete.

"Zina's car is in the parking lot," Babsie said. "The marina manager says she's on board the Bright Star. We're going to freeze the area first The place is filling up fast."

"You don't need me."

"You got that right. We have more cops here now than we have in the whole city of Yonkers."

People who'd been in boats walked quickly to then-cars. Uniformed cops had been dispatched to all corners of the marina to hold back the new arrivals. Other cops watched the parking lot as the ESU guys lumbered toward the boat.

Babsie hustled back to the group. Zina was her arrest, and she wasn't going to miss out. Eddie wondered about Zina's bullet wounds. How bad were they? Unless Zina was sick or dead, she had to be noticing the massive troop movement around her. Dead would make things easier. Sick, she could be dangerous, probably suicidal. She'd try to bring everyone down with her.

Eddie sat on a picnic bench, thinking that he and Paulie the Priest wouldn't have called anyone for this. In those days, there was no one to call. You just fired up a cigar and kicked the door in. But that was before crack cocaine, suicide bombers, and a gun in every home.

He picked up Kevin's cell phone and called the North End Tavern to get an update on his brother and to hear Grace's voice. But he'd forgotten the line was temporarily disconnected. He started to call his house, when he heard an explosion on the dock. A puff of smoke rose from the deck of the Bright Star. Tear gas, or something similar. Somebody was on the bullhorn, telling Zina to give up.

A uniformed cop walked away from the dock, limping slightly. Eddie wondered if this was the start of one of those "injured on the job" scams. That pissed him off-some bozo seizing the opportunity to get three-quarters pension for a knee he'd hurt playing tennis. Not only was it a sleazy move; it cheapened the debt rightfully owed to those cops who were actually hurt in the line of duty. To some scheming leeches, three-quarters pay, tax-free, was like winning the lottery. The leeches hired lawyers and made a career of their fight to screw the city. We are the city, Eddie thought, his blood pressure rising as Matty Boland arrived in the Lincoln Town Car. He cruised past the limping cop, heading toward the smoke.

The guy on the bullhorn made further pleas in a heavy New York accent, all apparently unanswered. Eddie dialed information to get the number of Coney Island Hospital as the big shields edged closer to the boat. Eddie had no doubt that Zina Rabinovich would fight to the death. He wrote the hospital number on the palm of his hand.

He began dialing as the limping uniformed cop came toward the radio cars parked nearby. As he came closer, Eddie saw the guy was wearing a light blue uniform shirt. Not our job, Eddie thought, must be private security. NYPD cops had quit wearing the light blue shirts a few years ago. So much for his faked injury tirade. This guy was a square badge, getting the hell away from the impending fireworks. He was hauling ass, even with the limp. Couldn't blame him. No sense getting killed for minimum wage.

But as he got closer, Eddie could see the badge wasn't square. It looked like an NYPD detective's gold shield. The light blue shirt must have been the only thing in his locker today. The guy was highly decorated, an impressive display of ribbons and commendations on his chest. He was coming right at Eddie, moving fast. Then he started to run.

Eddie stood up quickly as the guy pulled a machine pistol from under the uniform jacket. The first blast took out the Camry's headlight. Eddie dived behind the car. Bullets thunked heavily into sheet metal. He squeezed his legs up behind the front wheel well. He reached for his service revolver, but he didn't have it, or a prayer. He got off his knees and ran to the marina building. Three steps into it, he felt as if he was slogging through heavy mud. Bullets kicked the ground around him. Then the Lincoln Town Car cut across the lawn and gravel flew. A heavy thud from the Lincoln's bumper sent the cop airborne. His hat flew off and hit the ground in front of him.

Even with the dust and cordite in the air, Eddie knew it was Zina. Matty Boland jumped out of the Lincoln, his gun drawn. Zina scrambled on hands and knees toward the machine pistol. Boland fired twice, the second shot smashing into her skull at an angle and sending chunks of bone and blood flying as she kept crawling on her belly until she reached the gun. Steps away, Boland fired five times, one shot hitting her in the face, just below her eye.

Eddie kicked the machine pistol farther away, but her crawling had ceased. Paulie the Priest would have put a few more rounds into her just to be sure. With lesbians, he'd say, you can never tell.

Up close, Eddie could see the uniform was old, faded, and far too big for her. The sleeves and pants had been crudely altered with safety pins. Eddie knew this particular uniform had been purchased in 1966 from an authorized police tailor on Kingsbridge Terrace in the Bronx. Inside both the jacket and pants, stamped in white ink, would be the last four numbers of Eddie's NYPD tax registry number. The gold detective shield with his number was a fake. A good fake. The black name tag with white lettering read dunne. Zina must have taken it from the back of his closet when she grabbed Kate. He never knew it was missing.

"How did you know it was her?" Eddie said.

"The Medal of Honor," Matty said. "I saw it when I rode past. You and the Priest were the only guys I ever worked with who won it. I thought, Who is this guy? Then it came to me. The ribbon had to belong either to you or Paulie Caruso."