"That's Daffy's way, Terry," Matt said, "of asking whether I will be good enough to prepare my world famous Wild Turkey shrimp."

"Wild Turkey shrimp?"

"Over wild rice," Matt said. "Yes, Daffy, I will. Butyou'll have to peel the slimy crustaceans. That's beneath the dignity of a master chef such as myself."

"I've got to give Penny her bath," Daffy complained.

"I'll peel the shrimp," Terry said. "I have to see this. Wild Turkey-you're talking about the whiskey?…" Matt nodded. "… shrimp?"

"Bring your glass, I'll bring the bottle. The kitchen for some unknown reason is on the ground floor."

Matt led Terry into the kitchen, turned on the fluorescent lights, and then took his jacket off and laid it on a counter. Then he took his pistol from its shoulder holster, held it toward the floor, away from Terry, removed the clip, and then ejected the round in the chamber.

"I'm impressed," Terry said. "If that was your intention."

He gave her a dirty look but didn't reply. He reloaded the ejected round in the magazine, put the magazine in the pistol, the pistol in the shoulder holster, then shrugged out of that and hung it on an empty hook of the pot rack above the stainless-steel stove.

Then he looked at her.

"I wasn't trying to impress you. I don't like leaving guns around with a round in the chamber."

"Sorry," she said, and then asked, "What kind of a gun is that?"

He looked at her for a moment before deciding the question was a peace offering.

"It's an Officer's Model Colt," Matt said. "A.45. A cut-down version of the old Army.45."

"That's what all the cops carry?"

"No. Most Philadelphia cops carry Glocks. They're semiautomatic, like this one, but nine-millimeter, not.45."

"Then?"

"I think this a better weapon."

"And they let you do that?"

"With great reluctance. I had to go through a lot of bureaucratic bullsh-difficulty before I got permission to carry this."

"What is it with Colt?" Terry asked.

"Excuse me?"

"There's some sort of significance, obviously. Stan actually changed his name legally to Colt. And he always carries a Colt automatic in his films."

"What was his name before?"

"Coleman."

"Stan Colt, nee Stanley Coleman?"

"Yeah."

"Whatever works, I guess," Matt said, chuckling. "To answer your question, I suppose there is a certain romance to 'Colt.' They call the old Colt.44 revolver 'The Gun That Won the West,' and then the Colt Model 1911-the big brother of my pistol-was the service weapon right through Vietnam. Now the services use a nine-millimeter Beretta."

"You ever shoot anybody with that pistol?"

"Not with that one."

"But you have shot someone?"

"Why don't we just drop this subject right here?" Matt flared.

"Sorry," she said, offended and sarcastic.

He found a plastic bag of shrimp in the refrigerator, took it to the sink, tore the bag open, and started to peel them.

After a long moment, Terry went and stood beside him and took a handful of shrimp.

He glanced at her but said nothing.

They peeled shrimp in silence for perhaps three minutes, and then Matt said, "That's not the first time you've peeled shrimp."

"How can you tell?"

"Most people don't know how to squeeze the tail that way."

"My dad has a boat. We have a place on Catalina Island. I practically grew up peeling shrimp."

"Your father's a movie star? Producer? Executive?"

"Lawyer," she said. "With connections in the industry. Enough to get me my first job with GAM."

"So's mine," Matt said. "A lawyer with connections."

"Daffy told me-when she was selling me on the blind date."

"Actually, he's my adoptive father," Matt said, as he took a large skillet from an overhead rack.

"Your parents were divorced? Mine too."

"My father was killed before I was born," Matt said. "He was a cop, a sergeant named John X. Moffitt, and he answered a silent alarm and got himself shot. My mother married my dad-that sounds funny, doesn't it?-about six months later. He'd lost his wife in a car crash. A really good guy. He adopted me legally."

"Is that why you're a policeman? Because of your father?"

"That's one of the reasons, certainly," Matt said, as he unwrapped a stick of butter. "I like being a cop."

"Daffy doesn't approve," Terry said.

"I know. Daffy would be delighted-because of Chad-if I married a nice young woman, such as yourself, went to law school, and took my proper role in society."

"Yeah," Terry replied thoughtfully. "I picked up a little of that. Tell me about your promotion."

"The sergeant's examination list came out today," Matt said. "With underwhelming modesty, I was number one, and get to pick my assignment."

"Which is?"

"Homicide."

"What is that, some sort of a death wish?"

"Huh?"

"Homicide sounds dangerous," she said. "Killers, right?"

"I never thought about it," Matt said. "But now that I do… Homicide's not dangerous. Being on the street is dangerous. My father was a uniform sergeant in a district. That's dangerous. Cops get hurt answering domestic-disturbance calls. Stopping speeders. Homicide's nothing like that. You've been watching too many Stan Colt movies."

"I don't really understand."

"Street cops face the bad guys every day. Last night, a uniform cop answered a robbery-in-progress call at the Roy Rogers restaurant on Broad Street. One of the two bad guys shoved a revolver under his bulletproof vest and killed him. The first homicide guy didn't get to the scene for maybe fifteen minutes. By then, the bad guys were long gone."

She looked at him but said nothing.

"The trick to this is to saute them slowly in butter with a little Cajun seasoning," he said. "You add the booze just before serving, and flame it. And since the rice isn't done, we can put this on hold and have another glass of wine while we wait for the rice and the bathers to finish with the bathee."

"What about when they arrest… the bad guys? Isn't that dangerous?"

"First you have to find out who the bad guys are. Then make sure you can-to the district attorney's satisfaction- make the case against them. Then, if they're not already in the Roundhouse surrounded by cops, if you have to go out to arrest them, you take enough uniforms with you to make sure nobody gets hurt."

"That's not much like one of Stan's movies, is it?" she asked.

"Not much," he agreed, as he filled her glass.

"Then why does Homicide have the prestige? You were as proud as a peacock to tell me you were going to Homicide."

"Homicide detectives are the best detectives in the department, " he said. "When you're trying somebody for a capital offense, all the 't's have to be crossed and the 'i's dotted. There's no room for mistakes. People who kill people should pay for it."

"And Homicide sergeants?"

"Modesty precludes my answering that question."

"Modest you ain't, Sergeant."

"Sergeant I ain't, either. I'm just number one on The List. God only knows when I'll actually get promoted and sent to Homicide."

"And in the meantime, you'll have to do something beneath your dignity, like protecting Stan from his adoring fans? Or vice versa."

"Meaning?"

"Now that we're going to be professionally associated, I think I should tell you that Stan likes young women. Very young women."

"That ought to go over big with the monsignor and the cardinal. And I'm not-I am now really sorry to say-going to be involved in that. That's Dignitary Protection, and sometimes, since the subject came up, that can be really dangerous. Dignitaries, celebrities, attract lunatics like a magnet."

"You're not going to be involved?"

"No. I was just there this morning to see-for my boss- what the triumphal visit will involve. I'm with Special Operations, and we usually provide the bodies needed."