'Ipushed her back. She fell down. Everyone laughed.'

    'DidBrendan laugh?'

    'No,'Sophie said. 'Brendan is afraid of Monica Quagliata. Everyone's afraidof Monica Quagliata.'

    'Butnot you.'

    Sophieglanced out the window. It had begun to rain. She traced her finger on the mistingglass, then looked back at her mother. 'No,' she said. 'Not me.'

    Yes,Jessica thought. My tough little girl. 'I want you to listen, okay,honey?'

    Sophiesat up straight. 'Is this going to be one of our talks?'

    Jessicaalmost laughed. She checked herself at the last second. 'Yes. I guess it is.'

    'Okay.'

    'Iwant you to remember that fighting is always the last resort, okay? If you haveto defend yourself, it's all right. Every single time. But sometimes we need totake care of people who can't take care of themselves. Do you understand what Imean?'

    Sophienodded, but looked confused. 'What about you, Mom? You used to fight all thetime.'

    Ah,crap, Jessica thought. Logic from a seven-year-old.

    AfterSophie was born, Jessica had discovered boxing as an exercise and weight-lossregimen. For some reason she took to it, even going so far as to take a fewamateur bouts before letting her great uncle Vittorio talk her into turningpro. Although those days were probably behind her - unless there was a SeniorTour for female boxers closing in on thirty-five - she had begun to visit JoeHand's Gym in anticipation of a series of exhibition bouts planned to raisemoney for the Police Athletic League.

    Noneof that training helped her at this moment, however, a moment when she wasfaced with explaining the difference between fighting and boxing.

    ThenJessica saw a shadow in her side mirror.

    Vincentwas walking up the drive, carrying a pizza from Santucci's. With his carameleyes, long lashes and muscular physique, he still made Jessica's heart flutter,at least on those days when she didn't want to kill him. Sometimes he dressedin suits and ties, cleanshaven, his dark hair swept back. Other days he was scruffy.Today was a scruffy day. Jessica was, and always had been, a pushover forscruff. She had to admit it. Detective Vincent Balzano looked pretty damnedgood for a married man.

    'Sweetie?'Jessica asked.

    'Yeah,mom?'

    'Thatthing we were talking about? About fighting versus boxing?'

    'Whatabout it?'

    Jessicareached over, patted her daughter's hand. 'Ask your father.'

    Theyhad lived in the Lexington Park section of Northeast Philadelphia for more thanfive years, just a few blocks from Roosevelt Boulevard. On a good day it wouldtake Jessica forty-five minutes to get to the Roundhouse. On a bad day - mostdays - even longer. But all that was about to change.

    Sheand Vincent had just closed on a vacant trinity in South Philly, a three-storyrow house belonging to old friends, which was how many houses in theneighborhood changed hands. Rare was the property that made it to theclassifieds.

    Theywould be living in the shadow of their new church, Sacred Heart of Jesus, whereSophie would be starting school. New friends, new teachers. Jessica wonderedwhat the effect on her little girl was going to be.

    Jessica'sfather, Peter Giovanni, one of the most decorated cops in PPD history, stilllived in the South Philadelphia house in which Jessica had grown up - at Sixthand Catharine. He was still vibrant and active, very much involved in thecommunity, but he was getting on in years, and the trip for him to see his onlygranddaughter would eventually become a burden. For this, and for so many otherreasons, they were moving back to South Philly.

    Withher daughter fast asleep, and her husband ensconced in the basement with hisbrothers, Jessica stood at the top of the narrow stairs to the attic.

    Itseemed as if her entire life was in these boxes, these cramped and angledrooms. Photographs, keepsakes, awards, birth and death certificates, diplomas.

    Shepicked up one of the boxes, a white Strawbridge's gift box with a piece ofgreen yarn around it. It was the yarn with which her mother used to tie herhair in autumn, after the summer sun had made her brunette hair turn auburn.

    Jessicaslid off the yarn, opened the box: a faux-pearl mirror compact, a small leatherchange purse, a stack of Polaroids. Jessica felt the familiar pangs of pain andgrief and loss, even though it had been more than twenty-five years since hermother had died. She slipped the yarn back around the box, put it by thestairs, gave the room one last survey.

    Shehad been a cop for a long time, had seen just about everything. There wasn'ttoo much that unnerved her.

    Thisdid.

    Theywere moving back to the city.

Chapter 5

    'Fuckin'city,' the man said. 'First my car gets booted, then I they tow it, then Ihadda go down to PPA and spend two hours standing around with a bunch of smellylowlifes. Then I hadda go down to Ninth and Filbert. Then they tell me Iowe three-hunna-ninety dollars in tickets. Three-hunna-ninety dollars.''

    The manslammed back his drink, washed it down with a mouthful of beer.

    'Fuckin'city. Fuckin' PPA. Buncha Nazis is what they are. Fuckin' racket.'

    DetectiveKevin Byrne glanced at his watch. It was 11:45 p.m. His city was coming alive.The guy next to him had come alive after his third Jim Beam. The man migratedfrom tales of woe that began with his wife (fat and loud and lazy) to his twosons (ditto on the lazy, no data on body type) to his car (a Prism not reallyworth getting out of hock) and his ongoing war with the Philadelphia ParkingAuthority. The PPA had few fans in the city. Without them, though, the citywould be chaos.

    Theywere sitting at the bar in a corner tavern in Kensington, a hole in the wallcalled The Well. The place was half-full. Kool and the Gang were on the juke;an ESPN wrap-up of the day's sports was on the television over the bar.

    Byrneslipped in the earbuds, blotting out the Parking Wars victim, looked at thescreen on his iPod, dialed down to his classic blues playlist. The jukebox inthe bar was now playing something by the Commodores, but here, inside Byrne'shead, it was 1957, and Muddy Waters was going down to Louisiana, sayingsomething about a mojo hand.

    Byrnenodded to the bartender, the bartender nodded back. Byrne had never been tothis tavern before, but the barkeep was a pro at what he did, as was Byrne.

    Byrnehad grown up in Philadelphia, was a Two-Streeter for life, had seen the city's bestdays and its worst. Well, maybe not its best. It was, after all, the placewhere the Declaration of Independence had been signed, the place where theFounding Fathers had gathered and hammered out the rules by which Americans, atleast to some small degree, still lived.

    Onthe other hand, the Phillies had won the World Series in 2008, and for aPhillies fan that trumped some faded old document any day.

    Inhis time on the job Byrne had investigated thousands of crimes, worked hundredsof homicides, had spent nearly half his life among the dead, the broken, theforgotten.

    Whatwas the Thomas de Quincy quote?

    Ifonce a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little ofrobbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath- breaking, andfrom that to incivility and procrastination.

    Byrnehad his own word for it.

    Slippage.

    ToKevin Byrne, slippage was about accepting levels of behavior that previousgenerations would have considered unthinkable, standards that had slowly becomethe norm, new lows from which the cycle could begin again, inching everdownward.