She slammed the drawer, causing heads to turn, and she never bothered to lower her voice. "If I put in for all the extra hours I've racked up since Riker's been gone – "

"The city would go broke paying you off. I know. But the boss thinks you spent the last three days attached to the DA's office. Now he finds out they've never seen your face, not once."

"So you sat there and watched him bust my desk open."

"What could I do? I already told him I hadn't heard from you this week. How was I gonna explain all your evidence wrapped up nice and neat in my top drawer? So I had a patrol cop run your package downtown. Record time, sirens all the way. The assistant DA was still in the squad room when his office called to tell him they had everything they needed for court. Well, now this jerk has to apologize to Lieutenant Coffey. The boss loved that. So that's one point on your side."

"But it's not the real reason he broke all my locks."

"I'm guessing… no." Janos waved one hand, as if hoping to pluck just the right words from the air. And now he frowned – preparing her for the worst. It was his style to break all bad news in a slow and maddeningly gentle fashion. "You see, right before the DA's man showed up, the boss got this phone call. You know an ex-cop named Rawlins? He works for Highland Security. Maybe the lieutenant thinks you're working a second job on the side?"

"He knows better," said Mallory. Jack Coffey understood that her only illegal sideline was Butler and Company. "What else?"

"It has something to do with that shock-jock, Ian Zachary." Janos threw up his hands. "That's all I got." He looked up at the ceiling. "Well, almost. I know it's tied to that private dick, Rawlins. The guy's phone call really irritated the boss."

The translation of that softsold comment was Mallory's vision of Jack Coffey going ballistic with a crowbar. She could see him ripping into her desk, venting all his animosity with vandalism.

"I got an idea this is serious trouble." Janos nodded toward the lieutenant's private office. "So act real polite when you go in there. Don't say anything to get on his bad side, okay?"

Yeah, right.

Riker parted his curtains to look down at the street. Jo was walking alone, coming from the direction of the subway, and there were no feds in sight. Mallory was right. Jo could lose her federal watchers at will. That would also explain why she traveled on trains when she could afford cabs and limousines. It was harder to track someone underground, so many ways to lose a subject in a string of cars and all the station stops. The intercom buzzed.

He pressed the talk button, not waiting to hear her voice. "Hey, Jo, come on up." He tapped the next button to admit her to the building, then opened his front door by a crack and listened for the rising elevator. He watched her step out into the hallway. It was a cold evening, and she wore a down jacket shaped like a dark blue hand grenade riding above her long blue-jeaned legs. In less than fifteen minutes, he would look back on this moment and recognize it as a warning.

He opened the door a little wider, then backed up to the wall. She entered slowly, head turning from side to side, so suspicious of an unlocked apartment, but she never looked behind her. He stepped out from the wall and punched her arm.

"So, Jo – did that hurt?"

"What?" She whirled around, stunned, as one hand covered her upper arm where he had hit her with a closed fist. "You know it hurt. Why would – "

"Good. Every civilian should take a body blow just once in their lives. Then they wouldn't freeze up, always anticipating the first punch, first pain." He stepped toward her, and educable Jo stepped back. "Let me take your jacket," he said. "It'll hurt more without all that padding."

"You jerk."

"Oh, all the women say that." And this was actually true. "So what are your physical limitations, Jo?"

"My what?"

"If you take a punch to the back, would that cause permanent damage?" He raised his fists, and her eyes rounded, but this time she did not back away from him. "All right, Jo, use your hands to deflect the shots. Stay alert. Here comes another one." His fist feinted toward her face, missing it by a bare inch. "Feel the air? Now imagine a bloody nose."

"Why, Riker?" She only stood there, so exposed, making no move to protect herself. Jo had disabled him with nothing more than large brown eyes full of absolute trust. "You've never hit a woman in your life, have you? This is not who you are."

"And who are you, Jo? You're a refugee from a witness protection program, and you keep shaking off your bodyguards." He had no more heart for this, and she knew it. His arms fell to his sides, and his voice had lost its edge. He was all but pleading now. "I only want you to have a sporting chance to stay alive."

Who else would teach her how to break a man's nose with the palm of her hand? Without guidance, how would she ever learn to pluck out the jelly of an eyeball with one finger? His resolve returned. This was the only way to keep her alive. His hands were rising.

"I won't do this, Riker. Not with you."

"I'm not giving you a choice, Jo. But I'll make it easy." He opened his arms wide to expose his chest as an easy target. "Your turn. Take your best shot."

She walked toward him, slow and deliberate, smiling to tell him that all was forgiven. And then -

Lieutenant Coffey was a man of average height, and even his hair and eyes were in that middling range of brown. He was young for a command position, only thirty-six, but he had compensated for that by prematurely aging to fit the job, acquiring worry lines that gave his otherwise bland face more character.

He glanced at his watch. It was just after seven o'clock, and he had no hope of escaping his office anytime soon. Two of his key people were missing; how was he going to fill that hole without more budget-breaking overtime? In his desk drawer was a letter from the commissioner asking why he had not yet replaced Detective Sergeant Riker. How long could he ignore that instruction? When would Riker sign the appeal forms? And was Internal Affairs planning another assault? Would Highland Security keep silent about the latest fiasco? Would the acid eventually eat through his stomach lining, and when, God, when was this ugly day going to end?

Jack Coffey's eyes rolled up to the ceiling, but no answers were written there.

The door was opening. There had been no knock, and that always irritated him. But could his mood be worse? Ah, and now he was graced with a visit from his only female detective. If not for Mallory, he might look years younger. If he fired her today, he might keep the hair that was left around the bald spot at the back of his head, and the tension headaches would go away.

She stood on the threshold, arms folded, glaring at him. "I want a new desk," she said. "A brand-new desk."

The lieutenant smiled against his will. This preemptive strike telegraphed that Mallory knew she was in trouble. He pointed to a chair. "Sit."

He was hardly surprised that she remained standing. She paused awhile to peruse his paperwork, reading upside down in a violation of his personal space. Was this payback for her broken desk? Now she sat down. Mallory had only one basic strategy – offensive in every sense of that word. "I got an interesting phone call today." He tapped his pencil on the desktop, and this was the only giveaway that he was angry, for his voice was remarkably calm. "It was an ex-cop who runs Highland Security. The guy's name is Rawlins. You know him?"

"I've talked to him," she said.

How predictable that she would answer that question truthfully, for what was the point of getting caught in a little lie? Mallory was a big believer in truth administered in small doses to improve upon a falsehood.