Ed tooled down sixteenth Street at a sedate pace. He enjoyed cruising as much-well, nearly as much-as he enjoyed sending the tires screaming. For a simple, relatively easygoing man, racing the streets in hot pursuit was a small vice.

Beside him, Ben sat in silence. Normally Ben would have had a few smart remarks to make about Ed's driving, which was a departmental joke. The fact that Ben said nothing about it, or the Tanya Tucker tape Ed was playing, were signs that his thoughts were elsewhere. It didn't take a mind as methodical as Ed's to figure out where.

"Got papered on the Borelli case." Ed listened to Tanya wail about lying and cheating, and was content.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, got mine too."

"Looks like a couple of days in court next month. D.A. ought to nail him pretty quick."

"He'd better. We worked our asses off to get the evidence."

Silence trickled back like thin rain. Ed hummed along with Tanya, sang a few bars of the chorus, then hummed again. "Hear about Lowenstein's kitchen? Her husband flooded it. Disposal went out again."

"That's what happens when you let an accountant go around with a wrench in his hand." Ben took the window down an inch so the smoke would trail out when he lit a cigarette.

"That's fifteen," Ed said mildly. "You ain't gonna get anywhere if you keep stewing about that press conference."

"I'm not stewing about anything. I like to smoke." As proof he drew deep, but resisted blowing the smoke in Ed's direction. "It's one of the few great pleasures of mankind."

"Right up there with getting drunk and throwing up on your own shoes."

"My shoes are clean, Jackson. I remember someone toppling like a goddamn redwood when he downed a half a gallon of vodka and carrot juice."

"I was just going to take a nap."

"Yeah, right on your face. If I hadn't caught you-and nearly given myself a hernia in the process-you'd have broken that big nose of yours. What the hell are you smiling at?"

"If you're bitching, you're not feeling sorry for yourself. You know, Ben, she handled herself real good."

"Who said she didn't?" Ben's teeth ground into the filter as he took another drag. "And who said I was thinking about her anyway?"

"Who?" less.

"I never mentioned her name." Ed gunned the engine as a light turned amber, and blinked through it as it switched to red.

"Don't play games with me, and that light was red."

"Yellow."

"It was red, you color-blind sonofabitch, and someone should take your license away. I take my life in my hands every time I get in the same car with you. I ought to have a suitcase full of commendations."

"She looked good too," Ed commented. "Great legs."

"You're in a rut." He turned the heater up as the air coming in through the crack of the window cut like a knife. "Anyway, she looked as though she could freeze a man at twenty paces."

"Clothes send out signals. Authority, indecision, composure.

Looked like she was shooting for aloof authority. Seems to me she had those reporters in hand before she opened her mouth."

"Somebody should cancel your subscription to Reader's Digest," Ben muttered. The big, old trees dotting the sides of the road were at their peak of color. Leaves were soft to the touch and vibrant in reds, yellows, and oranges. In another week they would be dry, littering the sidewalks and gutters, making scratching, empty sounds as they trailed along the asphalt. Ben pushed the cigarette through the crack, then closed it tight.

"Okay, so she handled herself. Problem is, the press is going to have this meat to chew over for days. Media has a way of bringing out the loonies." He looked at the old sedate buildings behind the old sedate trees. They were the kind of buildings she belonged in. The kind he was used to seeing from the outside. "And damn it, she does have great legs."

"Smart too. A man sure can admire a woman's mind."

"What do you know about a woman's mind? The last one you dated had the IQ of a soft-boiled egg. And what is this crap we're listening to?"

Ed smiled, pleased to have his partner back on track. "Tanya Tucker."

"Jesus." Ben slid down in the seat and closed his eyes.

You seem to feel much better today, Mrs. Halderman."

"Oh, I do. I really do." The dark, pretty woman didn't lie on the couch or sit in a chair, but almost danced around Tess's office. She tossed a sable coat over the arm of a chair and posed. "What do you think of my new dress?"

"It's very becoming."

"It is, isn't it?" Mrs. Halderman ran a hand over the thin, silk-lined wool. "Red is so eye-catching. I do love to be noticed."

"You've been shopping again, Mrs. Halderman?"

"Yes." She beamed, then her pretty, china doll face drew into a pout. "Oh, don't be annoyed, Dr. Court. I know you said maybe I should stay away from the stores for a little while. And I did really. I hadn't been to Neiman's for almost a week."

"I'm not annoyed, Mrs. Halderman," she said, and watched the pout transform into another beaming smile. "You have wonderful taste in clothes." Which was fortunate, as Ellen Halderman was obsessive. She saw, she liked, she bought, often tossing it aside and forgetting it after one wearing. But that was a small problem. Mrs. Halderman also had the same routine with men.

"Thank you, Doctor." Like a little girl, she twirled in a circle to show off the flare of the skirt. "I did have the most marvelous time shopping. And you'd have been proud of me. I only bought two outfits. Well, three," she amended with a giggle. "But lingerie shouldn't count, should it? Then I went down to have some coffee. You know that marvelous restaurant in the Mazza Gallerie where you can look up at all the people and the shops?"

"Yes." Tess was sitting on the corner of her desk. Mrs. Halderman looked at her, caught her bottom lip between her teeth, not in shame or anxiety, but in suppressed delight. Then she walked to a chair and sat primly.

"I was having coffee. I'd thought about having a roll, but if I didn't watch my figure, clothes wouldn't be so much fun. A man was sitting at the table beside mine. Oh, Dr. Court, I knew as soon as I saw him. Why, my heart just started to pound." She put a hand to it, as though even now its rhythm couldn't be trusted. "He was so handsome. Just a little gray right here." She touched her forefingers to her temples as her eyes took on the soft, dreamy light Tess had seen too often to count. "He was tanned, as though he'd been skiing. Saint Moritz, I thought, because it's really too early for Vermont. He had a leather briefcase with his little initials monogrammed. I kept trying to guess what they stood for. M.W." She sighed over them, and Tess knew she was already changing the monogram on her bath towels. "I can't tell you how many names I'd conjured up to fit those initials."

"What did they stand for?"

"Maxwell Witherspoon. Isn't that a wonderful name?"

"Very distinguished."

"Why, that's just what I told him."

"So, you spoke with him."

"Well, my purse slid off the table." She put her fingers to her lips as if to hide a grin. "A girl's got to have a trick or two if she wants to meet the right man."

"You knocked your purse off the table."

"It landed right by his foot. It was my pretty black-and-white snakeskin. Maxwell leaned over to pick it up. As he handed it to me, he smiled. My heart just about stopped. It was like a dream. I didn't hear the clatter of the other tables, I didn't see the shoppers on the floors above us. Our fingers touched, and-oh, promise you won't laugh, Doctor."

"Of course I won't."

"It was as if he'd touched my soul."

That's what she'd been afraid of. Tess moved away from the desk to sit in the chair opposite her patient. "Mrs. Halderman, do you remember Asanti?"

"Him?" With a sniff Mrs. Halderman dismissed her fourth husband.

"When you met him at the art gallery, under his painting of Venice, you thought he touched your soul."

"That was different. Asanti was Italian. You know how clever Italian men are with women. Maxwell's from Boston."

Tess fought back a sigh. It was going to be a very long fifty minutes.

When ben entered tess's outer office, he found exactly what he'd expected. It was as cool and classy as her apartment. Calming colors, deep roses, smoky grays that would put her patients at ease. The potted ferns by the windows had moist leaves, as though they'd just been spritzed with water. Fresh flowers and a collection of figurines in a display cabinet lent the air of a parlor rather than a reception room. From the copy of Vogue left open on a low coffee table, he gathered her current patient was a woman.

It didn't remind him of another doctor's office, one with white walls and the scent of leather. He didn't feel the hitch in his gut or the sweat on the back of his neck as the door closed behind him. He wouldn't be waiting for his brother here, because Josh was gone.

Tess's secretary sat at a neat enameled desk, working with a single-station computer. She stopped typing as Ben and Ed entered, and looked as calm and easy as the room. "Can I help you?"

"Detectives Paris and Jackson."

"Oh, yes. Dr. Court's expecting you. She's with a patient at the moment. If you won't mind waiting, I could get you some coffee."

"Just hot water." Ed drew a tea bag out of his pocket.

The secretary didn't show even a flicker of reaction. "Of course."

"You're a constant embarrassment to me," Ben muttered as she slipped into a small side room.

"I'm not pumping caffeine into my system just to be socially acceptable." With his bag of herbs dangling from his hand, he looked around the room. "How about this place? Classy."

"Yeah." Ben took another look around. "Fits her."

"I don't know why that gives you such a problem," Ed said mildly as he studied a Monet print, sunrise on the water, all softly blurred colors with a touch of fire. He liked it as he liked most art, because someone had had the imagination and skill to create it. His views on the human race were pretty much the same. "A good-looking, classy woman with a sharp mind shouldn't intimidate a man who has a strong sense of his own worth."

"Christ, you should be writing a column."

Just then the door to Tess's office opened. Mrs. Halderman came out, her sable tossed over one arm. Seeing the men, she stopped, smiled, then touched her tongue to her top lip the way a young girl might when she spotted a bowl of chocolate ice cream. "Hello."

Ben hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Hello."

"Are you waiting to see Dr. Court?"

"That's right."

She stayed where she was a moment, then let her eyes widen as she studied Ed. "My, my, you're a big one, aren't you?"

Ed swallowed a small obstruction in his throat. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm just fascinated by... big men." She crossed to him, letting her eyes sweep up and flutter. "They always make me feel so helpless and feminine. Just how tall are you, Mister...?"

Grinning, with his thumbs still hooked in his pockets, Ben walked to Tess's door and left Ed to sink or swim.

She was sitting behind her desk, head back, eyes closed. Her hair was up again, but she didn't look unapproachable. Tired, he thought, and not just physically. As he watched, she lifted a hand to her temple and pressed at the beginnings of a headache.

"Looks like you could use an aspirin, Doc."

She opened her eyes. Her head came up again, as though she didn't find it acceptable to rest except in private. Though she was small, the desk didn't dwarf her. She looked completely suited to it, and to the black-framed degree at her back.

"I don't like to take pills."

"Just prescribe them?"

Her back angled a little straighten "You weren't waiting long, were you? I need my briefcase."

As she started to rise, he walked over to the desk. "We've got a few minutes. Rough day?"

"A little. You?"

"Hardly shot anybody at all." He picked up a chunk of amethyst from her desk and passed it from hand to hand. "I meant to tell you, you did good this morning."

She picked up a pencil, ran it through her fingers, then set it down again. Apparently the next confrontation would be postponed. "Thanks. So did you."

He hitched himself on the corner of her desk, discovering he could relax in her office, psychiatrist or not. There were no ghosts here, no regrets. "How do you feel about Saturday matinees?"

"Open minded."

He had to grin. "Figured you would be. They're playing a couple of classic Vincent Price films."

"House of Wax?"

"And The Fly. Interested?"

"I might be." Now she did rise. The headache was only a dull, easily ignored throb in one temple. "If it included popcorn."

"It even includes pizza after."

"I'm sold."

"Tess." He put a hand on her arm, though he still found the trim gray suit she wore intimidating. "About last night..."

"I thought we both already apologized for that."

"Yeah." She didn't look weary or vulnerable now, but in control. Untouched, untouchable. He backed off, still holding the chunk of amethyst in his hand. It matched her eyes. "Ever make love in here?"

Tess lifted a brow. She knew he wanted to shock, or at the very least, annoy her. "Privileged information." She plucked her briefcase up from beside her desk and headed for the door. "Coming?"

He had an urge to slip the amethyst in his pocket. Annoyed, he set it down carefully and followed her out.

Ed stood beside the secretary's desk, sipping tea. His face was nearly as red as his hair.

"Mrs. Halderman," she said to Tess, sending Ed a sympathetic look. "I managed to nudge her along before she devoured him."

"I'm terribly sorry, Ed." But Tess's eyes glistened. "Would you like to sit down a minute?"

"No." He sent his partner a warning look. "One word, Paris."

"Not me." All innocence, Ben walked to the door and held it open. As Ed walked by, Ben fell into step beside him. "You are a big one, though, aren't you?" Keep it up.

Monsignor timothy logan DIDN'T look like Ben's childhood conception of a priest. Instead of a cassock, he wore a tweed jacket over a pale yellow turt;eneck. He had the big, broad face of an Irishman, and dark red hair just beginning to go wiry with gray. His office wasn't like the hushed quiet of a rectory with its somehow sanctified fragrances and old dark woods. Instead it smelled of pipe tobacco and dust, like the den of an ordinary man.

There were no pictures of the saints or the Savior on the walls, no ceramic statues of the Virgin with her sad, understanding face. There were books, dozens and dozens of them, some on theology, some on psychiatry, and several more on fishing. Instead of a crucifix there was a mounted silver bass.

On a stand rested an old bible with a carved cover; a newer, though more well-used one was open on the desk. A rosary with fat wooden beads lay beside it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Monsignor Logan." Tess held out her hand in a colleague-to-colleague manner that made Ben uncomfortable. The man was a priest, tweed or not, and priests were to be revered, even feared a little, and respected. God's proxies, he remembered his mother saying. They handled the sacraments, forgave sins, and absolved the dying.

One had come to Josh after he was already dead. There had been words of comfort, sympathy, and kindness for the family, but no absolution. Suicide. The most mortal of the mortal sins.

"And you, Dr. Court." Logan had a clear, booming voice that could easily have filled a cathedral. Yet there was an edge to it, a toughness that made Ben think of an umpire calling strike three. "I attended the lecture you gave on dementia. I wasn't able to speak to you afterward and tell you I thought you were brilliant."

"Thank you. Monsignor, Detective Paris and Jackson-they're heading the investigation team."

"Detectives."

Ben accepted the handshake and felt foolish for expecting, even for an instant, something more than flesh and blood.

"Please be comfortable." He gestured to chairs. "I have your profile and report on my desk, Dr. Court." He swung around it with the free, easy strides of a man on a golf course. "I read them this morning, and found them both disturbing and intuitive." You agree:

"Yes, with the information from the investigators report, I would have drawn up a reflecting profile. The religious aspects are undeniable. Of course, religious allusions and delusions are common in schizophrenia."

"Joan of Arc heard voices," Ben murmured.

Logan smiled and folded his broad, capable hands. "As did any number of the saints and martyrs. Some might say fasting for forty days might have anyone hearing voices. Others might say they were chosen. In this case we can all agree we're not dealing with a saint, but a very disturbed mind."

"No argument there," Ed murmured, his notebook in hand. He remembered feeling a little... well, spiritual, after a three-day fast.

"As a doctor, and a priest, I look on the act of murder as a sin against God, and as an act of extreme mental aberration. However, we have to deal with the mental aberration first in order to prevent the sin from being committed again."

Logan opened Tess's file and tapped his finger on it. "It would appear that the religious aspects, and delusions, are rooted in Catholicism. I have to concur with your opinion that the use of the amice as a murder weapon could be construed as a strike against the Church, or devotion to it."

Tess leaned forward. "Do you think he might be a priest, or have been one? Perhaps wanted to be one?"

"I believe it's more than possible he had training." The frown came slowly, and seemed to lodge between his eyes. "There are other articles of a priest's habit that would be as effective for strangulation. The amice is neckware, and therefore, grimly accurate."

"And the use of white?"

"Symbolizing absolution, salvation." Unconsciously he spread his hands, palms facing, in the age-old gesture.

Tess nodded agreement. "Absolving a sin. Against himself?"

"Perhaps. But a sin that may have resulted in the death or spiritual loss of the woman he continues to save."

"He's putting himself in the role of Christ? As Savior?" Ben demanded. "And casting the first stone?"

Because he was a man who took his time, watched his footing, Logan leaned back and rubbed his earlobe. "He doesn't perceive himself as Christ, at least not yet. He's a laborer of God in his mind, Detective, and one who knows himself to be mortal. He takes precautions, protects himself. He would realize that society would not accept his mission, but he follows a higher authority."

"Voices again." Ben lit a cigarette.

"Voices, visions. To a schizophrenic they are as real, often more so, than the real world. This is not split personality, Detective, but a disease, a biological dysfunction. It's possible that he's had the illness for years."

"The murders started in August," Ben pointed out. "We've checked with homicide divisions all over the country. There haven't been any murders with this M.O. It started here."

Detailed police work interested Logan but didn't sway him. "Perhaps he was in a period of recovery and some kind of stress brought the symptoms back, resulting in violence. At the moment he's torn between what is and what seems to be. He agonizes, and he prays."

"And he kills," Ben said flatly.

"I don't expect compassion." Logan, with his dark, priest's eyes and capable hands, spoke quietly. "That's my territory, and Dr. Court's, and can't be yours with your dealings in this case. None of us wants to see him kill again, Detective Paris."

"You don't think he has a Christ delusion," Ed interrupted as he continued to make methodical notes. "Is that just because he takes precautions? Christ was destroyed physically."

"An excellent point." The clear voice took on a richness. There was nothing he liked better than to have one of his students question his theories. Logan looked from one detective to the other and decided they made a good pair. "Still, I don't see him as perceiving himself as anything but a tool. Religion, the structure, the barriers, the traditions of it, loom more predominantly than theology. He kills as a priest, whether he is one or not. He absolves and forgives as God's proxy," he continued, and saw Ben wince. "Not as the Son of God. I developed an interesting theory you missed, Dr. Court."

She came to attention instantly. "Oh?"

He smiled again, recognizing professional pride. "Understandable enough. You're not Catholic, are you?"

"No."

"The investigation team overlooked it as well."

"I'm Methodist," Ed put in, still writing.

"I'm not trying for a conversion." Taking up his pipe, he began to fill it. His fingers were blunt and wide, with the nails neatly trimmed. A few flakes of tobacco fell on and clung to his yellow turtleneck. "The date of the first murder, August fifteenth, is a Church holy day."

"The Assumption," Ben murmured before he realized it.

"Yes." Logan continued to fill his pipe and smiled. Ben was reminded of answering correctly in catechism.

"I used to be Catholic."

"A common problem," Logan said, and lit his pipe.

No lecture, no pontifical frown. Ben felt his shoulders relaxing. His mind started ticking. "I didn't put the dates together. You think it's significant?"

Meticulously, Logan removed tobacco from his sweater. "It could be."

"I'm sorry, Monsignor." Tess lifted her hands. "You'll have to explain."

"August fifteenth is the day the Church recognizes the Virgin's assumption into heaven. The Mother of God was a mortal, but she carried the Savior in her womb. We revere her as the most blessed and pure among women."

"Pure," Tess murmured.

"Of itself, I might not have paid too much attention to the date," Logan continued. "However, it jogged my imagination enough to check the Church calendar. The second murder occurred on the day we celebrate Mary's birth."

"He's picking the days she's-excuse me-Mary's honored by the Church?" Ed stopped writing long enough to look up for an acknowledgment.

"The third murder falls on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary. I've added a Church calendar to your file, Dr. Court. I don't think the odds for three out of three rate a coincidence."

"No, I agree." Tess rose, anxious to see for herself. She picked up the calender and studied the dates Logan had circled. Dusk was falling. Logan switched on the light and the beam shot over the paper in her hands.

"The next one you have here isn't until December eighth."

"The Immaculate Conception." Logan puffed on his pipe.

"That would put eight weeks between the murders," Ed calculated. "He's never gone more than four."

"And we can't be sure he's emotionally capable of waiting that long," Tess added in a murmur. "He could change his pattern. Some incident could set him off. He might pick a date personally important to him."

"The date of birth or death of someone important to him." Ben lit another cigarette.

"A female figure." Tess folded the calendar. "The female figure."

"I agree that the stress he's under is building." Logan put his pipe down and leaned forward. "The need for release could be enough to make him strike sooner."

"He's probably dealing with some sort of physical pain." Tess slipped the calendar into her briefcase. "Headache, nausea. If it becomes too great for him to carry on his normal life..."

"Exactly." Logan folded his hands again. "I wish I could be more helpful. I would like to discuss this with you again, Dr. Court."

"In the meantime, we have a pattern." Ben crushed out his cigarette as he rose. "We concentrate on December eighth."

"It's only a crumb," Ben said as they stepped out into a chilled dusk. "But I'm ready to take it."

"I didn't realize you were Catholic." Tess buttoned her coat against the wind that was whipping up. "Maybe that'll be an advantage."

"Used to be Catholic. And speaking of crumbs, are you hungry?"

"Starved."

"Good." He slipped an arm around her. "Then we can outvote Ed. You're not in the mood for yogurt and alfalfa sprouts, are you?"

"Ah..."

"Ben'll want to stop and get a greasy hamburger. What the man puts in his system is revolting."

"How about Chinese?" It was the best compromise she could come up with as she slipped into the car. "There's a great little place around the corner from my office."

"Told you she was classy," Ed said as he took the driver's seat. He fastened his safety belt and waited with the patience of the wise and determined for Ben to follow suit. "The Chinese have the proper respect for the digestive system."

"Sure, they keep it stuffed with rice." Ben glanced over his shoulder and saw Tess already spread out on the backseat, her file open. "Come on, Doc, take a break."

"I just want to check over a couple of things."

"Ever treated a workaholic?"

She glanced over the file, then back again. "I may decide I have a craving for yogurt after all."

"Not Tanya Tucker!" Ben pushed the reject button before the first bar of the song was out. "You had her this afternoon."

"I wish."

"Degenerate. I'm putting on some-ah, shit, look at that. The liquor store."

Ed slowed down. "Looks like a five-oh-nine in progress."

"A what?" Tess straightened up in the back and tried to see.

"Robbery in progress." Ben was already unhooking his belt. "Go back to work."

"A robbery? Where?"

"Where's a black and white?" Ben muttered as he reached for the radio. "Dammit, all I want's some sweet and sour pork."

"Pork's poison." Ed unlatched his own belt.

Ben. snapped into the radio. "Unit six-oh. We have a five-oh-nine in progress on Third and Douglas. Any available units. We have a civilian in the car. Ah, damn, he's coming out. Requesting backup. Perpetrators heading south. White male, five-ten, a hundred eighty. Black jacket, jeans." The radio squawked back at him. "Yeah, we're on him."

Ed revved the engine and rounded the corner. From the backseat, Tess stared, fascinated.

She saw the husky man in the black jacket come out of the liquor store and head up the street at a jog. The minute he turned his head and saw the Mustang, he broke into a run.

"Shit, he made us." Ben pulled out the Kojak light. "Just sit tight, Doc."

"Making for the alley," Ed said mildly. He brought the car to a halt, fishtailing it. Before Tess could open her mouth, both men were out of opposite sides and running.

"Stay in the car!" Ben shouted at her.

She listened to him for about ten seconds. Slamming the door behind her, she raced to the mouth of the alley herself.

Ed was bigger, but Ben was faster. As she watched, the man they were chasing reached into his jacket. She saw the gun and only had an instant to freeze before Ben caught him at the knees and sent him sprawling into a line of garbage cans. There was a shot over the clatter of metal. She was halfway down the alley when Ben dragged the man to his feet. There was blood, and the scent of rotting food from the metal cans which were emptied regularly but rarely cleaned. The man didn't struggle, probably because he saw Ed and the police issue in his hand. He spat a stream of blood tinged saliva.

It wasn't like television, Tess thought as she looked at the man who would have shot Ben in the face if the timing had been a little different. Nor was it like a novel. It wasn't even like the eleven o'clock news, where all the details were neatly tied up and delivered with rapid-fire detachment. Life was full of smelly alleys and spittle. Her training and work had taken her there before, but only emotionally.

She took a deep breath, relieved that she wasn't frightened, only curious. And maybe a little fascinated.

With two snaps Ben had the robber's hands cuffed behind his back. "Haven't you got more brains than to shoot at a police officer?"

"Got grease on your pants," Ed pointed out as he secured his gun.

Ben looked down and saw the long skid mark running from ankle to knee. "Goddammit. I'm with Homicide, jerk," he announced in his prisoner's face. "I don't like getting grease on my pants. In fact, getting grease on my pants really pisses me off." Disgusted, Ben passed him to Ed as he brought out his badge. "You're under arrest, sucker. You have the right to remain silent. You have-Tess, dammit, didn't I tell you to stay in the car?"

"He had a gun."

"The bad guys always have guns." As he looked at her, wrapped in a powder-blue cashmere coat, he could smell the sweat from the petty thief. She looked as though she were on her way to have cocktails on Embassy Row. "Go back to the car, you don't belong here."

Ignoring him, she studied the thief. He had a good-sized scrape on his forehead where he'd connected with concrete. That explained the slightly glazed expression. Minor concussion. His skin and the whites of his eyes had a yellow tinge. There was sweat on his face, though the wind cutting through the alley billowed his jacket. "Looks like he might have hepatitis."

"He'll have plenty of time to recover." He heard the sirens and looked over her shoulder. "Here comes the cavalry. We'll let the uniforms read him his rights."

When Ben took her arm, Tess shook her head. "You were running after him, and he had a gun."

"So did I," Ben pointed out as he pulled her back up the alley. He flashed his badge at the uniforms before continuing on to the car.

"You didn't have it out. He was going to shoot you."

"That's what's the bad guys do. They do the crime, we go after them, and they try to get away."

"Don't act like it was a game."

"It's all a game."

"He was going to kill you, and you were mad because you got your pants dirty."

Reminded, Ben glanced down again. "Department's going to get the bill too. Grease never comes out." You re crazy.

"Is that a professional opinion?"

There had to be a good reason why she wanted to laugh. Tess decided to analyze it later. "I'm working one up."

"Take your time." The adrenaline from the collar was still pumping Ben up. As he reached the car, he saw they had a three-unit backup for one two-bit hood with hepatitis. Maybe they were all crazy. "Come on, sit down in here while I fill in the uniforms."

"Your mouth is bleeding."

"Yeah?" He wiped the back of his hand over it and looked at the smear. "Yeah. Maybe I need a doctor."

She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at the cut. "Maybe you do."

Behind them the man they had arrested began to swear, and a crowd had gathered.