Done with chitchat, Coffey dropped his pencil. "Rawlins wanted to talk to our covert ops detective. Well, I told him we didn't have one of those, nothing that fancy in Special Crimes Unit. Then Rawlins says, "Oh, shitl'" Jack Coffey leaned forward. "Now, why should that make me think of you?" He paused a beat, allowing this remark to register with her. "So I said, 'You must mean Mallory.' Oh, yeah – now the guy's more relaxed. He thinks that stunt you pulled on him might actually be legal. So then he tells me this radio celebrity sent his company a huge retainer. Now Rawlins wants to know what they're supposed to do with the guy's check since – thanks to you – they're not doing any work to earn it. I said I'd get back to him."

"I'll tell him not to cash the check."

"That's it?" If he waited for her to defend her actions, he would wait forever, but she had no idea that his best shot was still coming. "I'm really worried about you, Mallory. You've never been this sloppy before. Such messy tracks." Did that get her attention? "Well, no, but he pressed on anyway. "Two days ago, Ian Zachary calls Highland Security to set up an appointment. Five minutes later, you call Rawlins and tell him you're taking over, and he should keep his mouth shut. Five minutes. You should've waited longer, Mallory. Now I have to figure you intercepted Zachary's phone call. I don't remember asking any judges for warrants to tap a radio station's telephone. So, of course, you have some other explanation."

"I have a snitch at the station," said Mallory. "That's how I knew about the call to the security company." Nothing in her tone said that she expected him to believe this.

It was a lie, but it would do – in the event that Internal Affairs turned its eyes back to Special Crimes Unit. And now, for his next leap of inspiration, he said, "I'm guessing this all ties back to Riker somehow." He could see that she was not planning to elaborate on that, but there was no other explanation. She was good, damn good, even better than Lou Markowitz in the days when her old man had commanded this squad. It was unlike her to mess up so badly. Some personal aspect was affecting her judgment. And now he allowed it to affect his own.

"Mallory, get out your damn notebook. That's an order. I've got a list for you, and I want every item to be perfectly clear."

Her expression said, Yeah, right. However, she produced a small pad of paper from her back pocket, as a token appeasement. "I'm on comp time. This might have to wait a few – "

"That's the first item – you don't get any more time off." "I've got at least fifty hours of – "

"No comp time." He could see the next argument coming, and he put up one hand to prevent her from mouthing off. "You used your badge to muscle Highland Security. So now you cover your tracks. Open a case file for Ian Zachary. I'm guessing he wants security because of the Reaper. Those homicides belong to the feds, so make out paperwork for a celebrity stalker. Throw in some anonymous tips, and don't forget to backdate your file by two days." He slammed the desk with one hand. "I want to see you writing this down, Mallory."

She bowed her head over the notebook, and her pen began to move. A small victory.

"Next item," he said. "If there's an active phone tap at that radio station, make it go away. If that comes back on this squad, I'll fire your ass in a heartbeat. And the last little detail? Zachary thinks he has paid security, so you keep that son of a bitch alive. Officially, that's your new job." "He thinks I'm his private investigator – not his baby-sitter." "He better not die on your watch. Get out of my office."

For months, Riker had avoided saloons in the precinct of his old squad, and now a local bartender flashed a broad smile. "Long time no see," the man said, as he set down two drinks on cocktail napkins, bourbon and water for Riker, rye for Jo.

Another woman, one he had dated casually, had broken up with him in this same SoHo bar. There were many such landmarks in New York City. Over the past twenty years since his divorce, no relationship had lasted longer than a few months. Some of the women had left him in restaurants, and others had dumped him on street corners. Only now did he get around to wondering how he had erred in those brief encounters. It worried him that Jo might walk away before they even got started.

"I promised you a meal," he said. "There's a nice little place around the corner." A woman named Donna had dumped him there. "You like Italian?"

"No, thanks. Maybe some other night." She glanced at her watch. "I should be leaving now."

"It's early," he said. It was late. "Don't go." His feet were tapping a rung of the bar stool, and his hands were sweating. Neither of these symptoms had anything to do with the damage this woman had recently done to him.

Jo rolled up her sweatshirt sleeve, the better to see the bruise blooming on her right arm. She glanced at his crotch. "Does it still hurt?"

"Naw. Don't worry about it. I had it coming."

"You mean, you never saw it coming. My father's best advice – kick a man in the soft parts and run like hell."

"Well, I'm glad you stuck around, Jo. That took guts. Most women would've been unnerved to see a man cry like that."

An hour ago, she had kicked him in the testicles, and then, impressed by his suave fetal posture and groin clutching, she had shared the contents of a pharmacy bottle with him – pain pills, strong ones. Evidently, Jo and agony were old acquaintances. The lady had called it right – he was a jerk. But she was a good sport. Jo had suggested this pub crawl through SoHo for medicinal purposes.

"Your color's better," she said. "Not quite so pale. You're a very good patient."

"Better than Timothy Kidd? You were treating him, right?"

Now she was taken by surprise. If he had only thought of this earlier, he could have mugged her with words and saved himself a world of hurt. A few moments passed in uneasy silence. Did she regret coming out with him tonight? There was time in this lull to notice that she was wearing perfume. Though they had lifted many a glass at the end of a workday, he never had been so close to her, almost touching shoulders. He breathed deep and stared at the red stain on her glass. Her lipstick fascinated and flattered him, believing as he did that she had tricked herself out on his account, though she was otherwise her old jeans-and-sweatshirt self.

"You've been talking to Marvin Argus," she said. "He told you Timothy was my patient? Well, he lied. He does that a lot." She pulled the down jacket from the back of her stool, preparing to end the evening.

"Wait, Jo. So it was a different kind of relationship – you and Agent Kidd. You were close. I figured out that much. Lovers?" "Would you find that hard to believe, Riker?"

He shook his head, and he must have done a fine job of communicating that he was not at all surprised that any man would want her – that he wanted her – for she seemed contrite.

"Sorry." She smiled, less anxious to leave him now. "Timothy was my friend."

Riker sometimes got lost in Jo's eyes, foolishly dropping the threads of his thoughts. He wanted to know if she had also worn lipstick for the murdered FBI man. Instead, he asked, "How did you two meet?" "He came by my office asking for help on a case." "The Reaper case?"

Her head moved slightly from side to side, more in wonder than denial. Perhaps, like most civilians, she assumed police omniscience, and now she was surprised by his ignorance. But how could he be wrong about this?

"Well, the fed was killed by the Reaper. Logical connection, right? And it's like you said, Jo – Argus lies a lot. So help me out here." That fed was not the only liar. Riker was already laying plans to hunt down Mallory, to back her up against a wall and find out what else she had held out on him, but for now he must wing it. "So that's not when you met Agent Kidd?