Then there was the actual qualification test. If the officer successfully completed this, she or he was given a certification card that had to be carried on their person at all times. There was also the rule that the pistols could be loaded only with department-issued ammunition-165-grain tactical rounds in.40-caliber and 230-grain tactical rounds in.45-caliber. That ammo had to be used exclusively, whether the officer was on duty or off duty. Finally, upon meeting all the requirements to carry one of the larger-bore Glocks, the officer had to give the department-issued Model 17 back to the department.

There were absolutely no exceptions to the rules-except, of course, one.

The Special Operations Bureau was tasked, as its name suggested, to perform particularly extraordinary ops. Emphasis on extraordinary. And it was in that environment that Matt Payne, before the police force even began issuing Glocks, began carrying his Colt Officer’s Model.45-caliber semiautomatic. Even after leaving Special Operations (and its commander, Peter Wohl, his rabbi) for Homicide, he continued carrying it, having successfully argued that (a) it had been grandfathered in as an approved weapon, and (b) it could be considered not as powerful as the Glock.45 because it held fewer of the 230-grain tactical rounds that he fed it.

Payne devoutly believed that his Colt, a smaller version of the dependable John Browning-designed Model 1911 semiautomatic that many argued damn near single-handedly won the Second World War, was superior to the Glock in almost every way. And its size sure as hell made it better for concealed carry.

Matt motioned toward the pistol box. “May I?”

Coughlin snorted. “Go ahead. But be damned careful, Matty. When you’re around guns, they tend to go off.”

Matt looked quickly at him and saw that Coughlin was smiling.

Matt unsnapped the two silver latches, opened the box, and removed the weapon. He automatically took care to keep the muzzle pointed down, then ejected the magazine and pulled back the slide enough to see that no round was in the chamber.

“Nice,” he said.

“Damn thing’s a monster compared to my.38.” He paused. “Which, I might add, served me just fine.”

“You never had to use it, Uncle Denny.”

“Precisely.”

“So why the nine-millimeter?”

“You’re not listening, Matty. I’m supposed to be setting an example. Besides, my.38 was fine. Why carry around an elephant gun? And I sure as hell didn’t want to have to buy a damned gun. If Mariani is forcing me to take one, it’d damn well better be a free one.”

Payne put the pistol back in the box, closed the lid, and snapped the latches shut.

“You know what they say about a nine-millimeter, don’t you, Uncle Denny?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“It’s a.45 set to ‘stun.’ ”

Coughlin grunted.

“Thank you for that educational ballistic tip, Marshal Earp.”

Payne shrugged and smiled.

“ ‘If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared,’ ” Payne quoted.

Coughlin’s Irish temper flared: “Jesus H. Christ, Matty!”

Payne put his hands up, palms out. “Hey, Niccolo Machiavelli said that, not me. Early 1500s, I believe it was.”

“If you think that kind of talk’s going to help with your case…” He paused, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose we actually should get into that, into why you’re here.”

“I heard-” Payne began just as the intercom speaker on the phone buzzed.

“Hold that thought, Matty.”

Coughlin pushed a button. “Yeah? What is it, Frank?”

“Call for you holding on line four, Chief,” Hollaran’s voice came over the speaker. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you want this one. Could be educational for Sergeant Payne to listen in on.”

Coughlin looked to the bottom edge of the phone and saw the blinking red light under one of the row of five buttons, three of which were regular phone lines and two of which were secure lines.

He punched the SPEAKERPHONE button on the phone base, then punched the button above the blinking light and said, “Commissioner Coughlin.”

“How’s my favorite small-town police chief?” a soft feminine voice inquired.

Coughlin’s face lit up and Payne smiled at the sound of the voice.

Coughlin then glanced beyond Payne. Across the room was his I Love Me wall, and there he saw the picture of him standing beside the diminutive Liz Justice. The photograph had been taken two years earlier, when the Philadelphia Executive Women’s League had given her their annual Benjamin Franklin Leader of the Year Award.

She was a petite thirty-five-year-old with a bright face and deeply intelligent dark eyes who wore her shoulder-length brunette hair parted on the right. In the picture she wore a navy blue woolen business suit with a double row of brass buttons down the front, navy silk stockings, black leather shoes with low heels-and a dazzling smile.

“How the hell are you, Liz?” Coughlin said, his voice also showing his pleasure.

“Plodding ahead in the never-ending war against crime, Denny.”

“Indeed. Welcome to the club.”

“I need a favor, Denny.”

“You got it.”

“I need some doors opened for a friend of mine.”

“They’re wide open, Liz. Who is he?”

“A Texas Ranger. The youngest one. Reminds me of Peter Wohl. Or maybe Matt Payne-”

Coughlin glanced at Payne, who was somewhat glowing in the praise.

“His name is Jim Byrth,” she went on. “He’s after a charming guy who likes to cut girls’ heads off. He heard the bastard’s in Philadelphia.”

“We sure as hell can do without any of that. This Byrth will be doing us a favor. When’s he coming?”

“He’ll be on the Continental flight arriving at three twenty-two.”

“He’ll be met. If he’s a friend of yours, I’ll meet him myself.”

“That would probably get the word out that the doors are open. He wants to nab this critter quietly.”

Liz Justice had been a chief inspector of the Philadelphia Police Department running Internal Affairs when the City Fathers of Houston, Texas, had decided that their troubled police department needed a new chief. One with lots of experience in internal affairs. To say that the Houston PD was having more than a little problem with corrupt cops was akin to calling the mafia a misunderstood boys’ club. “You can beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride” had become such common knowledge it may as well have been painted on the fenders of every squad car. And everything they’d tried thus far had failed to effect any significant change.

When the search of the nation’s major police departments came up with Chief Inspector Justice’s name, the only thing against her was her gender.

But the mayor had solved that in genuine Texas fashion: “Who better to break up the Old Boy Network than a lady who’s a fourth-generation cop?”

Not only did Liz still have friends on Philly’s force, she still had family. Including a cousin in South Detectives, Lieutenant Daniel “Danny the Judge” Justice, Jr. He was reputedly the smallest and without question the most delicate-looking white shirt in all of the Philadelphia Police Department.

Two weeks after the Houston mayor made the decision to hire Chief Inspector Liz Justice, she had been sworn in as the United States’ first female chief of a major city police department. The historic news put her on the cover of Time magazine.

“I do appreciate it, Denny. Please give my love to your far better half.”

He chuckled. “Will do, Liz. Take care of yourself down there in the Wild West.”

She laughed appreciatively.

He punched the SPEAKERPHONE button, breaking the connection.

Coughlin looked at the I Love Me wall again. Payne could almost see the gears turning in his mind.

And Coughlin was indeed thinking.

The reason Hollaran said that Matty overhearing that conversation would be educational was because (a) he’d had a nice talk with Liz before sending her call in here and knew what she wanted and because (b) he believed that sitting on this Texas Ranger would solve our problem of what to do with Matty.