"Well, that's what cops do," said Riker. "Every day, we lie to suspects. Goes with the job. Yeah, they'd all lie to me, especially after pumping thirty rounds into this poor bastard – whoever he is." He picked up one of the photographs and tore it in half. "He's not the kid who shot me."

Dr. Slope produced papers from his coat pocket. "These are the lab results. I ran all the tests, Riker. You know me. I never leave anything to chance. You have to believe in fingerprints, in blood and DNA. And there's the gunpowder residue on the boy's hand. And there's more."

"Oh, yeah?" Riker removed his hausfrau's rubber gloves. "Well, here's the kicker, Doc. The proof. There were guards posted in my room the whole time I was in the hospital. They only do that to protect crime victims from live suspects. Nobody, and I mean nobody else gets twenty-four-hour bodyguards, not ever. But every time I opened my eyes, there was a cop watching me, and I could always hear more of'em out in the hall." Riker saw a painful surprise in the doctor's eyes.

Edward Slope was now the saddest man in New York City. "Not all of your guards were cops. The first few days, your doctors only allowed medical personnel to see you." He reached out to retrieve some of his pictures from the floor. "Sometimes it was me sitting in the intensive care unit. That was right after your surgery. You weren't expected to survive. So – if you went sour – well, I thought someone should be there, someone you knew." On hands and knees, he gathered up the rest of the photographs, then made a show of neatly stacking them and avoiding Riker's eyes.

"Later on," said Slope, "there were so many drugs pumped into you. I'm not surprised that you can't recall this – one of those guards was your father. That old man put in a lot of hours taking turns with Kathy Mallory. They were there through all the days when you were swacked on painkillers that only worked half the time. And the others – patrolmen, detectives, they came out of the woodwork to sit in your hospital room – on their own time, willing you to recover. After you were on the mend, they still came, so many of them. My fault. I got the hospital to rescind visiting hours. I wanted someone in your room round the clock. The distraction would keep you from reliving the event when you were most vulnerable. And – Dr. Apollo will back me up on this – most trauma victims have an irrational fear of being alone. So those cops all turned out for you – so you'd always know that you weren't on your own – that you were at the head of a damn parade, the whole police force, thirty thousand strong. Those cops, your guards, they all thought it was important for you to know that. But… obviously, you… got the wrong message." He stood up, preparing to leave, then leaned down to place one hand on Riker's shoulder. "Believe me now. I'm sorry. I never realized…" Rising slowly, stiff and awkward – add on shamefaced – the pathologist turned sharply on his heel and quit the bathroom.

Riker had no sooner recovered from the shock of an emotional Edward Slope than he wandered into the front room and met another unannounced visitor.

Trouble.

He should have told Johanna to bolt the door against the cops.

The commander of Special Crimes Unit was definitely not here on any sentimental errand, not a well-wisher or a cheerleader, not a happy man. Jack Coffey was holding a thick bundle of papers. This could only be Mallory's form to appeal the separation from NYPD. Yes, he could see that now as the lieutenant held up the paperwork within four inches of his senior detective's face, saying, "Don't fuck with me, Riker. Just sign it."

And sign it he did.

Jack Coffey departed without another word said, and Riker closed the door behind him – gently – no slamming.

"So you're a cop again." Jo sat on the couch by the dim light of a single lamp, her body sunk deep in the cushions. She seemed tired and pleased. When he sat down beside her, she rested her head on his shoulder, and they passed a little time this way in companionable silence. Peace – perfect peace. That was Jo's present to him. He wished he had something to give to her, and perhaps it was natural to be thinking of flowers, though she deserved something more exotic than the bloom he had settled upon.

"My old man was tough," said Riker. "It took years to get him to talk, but he finally gave up the whole story. My mother was dying the night I was born, or that's what Dad thought. She was only nineteen, and he wasn't much older. They were dirt poor in those days. They had nothing. Well, Mom wanted to leave me something – something just grand. That's the way my dad put it. So she made him promise to – " He glanced at Jo's upturned face and smiled. "It helps if you know she was really drugged up that night, lots of heavy medication. So Mom was stoned when she made him promise to put Pimpernel on my birth certificate." "My God. She named you after a flower?"

"Yeah. Cruel, isn't it? But it could've been worse. The Scarlet Pimpernel was Mom's all-time favorite movie. But, crazy as she was that night, she knew she couldn't name me Scarlet Pimpernel. Everybody would've called me Scarlet, right? And that was a girl from Gone With the Wind – wrong sex and a whole different movie. So she settled for Pimpernel. But you can't raise a little boy with a name like that, not in Brooklyn. My old man argued with her for hours, even though he thought she was dying. Finally, the poor bastard caved in when she cried. One damn tear. That's all it took to break him, and he swore he'd name me Pimpernel."

"And then your father saved you by only putting the initial on the birth certificate."

"Yeah. Sometimes I forget how much I owe him for that. Well, Mom didn't die, not for another fifty years. When she got home from the hospital, her brain was good as new – almost. She agreed with Dad. It would've been a rotten thing to do to a kid growing up in a rough neighborhood. But she wouldn't let him change the initial on my birth certificate. Now my old man won the second round. When the next baby came along, they named him Ned. Nothing fancy – just plain old Ned."

"A pimpernel," said Jo. "I don't think I'd recognize that flower." "I would." He still had the lieutenant's pen in his hand, but now that all the clutter was gone, there was no scrap of paper within easy reach. "Half the house was wallpapered in damn pimpernels. My bedroom, too – now that was child abuse." He took her right hand in his. "I still have dreams about that wallpaper." Riker drew a little flower on her open palm. "It's small, not much to look at. I'd rather give you roses." He loved her smile.

The door was kicked open, breaking the chain before Victor could bolt it again. He was crying when they entered his apartment.

"Victor Patchock?" asked a large man with a thug's face and an incongruously soft voice.

He nodded, believing that he was about to die. When the pair advanced on him, he reached out to the umbrella stand and plucked out a white cane. He waved it high and wide. This was the last stand of a righteous man, whose eyes were scrunched shut. All he could hear was the swish of his cane slicing the air and hitting nothing.

He dared to open his eyes again.

The large man seemed astonished, and the tall blonde at his side was also taken by surprise. She had a gun in her hand, but the barrel was pointed toward the floor. Tilting her head to one side, she seemed genuinely curious when she asked, "How stupid are you?"

Earlier, upon opening his front door, Charles Butler had been pleased to see the chief medical examiner standing in the hall, for this was an opportunity to smooth out the ragged edges of their friendship. Edward Slope had announced that he was making the second house call of his career. What an honor.