“We need to cut that booking time down to less than an hour, rook, and that includes driving time,” LaFortier said. His radio squawked. LaFortier listened, heard a familiar voice say something about a power failure at the Sacramento Live! entertainment complex, and turned his radio volume knob down so he could talk to his partner. “I’m taking time with you because you need to learn this stuff and do it right and develop good habits and all that shit. But we belong on the street, not in the jail. So we’ll be hustling from here on out to get our booking times down.” He noticed a faraway expression on McLanahan. “You okay, rook?”

“The jail gets me down a little, I guess,” McLanahan said. “Hauling them in like bags of garbage, strip searches, paperwork, putting them in the system like rats in a cage… it seems so dehumanizing.”

“Never seen the jail before, have you?” Paul shook his head. “That should be required for every applicant. It gets everybody down, rook. The only alternative to processing them and putting them in the system is putting a bullet in their head when we catch them, and we don’t want that, do we, rook?”

“No.”

The big FTO saw that Paul’s somber expression didn’t change. “Why’d you join the force, McLanahan?” LaFortier asked. “You’re a damned attorney, for chrissakes. Passed the California bar and everything. We got lots of guys on the force going to Lincoln Law School nights, and lots of guys who have even graduated, but you’re the only cop I know who’s actually passed the bar exam-and on the first try too. You could be an assistant DA, make more money, wear a decent suit, work in a nice office or do that telecommuting thing, and never have to look up a perp’s diseased bunghole. Is it because of your old man? Is it a family thing? Because if it is, you won’t make it one more friggin’ night on the streets…”

“No, it’s not,” McLanahan said resolutely.

“Then why? The prestige? The uniform? The famous badge you get to wear? The gun? Certainly not the money. It has to be because of the old man, some sort of responsibility you feel to put another generation of McLanahans on the force because your older brother’s not a cop…”

“I did it because I want to help, Craig…”

“That sounds like academy brainwash propaganda, rook.”

“It’s not propaganda, sir,” McLanahan said firmly. “This is my city, my home…”

“It’s that guy’s home too, rook,” LaFortier interjected. “It’s all those guys’ homes in that jail, even the illegals and the transients. They all have rights, you know. They have a right to do whatever they want…”

“They don’t have the right to break the law in my home,” McLanahan said angrily. “We follow the law in my home. My family follows the law. My neighbors follow the law. We all depend on the law to help us live in peace. It offends me, it pisses me off, when someone breaks the law in my city!…”

“All right, all right, be cool, rook.” LaFortier held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re preaching to the choir here. In my book, there’s only one reason for being a cop-it gives you the authority, the responsibility, to protect your city and your neighbors from criminals. You knew that. So I know there’s hope for you. All you need to do is remember what you just told me. Forget about the diseased A-holes and the rats in a cage and collecting the garbage. You’re here, now, tonight, to protect your city. Don’t lose sight of that. Got it, rook?”

“Roger that,” Paul said, his energy resurging. The jail was a necessary part of the job, Paul decided, but it wasn’t the job. Being out on the street, helping those who needed help and nailing the predators was his job. He went around to the passenger side of the car, got in, and strapped in.

“You ready to go, rook?” LaFortier asked.

“Yes, sir,” Paul said, his enthusiasm genuine.

“Ready to hit the streets? Ready to nail some more bad guys? Ready to enforce the laws of this fair metropolis?”

Paul registered the rising sarcasm in LaFortier’s voice and realized the big FTO was still standing outside the squad car. Then it hit him. Sheepishly, he unstrapped, got out, and walked around to the trunk. LaFortier tossed him the keys, and McLanahan retrieved their weapons.

“Next time, rook, it’ll cost you dinner,” LaFortier said, strapping on his sidearm. “The first time you forget your gun when you’re on your own, sure as shit you’ll be involved in a bad situation. Don’t forget again. Now we’re ready.”

They drove out of the parking garage, then waited on the ramp for the steel roll-up door to close behind them. “We’ll grab a coffee-at Starbucks, not the shit they serve at the jail or at headquarters-then take a swing past Sacramento Live! before heading back to the south area,” LaFortier said to his partner as they pulled out onto the street.

“Sacramento Live!? Why?”

“A buddy of mine is doing an off-duty gig there, and he told Dispatch something about a power failure. We’ll just pop in on him for a minute or two.”

“Did he ask for any assistance?” McLanahan asked. “I didn’t hear the call.”

“No, he didn’t ask for assistance, rook,” LaFortier said. “But I’ll tell you right now, and you can take this to the bank: There is nothing that feels better, except maybe for some big-titted brunette sitting naked on your lap, than seeing a squad car pull up to your scene. Even if you’re Code Four and didn’t ask for backup and are completely in control of your situation, it feels damn good to see another cop out there with you. Same goes for sheriff’s deputies, security guards, ambulance drivers, street sweepers, waitresses, and convenience store clerks, anyone who has to work the graveyard shift…”

“But how can you do that? You can’t be everywhere…”

“You listen and you observe and you pay attention to everything,” LaFortier said. “First of all, when you hear it on the radio, you should pay attention-since we do most of our communicating on the MDT nowadays, a guy using the radio is away from his car, on foot, and usually confronting a suspect, so if you’re available and nearby, swing on over to his location. Listen to the cop’s voice, his tone-that speaks louder than his words. Listen to background noises-if you hear lots of voices in the background, shouting or crying or screaming, the cop might be outnumbered or up to his eyeballs, and he sure as shit wants a little backup even though he might forget to ask for it, or he might be too afraid of the crowd’s reaction if he calls for help. When you see a cop on the street confronting someone, even if it’s one-on-one, check it out. Let him Code Four you on your way if he doesn’t need help.

“You’ll understand all this soon, especially after your probationary period, when you’re on the street by yourself,” LaFortier went on. “This little city can seem awful big and lonely at night, even for the toughest veteran cops. Rusty’ll probably ream us out for wasting our time snooping on him, but take my word for it, everyone appreciates the swing-by.”

The obstetrician strode quickly into the room and went directly to Wendy’s bedside, checking the readouts on the vital-sign monitors, then beginning a digital exam. Wendy didn’t seem to notice him; her head lolled to the side and her dry lips were parted slightly. An extra blanket covered her up to the chin, but she still shivered occasionally.

Although he didn’t show it, Patrick was a frazzled mess inside. An alarm on the fetal monitor kept going off, and a nurse would come in, hit the quiet button, and leave. He didn’t know whether she was taking any real notice, because it had been going off regularly for at least half an hour and he was afraid she’d gotten desensitized to it by now. He could do little for Wendy. An hour ago an anesthesiologist had finally installed an epidural line into Wendy’s spine-it was the only procedure that Patrick was told to leave the room for-so she was no longer in body-numbing pain. Unfortunately, she was also not very responsive. The oxytocin had taken over her contractions now, and she was being racked with one every two or three minutes. There were so many tubes and wires hooked up to her and the baby that she looked like some weird science experiment. This was definitely not the way they wanted to deliver this child.