It felt like coming home again as Riker pulled up his regular chair. He nodded to a lean gray woman with a gravedigger's face, who stood five tables away. Her arms were laden with a juggling act of perfectly balanced trays as she distributed ten separate meals round a table of tourists, dealing out plates like playing cards. She astonished the out-of-towners, not asking who got what, but simply getting it right, each entree, beverage and side order. Gurt was an actual waitress, not a starving actress or a painter. She had always waited tables for her living and knew all her regular customers and what they wanted, and she suffered no grief from anyone.

"You're early!" Gurt yelled at him across the room, as if the past six months of his absence were but a single day. "Planning to surprise the kid?" Kathy Mallory had made no stronger impression on this waitress over the years. On her first day as a rookie cop, Lou Markowitz had brought his foster child to the cafe in uniform to show her off to Gurt, saying with great pride, "This is my kid." As far as the waitress was concerned, the young cop was then and now and forever – the kid. And, yes, even though this late breakfast date had been earlier arranged, the kid would be surprised. Mallory always walked in the door exactly on time, little punctuality freak that she was, and Riker was always late – but not today. And he had other surprises for Mallory.

Gurt had no sooner placed his coffee mug on the table than he looked up to see Mallory hovering in the open doorway, and this could only mean that the second hand of the clock on the wall had struck the hour. It was rare to see her startled. As she crossed the room, her long black leather duster was swept back on one side, and she consulted Lou's old pocket watch tethered to her blue jeans by a gold chain. Reassured that her internal clock had not failed her, despite Riker's timely presence, she shrugged out of her coat, folded it over the back of her dead father's chair and took her customary seat at the table.

This cafe was also her own haven. She disliked change so much. Lou Markowitz might be gone, but his chair was still here. And, though she got no respect from Gurt, the waitress was a constant fixture in her life. Thus Riker knew with absolute certainty that Mallory had sat here each morning of his long absence, her head bowed over her plate, eating her meal in silence – all alone, and that realization caused him unexpected pain. Other cops, men she worked with every day, also frequented this place, but they would never sit down at this table with her, for she would do nothing to invite them. She would not know how.

Guilt and sorrow tempered everything he had prepared to say to her. All his stored-up accusations simply died.

This morning, Johanna showed some charity to Special Agent Marvin Argus, only opening the door by a crack. Mugs could not maul the man's legs, not unless Argus tried to force his way into the room.

"Got a warrant?"

"No." Having learned deep respect for the cat, the FBI agent stood beyond the range of swatting claws. His eyes were anxious and sunken in their sockets. His face was pale and bereft of the annoying smile. "I need your help, Johanna. There's been a murder – a man you knew."

She had a death grip on the doorknob as her head moved slowly from side to side, so deep in denial that she almost missed his next words. And now Marvin Argus's eyes were shocked wide by her inappropriate smile, for he had just put a name to the dead man, and it was not Riker.

The meal had arrived a few minutes after Mallory. Their waitress never bothered with the formality of menus since they always ordered the same thing. The past six months had dissolved, and it was as it had always been, two partners eating eggs over easy and drinking coffee black.

When their meal was done and the second cup of coffee poured, Mallory slapped a thick sheaf of papers on the table and said, "Sign it."

Riker looked down at the familiar appeal form to challenge his separation from NYPD. "How many of these things have you got?"

"I can print them out all damn day. I can keep this up as long as you can.

He pushed the paperwork to one side. "What did Lieutenant Coffey say?"

"He gave Commissioner Beale your field report."

"What field report?"

"I typed one up for you. It gives Special Crimes Unit all the credit for locating MacPherson and placing him in Argus's custody."

"And what about the other fed, the local man? Did you make him look like an idiot for losing Ian Zachary last night? That was your plan, wasn't it?" "You mean Hennessey? I talked to him this morning – told him about what happened to Zachary in the parking garage. Then I told him I wasn't planning to mention it to anyone." She handed a folded sheet of paper across the table. "Read this."

He took the report and held it out at arm's length, squinting at the text. There was no mention of the New York fed and his botched security detail, nor the shooting in the parking garage. Agent Hennessey was now in Mallory's debt. Clever brat. She had no gift for making friends, but she knew how to build up the favor bank. She was even better at this than her old man. He folded the report and gave it back to her, glad that he had misjudged her – though perhaps not entirely. What she had done for Agent Hennessey also had blackmail potential. "Did he say anything about MacPherson?"

"No," said Mallory. "He had to ask me the name of the shooter. Interesting?"

"Argus isn't sharing information with the New York bureau." "No." She smiled. "So we'll let the local feds find out the hard way." "You're setting up a war between the Chicago bureau and New York?" Yes, Mallory would find that irresistible, dividing them, weakening them. There was no doubt left that she was plotting a case takeover. "So what happens when Zachary makes out a complaint on the shooting?"

He won't," said Mallory. "I took care of that when he called me last night. I told him he'd look like an idiot with no corroboration – since the only witnesses hated his guts." "And what about Jo?" She was there?"

And now he knew that Mallory had not stayed to watch the show, but he would always wonder if she had roughly predicted the outcome. Had she set him up to intercept MacPherson? No, that was crazy. He was giving her too much credit and pushing his trust issues over the edge. "No," he said. "Jo wasn't there. I just wondered if Coffey knows she needs police protection."

"Can't justify the manpower," said Mallory. "She's already got feds watching her round the clock."

Riker shook his head. "Argus pulled them off that detail last night. He's probably got them watching MacPherson full-time."

The next item of his agenda was the fake blind man Mallory had followed away from the bar last night. This was forgotten when he turned to the window, distracted by the sudden commotion on the street. Detectives were pouring out of the station house on the run, climbing into cars and peeling off down the street. Only Jack Coffey was still on foot and heading for the door to the cafe.

Trouble.

Riker turned to Mallory. "Any theories?"

Before she could answer, Lieutenant Coffey strode through the door and crossed the room to their table.

"Hey, boss," said Riker, forgetting for the moment that he was no longer a detective in this man's squad. "Who's minding the store?"

"Janos needs backup on a crime scene." Jack Coffey picked up the breakfast bill and laid down his own cash. "I need both of you. Now!"

"But, I'm not a cop anymore."

"Then you shouldn't be turning in field reports, Riker. MacPherson's dead, and you were one of the last people to see him alive." Coffey's thumb gestured toward the door. "Now get your ass in gear."

Mallory was already out the door and moving toward her car, running to catch up with the posse of homicide cops.