“Thanks, cuz,” Jessica said, glancing at the clock. “Listen, I gotta run.”

“Me, too.”

“Got one more question for you, Angie.”

“Shoot.”

“Why did I become a cop again?”

“That’s easy,” Angela said. “To molest and swerve.”

“Eight o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Love you.”

“Love you back.”

Jessica hung up the phone, looked at Sophie. Sophie had decided it was a good idea to connect the dots on her polka-dot dress with an orange Magic Marker.

How the hell was she going to get through this day?

With Sophie changed and deposited at Paula Farinacci’s—the godsend babysitter who lived three doors down, and one of Jessica’s best friends—Jessica walked back home, her maize-colored suit already starting to wrinkle. When she had been in Auto, she could opt for jeans and leather, T-shirts and sweatshirts, the occasional pantsuit. She liked the look of the Glock on the hip of her best faded Levi’s. All cops did, if they were being honest. But now she had to look a little more professional.

Lexington Park was a stable section of Northeast Philadelphia that bordered Pennypack Park. It was also home to a lot of law enforcement types, and for that reason, there were not a lot of burglaries in Lexington Park these days. Second-story men seemed to have a pathological aversion to hollow points and slavering rottweilers.

Welcome to Cop Land.

Enter at your own risk.

Before Jessica reached her driveway, she heard the metallic growl and knew it was Vincent. Three years in Auto gave her a highly attuned logic when it came to engines, so when Vincent’s throaty 1969 Shovelhead Harley rounded the corner and roared to a stop in the driveway, she knew her piston-sense was still fully functioning. Vincent also had an old Dodge van, but, like most bikers, the minute the thermometer topped forty degrees—and often before—he was on his Hog.

As a plainclothes narcotics detective, Vincent Balzano had an unfettered leeway when it came to his appearance. With his four-day beard, scuffed leather jacket, and Serengeti sunglasses, he looked a lot more like a perp than a cop. His dark brown hair was longer than she’d ever seen it. It was pulled back into a ponytail. The ever-present gold crucifix he wore on a gold chain around his neck winked in the morning sunlight.

Jessica was, and always had been, a sucker for the bad-boy, swarthy type.

She banished that thought and put on her game face.

“What do you want, Vincent?”

He took off his sunglasses and calmly asked: “What time did he leave?”

“I don’t have time for this shit.”

“It’s a simple question, Jessie.”

“It’s also none of your business.”

Jessica could see that this hurt but, at the moment, she didn’t care.

“You are my wife,” he began, as if giving her a primer on their life. “This is my house. My daughter sleeps here. It is my fucking business.”

Save me from the Italian-American male, Jessica thought. Was there a more possessive creature in all of nature? Italian-American men made silverback gorillas look reasonable. Italian-American cops were even worse. Like herself, Vincent was born and bred on the streets of South Philly.

“Oh, now it’s your business? Was it your business when you were banging that putana? Huh? When you were banging that big-ass South Jersey frosted skank in my bed?”

Vincent rubbed his face. His eyes were red, his posture a little weary. It was clear he was coming off a long tour. Or maybe a long night doing something else. “How many times do I have to apologize, Jess?”

“A few million more, Vincent. Then we’ll be too friggin’ old to remember how you cheated on me.”

Every unit has its badge bunnies, cop groupies who saw a uniform or a badge and suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to flop onto their backs and spread their legs. Narcotics and Vice had the most, for all the obvious reasons. But Michelle Brown was no badge bunny. Michelle Brown was an affair. Michelle Brown had fucked her husband in her house.

“Jessie.”

“I need this shit today, right? I really need this.”

Vincent’s face softened, as if he’d just remembered what day this was. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jessica raised a hand, cutting him off.

“Don’t,” she said. “Not today.”

“When?”

The truth was, she didn’t know. Did she miss him? Desperately. Would she show it? Never in a million years.

“I don’t know.”

For all his faults—and they were legion—Vincent Balzano knew when to quit with his wife. “C’mon,” he said. “Let me give you a ride, at least.”

He knew she would refuse, opting out of the Phyllis Diller look a ride to the Roundhouse on a Harley would provide for her.

But he smiled that damn smile, the one that got her into bed in the first place, and she almost—almost—caved.

“I’ve got to go, Vincent,” she said.

She walked around the bike and continued on toward the garage. As tempted as she was to turn around, she resisted. He had cheated on her and now she was the one who felt like shit.

What’s wrong with this picture?

While she deliberately fumbled with the keys, drawing it out, she eventually heard the bike start, back up, roar defiantly, and disappear up the street.

When she started the Cherokee, she punched 1060 on the dial. KYW told her that I-95 was jammed. She glanced at the clock. She had time. She’d take Frankford Avenue into town.

As she pulled out of the drive, she saw an EMS van in front of the Arrabiata house across the street. Again. She made eye contact with Lily Arrabiata, and Lily waved. It seemed Carmine Arrabiata was having his weekly false-alarm heart attack, a regular event for as far back as Jessica could remember. It had gotten to the point that the city would no longer send an EMS rescue. The Arrabiatas had to call private ambulances. Lily’s wave was twofold. One, to say good morning. The other to tell Jessica that Carmine was fine. At least for the next week or so.

Heading toward Cottman Avenue, Jessica thought about the stupid fight she had just had with Vincent, and how a simple answer to his initial question would’ve ended the discussion immediately. The night before she had attended a Catholic Food Drive organizational meeting with an old friend of the family, little Davey Pizzino, all five foot one of him. It was a yearly occasion Jessica had attended since she was a teenager, and the farthest thing imaginable from a date, but Vincent didn’t need to know that. Davey Pizzino blushed at Summer’s Eve commercials. Davey Pizzino, at thirty-eight, was the oldest living virgin east of the Alleghenies. Davey Pizzino left at nine thirty.