She entered the small office, sat down.

“Let’s get the details out of the way.” Buchanan closed the door halfway and walked behind his desk. Jessica could see him trying to cover the limp. He may have been a decorated cop, but he was still a man.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your background?”

“Grew up in South Philly,” Jessica said, knowing that Buchanan knew all this, knowing that this was a formality. “Sixth and Catharine.”

“Schools?”

“I went to St. Paul’s. Then N.A. Did my undergraduate work at Temple.”

“You graduated Temple in three years?”

Three and a half, Jessica thought. But who’s counting? “Yes, sir. Criminal justice.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you, sir. It was a lot of—”

“You worked out of the Third?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How did you like working for Danny O’Brien?”

What was she supposed to say? That he was an overbearing, misogynistic, witless shithead? “Sergeant O’Brien is a good officer. I learned a lot from him.”

“Danny O’Brien is a Neanderthal,” Buchanan said.

“That’s one school of thought, sir,” Jessica said, trying her best to keep the smile inside.

“So tell me,” Buchanan said. “Why are you really here?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. Buying time.

“I’ve been a cop for thirty-seven years. Hard for me to believe, but true. Seen a lot of good people, a lot of bad people. On both sides of the law. There was a time when I was just like you. Ready to take on the world, punish the guilty, avenge the innocent.” Buchanan turned around, faced her. “Why are you here?”

Be cool, Jess, she thought. He’s tossing you an egg. “I’m here because... because I think I can make a difference.”

Buchanan stared at her for a few moments. Impossible to read. “I thought the same thing when I was your age.”

Jessica wasn’t sure if she was being patronized or not. Up came the Italian in her. Up came the South Philly. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, have you made a difference?”

Buchanan smiled. This was good news for Jessica. “I haven’t retired yet.”

Good answer, Jessica thought.

“How is your father?” he asked, shifting gears on the fly. “Is he enjoying retirement?”

The truth was, he was climbing the walls. The last time she stopped by his house he was standing by the sliding glass door, looking out into his tiny backyard with a packet of Roma tomato seeds in his hand. “Very much, sir.”

“He’s a good man. He was a great cop.”

“I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll be pleased.”

“The fact that Peter Giovanni is your father won’t help you or hurt you around here. If it ever gets in the way, you come see me.”

Not in a million friggin’ years. “I will. I appreciate it.”

Buchanan stood up, leaned forward, pinned her with his intense gaze. “This job has broken a lot of hearts, Detective. I hope yours isn’t one of them.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Buchanan looked over her shoulder, out into the common room. “Speaking of heartbreakers.”

Jessica followed his gaze to the big man standing next to the assignment desk, reading a fax. They stood, exited Buchanan’s office.

As they approached him, Jessica sized the man. He was in his early forties, about six three, maybe 240, solid. He had light brown hair, wintergreen eyes, huge hands, a thick, shiny scar over his right eye. Even if she hadn’t known he was a homicide cop, she would have guessed. He met all the criteria: good suit, cheap tie, shoes that hadn’t seen polish since they left the factory, along with the de rigueur trio of scents: tobacco, Certs, and the faint trace of Aramis.

“How’s the baby?” Buchanan asked the man.

“Ten fingers, ten toes,” the man said.

Jessica spoke the code. Buchanan was asking how a current case was going. The detective’s response meant: All is well.

“Riff Raff,” Buchanan said. “Meet your new partner.”

“Jessica Balzano,” Jessica said, extending her hand.

“Kevin Byrne,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”

The name immediately dragged Jessica back a year or so. The Morris Blanchard affair. Every cop in Philly had followed the case. Byrne’s image had been plastered all over the city, on every news show, newspaper, and local magazine. Jessica was surprised she hadn’t recognized him. At first glance he seemed five years older than the man she remembered.

Buchanan’s phone rang. He excused himself.

“Same here,” she replied. Eyebrows up. “Riff Raff?”

“Long story. We’ll get to it.” They shook hands as the name registered with Byrne. “You’re Vincent Balzano’s wife?”

Jesus Christ, Jessica thought. Nearly seven thousand cops on the force and you could fit them all in a phone booth. She applied a few more footpounds—or, in this instance, hand-pounds—of pressure to her handshake. “In name only,” she said.

Kevin Byrne got the message. He winced, smiled. “Gotcha.” Before letting go, Byrne held her gaze for a few seconds in the way that only veteran police officers can. Jessica knew all about it. She knew about the club, the territorial makeup of a unit, the way that cops bond and protect. When she was first assigned to Auto, she had to prove herself on a daily basis.After a year, though, she could roll with the best of them. After two years, she could pull a J-turn on two inches of solid ice, could tune up a Shelby GT in the dark, could read a VIN number through a smashed pack of Kools on the dashboard of a locked car.

When she caught Kevin Byrne’s stare and threw it right back at him, something happened. She wasn’t positive if it was a good thing, but it let him know that she was no probie, no boot, no damp-seated rookie who got here based on her plumbing.

They retrieved their hands as the phone rang at the assignment desk. Byrne answered, made a few notes.

“We’re up on the wheel,” Byrne said. The wheel was the duty roster of assignments for detectives on the Line Squad. Jessica’s heart sank. How long had she been on the job, fourteen minutes? Wasn’t there supposed to be a grace period? “Dead girl in crack town,” he added. Guess not.