The first hurdle, however, was passing. And not everyone did. And of those who did, not all were necessarily promoted right away.

After the names of those who passed the written exam were posted, the oral exams were given over the next four months.

In the Sergeant’s Exam, nearly seven hundred detectives, corporals, and patrolmen had passed the oral component. That made them eligible for promotion, of course, but contingent on a number of factors. One was funding. There was money available for only ten percent of The List to be moved up immediately, in the next days or weeks.

The rest had to wait for attrition, a vacancy made by a sergeant who retired or was promoted.

Realistically, that meant if the score of one who passed the exam had them ranked no higher than the top one hundred or so, they would not get promoted. The List would expire after about two years, and the examination process would begin anew.

For those who did score very well, however, the mayor-in a moment of inspiration, thinking it would make for good public relations-had proclaimed that the five who scored the highest on The List would be given their choice of where in the department they wanted to serve.

And when The List had been recently posted, Number One on it was: PAYNE, MATTHEW M., PAYROLL NO. 231047, SPECIAL OPERATIONS.

And newly promoted Sergeant Payne had picked as his choice the Homicide Unit.

Captain Henry Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, had not been thrilled with the news of the hotshot young sergeant’s arrival. But putting two and two together, Quaire understood that there was more to it, more to Matt. He quickly had learned that Matt Payne, like his rabbi, Inspector Peter Wohl, was of the very smart sort. The bright ones destined for greater responsibilities and higher ranks.

Once, over drinks one night, Quaire even had heard Denny Coughlin offhandedly say that judging by the speed with which Payne was progressing in the department, Coughlin was worried that it wouldn’t be long till Payne took his job.

Coughlin really hadn’t been worried or serious, of course. No one would be prouder of his godson getting the job than the godfather himself. And, besides, realistically that just was not going to happen anytime soon. It was simply Coughlin’s way of saying Payne was a rapidly rising star in the police department.

“And, Denny,” Henry Quaire now went on, “I don’t think it’s any secret-I sure as hell hope it’s not-that I now am in the camp of those who know Matt to be one helluva cop. I vote with Jason.”

Coughlin looked at Lowenstein.

“I don’t think you have to ask, Denny,” Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein said simply. “But, officially, I concur.”

“Ditto, Denny,” Francis Hollaran said.

All eyes were now on Coughlin.

After a long moment that in the absolute quiet seemed much longer, he grunted and then said, “All right. I thank you for your thoughtful opinions. This, as I’m sure you know, is not an easy decision for me, and I appreciate your input. But, making such decisions is the reason that I’m paid the big bucks.” He paused and grinned to show he was being facetious, then added, “Both of those big bucks.”

There were the expected chuckles.

Coughlin glanced at each of them, then said, “Until I order otherwise, I do not-repeat, do not-want Matty anywhere near the street.”

The shocked silence in the room bordered on the awkward.

Coughlin went on, “I have my reasons. For one, he’s had more than enough to deal with lately. Yes?”

There were a couple of agreeable nods.

Coughlin gestured toward the television with his right hand. “And he damn sure doesn’t need to be in the news again anytime soon. What’s it been? Not quite thirty days. The ink’s still wet on the newspaper articles about his shooting at that Italian restaurant-”

“La Famiglia Ristorante,” Hollaran furnished.

“That’s it.”

Hollaran said, “Matt’s a good investigator, right, Jason?”

“A most excellent one,” Washington said. “And supervisor.”

“And I have absolutely no argument with that,” Coughlin said reasonably. “So have him do it from the telephone. If I find out he’s on the street, I’ll put him on the goddamn midnight shift of the School Crossing Guard Unit.”

Hollaran said, “There’s no-”

“Of course there’s not,” Coughlin interrupted. “But I’ll damn sure establish one, and man it with the rest of you. Do I make my point?”

There was a chorus of yessirs.

“All right, then. When he gets here, Henry, send him in. It’s my order, so I’ll break the news to him.”

IV

[ONE] 826 Sears Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 7:55 A.M.

Paco Esteban, a bloodstained gauze bandage on his forehead, walked swiftly toward his South Philly row house. The two-story flat-roofed structure-like the row houses on either side and many others up and down the street-had a fa?ade of old red brick with dirty brown corrugated aluminum awnings above the door and windows.

In his left hand, Esteban carried two packed grocery bags, the sheer plastic stretching with the weight of their contents. He grabbed the black iron railing of the brick stoop and pulled himself along, quickly taking the three shallow steps up to the front door.

At the door, he nervously looked over his shoulder as he juggled the grocery bags and reached for his keys to open each of the door’s three locks. About the time he got the second one unlocked, he heard the familiar metallic clunk that told him someone on the other side of the door was unlocking the third, a deadbolt.

As he pulled out the key from the second lock, the door swung open.

Standing there in a dingy beige sleeveless cotton dress was his wife. As much as El Nariz’s head hurt, he still managed to think: My beautiful Salma. My Madonna. It is not fair that she should suffer such pain and worry…

Se?ora Salma Esteban was a swarthy black-haired twenty-nine-year-old who stood five-foot-four and weighed 160 pounds. Her face was puffy, the eyes somewhat swollen from crying. She clenched a wadded used tissue in her right hand.

On her left shoulder she held a toddler, the Estebans’ three-year-old nephew, who had a thick mop of unruly black hair and wore only a diaper. He was sound asleep and snoring.

Se?ora Esteban, sniffling, motioned for El Nariz to quickly come inside. When he had, she pushed the door shut and rushed to relock the doors.

“How is she doing now?” El Nariz asked his wife in rapid-fire Spanish.

“Better,” Salma Esteban said softly.

“Bueno,” El Nariz said, nodding thoughtfully.

He carried the bags into the cluttered kitchen. His wife followed.

She watched her husband, his coarse face still showing a mix of anger and fear, wordlessly unpack the bags with a heavy hand onto the counter. One bag held packs of flour tortillas, cans of frijoles negros and corn, and other staples of a heavy-starch diet. From the other he pulled out a pack of disposable diapers and handed them to his wife, then a box of gauze bandages, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide antiseptic, and a bottle of aspirin.

“While you were at the store,” Salma Esteban said softly, “Rosario did say she wanted to tell us more.”

Paco Esteban looked up from the bags. “More?” he said. “We know what she said about her being forced…”

He could not bring himself to repeat the sexual slavery part of her peonage.

He then shook his head and added, his tone incredulous, “There is more? Madre de Dios.”

“I will go and put the baby down,” Salma Esteban said.

On the loading dock of the laundromat nearly two hours earlier, El Nariz had had to slap a wildly hysterical Rosario Flores twice across the face. Not that he necessarily felt that she was overreacting to the severed head and the shooting. He himself was in shock from that-and from his bloody forehead, which throbbed beyond belief. But he had made the immediate decision that anywhere else would be better for them to be than at the laundromat.