"Mike, wait," Faith said, desperately , holding her tears back as she took hold of his arm.
  "Let-Let me call you a cab. Please."

  He brushed her, roughly, tears in his eyes. "No, I'm out of here."

  "Logan, you're in no condition to drive," Kelson finally said, clearing his throat.

  Mike turned around, rage apparant in his voice. "Screw you, Ransome."

  Kelson stepped forward but Faith stopped him, sighing. "Mike, please," she whispered, putting
  her arms around him in an effort to comfort him. "Let me call you a cab. You can go home and
  sleep it off and we can talk tomorrow, ok? Please?"

  "I don't matter anymore," Mike whispered, looking up into her face. "I don't matter to anyone."

  Faith bit her lip, a tear slipping down her cheek. "You know you matter to me, Mike. You know
  I love you. I care about you, Mike. I don't want you to get hurt tonight. Let me call you a cab,
  okay? Please?"

  Mike ran a hand over his face and stood up, abruptly. "I walked anyway," he replied, stonily,
  pushing her comforting arms away from him, his heart aching as he headed for the door.

  "Mike-" Faith protested but Kelson took her arm, stopping her.

  "Let him go, sugar," he said, putting his arms around his waist. "He needs to be alone right
  now. He's got way to much going on in his mind right now."

  Faith shook her head, pulling away to run to the window. Mike hadn't made it very far and was
  now relieving himself on one of the lampposts. "He's going to get lost or something, Kelly. You
  have to call someone to get him. He'll never make it home," She gazed up at him, hopefully.
  "Please?"

  Kelson groaned, rubbing his chin, the warm anticipation beginning to fade away. "All right, all
  right..." he sighed, knowing full well he couldn't say no to those eyes. "I think I've got Don
  Cragen's number in my organizer. I'll call him, okay?"
  **
 

  She had a headache. The din of the dinner crowd only served to worsen the pain. As she
  manned the register, Lilly sat perched on the well worn vinyl stool.

  As she made change or opened the register, she always counted out too much. *They won't
  miss this*, she thought. Always with a few bucks left over, the remainder was carefully slipped
  into her rear pocket. Not that she really needed it, but the satisfaction of getting away with it
  was almost as much of a high as her days with heroin.

  Needing a cigarette bad, Lilly's mind wandered to Mike's visit. He was such an arrogant jerk.
  At night, when she actually stayed home, she could hear Mike and Cassi having a very rousing
  session in her bedroom. Lilly would lie awake, listening and dreaming that it was her saying
  "Oh, Mike, Mike! Oh my--- Mike!" Lilly would then collapse in her bed just as exhausted as her
  mother, or whatever Cassi called herself.

  Around closing time, Lilly began to get nervous... It was time for him to call. He said he would,
  but then he hasn't shown any interest in her lately, not since he asked for that little favor.
  Making sure no one was in sight, she dialed the number and waited. Soon his voice answered.

  Smiling widely and feeling very swept up in his voice, she giggled, "Hi? It's me, Lilly. Your baby
  needs to see you soon. Please? Oh baby, don't say that. I need you!" After listening a few
  minutes, she hung up witout another word.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and not lose it, here. He would be dealt with like all the
  other godforsaken bastards--one piece at a time.
  Grinning, she thought of the pearl-handled knife waiting in the case at home.
 

  8:49 AM Thursday, January 27: "You drive," Ted Parker told his son Kevin. The two would
  confer with Duncan Porteous at 9:30 and go over their future testimony against Lennie Briscoe.
  Ted was unhappy about turning against his old friend but much more fearful about going to
  prison. He knew that inmates treated busted cops and child killers with the same harshness.

  Across the street, scores of children played in the yard of Whitestone Elementary School.
  They were carefree and energetic. Their breaths billowed vigorously in the 15-degree air. The
  freshly-fallen snow was too powdery to ball well, but it was fine to make angels in, as many of
  the kids had done.

  "Wish I were little again," said Kevin.

  "That's not a good attitude," Ted snapped.

  "Better than wishing for death."

  "Just shut up and...oh, no." Ted noticed that his car--a '94 Crown Vic--was sagging on its
  springs. "Not the suspension again. Never mind, nothing we can do about it now."

  The two climbed in. Ted thought that maybe he should break the deal with Porteous. Lennie
  was a good man, too good to--

  His brain was blown to atoms before it could register the detonation. The car and all its
  contents were disintegrated. The Parker house and the two adjacent ones were levelled.
  Whitestone Elementary lost its chimney and all of the glass facing the explosion site.

  Twenty-six children ranging in age from 5 to 14 were dead by the time emergency crews
  arrived.
 

  At noon, CNN reported that the death toll had reached 40. The three flattened houses had a
  total of at least five bodies and a trapped survivor--Amanda Enjo, age nine. The world seemed
  to focus on the effort to free her until 12:40 when she was pulled out bloody and
  semiconscious. By 1:00 her grandmother had been found and put in a body bag.

  Judge Sullivan began his news conference at 1:15. He gently introduced himself, wished
  speedy recoveries for the casualties, and expressed his condolences to the families and
  relatives of the victims.

  Then his eyes took on an angry gleam, although his voice remained calm and precise.
  He spoke briskly: "It has come to my attention that the bomb in the Parker car was planted by
  members of the 27th Precinct whose identities cannot be made public at this time. Their motive
  remains unclear but a very reasonable guess is that they wanted to free their comrade
  Detective Briscoe by preventing Ted and Kevin Parker from testifying against him."

  The Judge continued more loudly: "Be assured that my office will conduct a full-scale
  investigation of this atrocity. It is an outrage that our children have been so horribly
  slaughtered--quite possibly by members of the New York City Police Department who are
  sworn to safeguard them!"

Someone was knocking on the door. Groaning, Logan turned over in bed. He frowned. This
  wasn't his bed. What the?

  "Sorry, for waking you," Donnie said as he came into the room. "But there's stuff going on you
  need to know about."

  Mike sighed. He was at Donnie's. Last night hadn't been a dream. He looked at the clock on
  the nightstand as Donnie turned on the TV, sitting on top of the dresser. It was 10:00AM. He
  had been asleep, maybe, four hours.

  The news was showing a shot of Whiteside Elementary School that was an area of massive
  chaos. The reporter was talking about the bomb that had gone off in a nearby parked car.

  Mike crossed himself, as tears stung his eyes. All those babies. "What the hell is going on,
  Donnie? This is New York, not Dublin."

   "This makes absolutely no sense," Paul Robinette said. He was in the D.A's office with Adam
  Schiff, Jack McCoy and Ben Stone. "Porteous has such a flimsy case, any sensible judge
  would toss it at once, Parkers or no Parkers. And Rivera's good as they come. Lehrman and
  Porteous should be talking with him right now."

  Paul's beeper sounded. "Excuse me...May I?" He pointed to the telephone on Adam's desk.
  Adam nodded, and Paul entered the number.

  "Frank? What's the...yes...good, thank you. Take care."

  To the others, Paul said, "Rivera dismissed the case. Lennie's free."
 

  Caitlin Falconetti jerked out of a sleep where a smirking Alex Krycek stepped over Mike
  bleeding at his feet,
  held a gun to her head, then turned away and pressed a small, red button that sent an
  explosion rocketing
  through an elementary school. The screaming echoed through the dream and faded into her
  own harsh
  sobs for breath. The fear clung to her, dragging its icy hands down her back, gripping the pit of
  her
  stomach.

  Beside her, Tick stirred, his arm wrapped warmly around her waist. “Precious?” he murmured,
  his drawl
  thickened by sleep. “What’s wrong?”

  Shaking her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, Caitlin pulled away, sliding to sit on the edge
  of the bed.
  The mattress dipped as Tick sat up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her
  agains this bare
  chest. “Krycek again?” he whispered, and Caitlin nodded, resting her damp cheek against his
  forearm.

  She heaved a shuddering sigh. “It was different,” she said in a raw voice. “It wasn’t just . . .
  there was
  more. There was the school, and he did it-”

  Her voice choked off, and Tick merely held her tighter, realizing how seeing the footage of so
  many slain
  children would have tortured her. Unable to have a child, Caitlin was incredibly sensitive to the
  idea of any
  parent losing a child. “Sshhh, it’s all right,” he whispered into her dark hair, smoothing his hands
  down her
  arms. “It’s all right.”

  They both knew it wasn’t. Sullivan’s force was escalating, and the repercussions were rising
  along with it.
  Faith Morrison had related the story of Mike’s drunken visit to her home, and although she had
  said
  nothing, Tick knew it bothered Caitlin. Everything was far from all right, and they both knew it.

  Drawing her down beside him on the bed, Tick pillowed her head on his shoulder, smoothing
  her hair with a
  large, callused hand. “Once upon a time,” he began in the soothing voice he used with his niece
  when she
  cried, “there was a prince-”

  “A real prince?” Caitlin murmured, letting the calming warmth of his touch and voice seep into
  her.

  “Yeah, a real prince of a guy,” Tick chuckled, hand still moving over her hair. “And there was a
  princess,
  too, a beautiful, intelligent, sexy princess with emerald eyes and midnight hair-”

  Caitlin laughed softly at his cliched description. “And I suppose he rescued her?”

  “No,” Tick sighed into her hair, thinking of his life before her. “She rescued him.”

At Force Plodder’s W. 46th Street offices, tempers were wearing thin, and Tick Calvert’s
  normally calm,unruffled exterior was fraying at the edges under Mike Logan’s constand
  onslaught of digs. Logan had started in that morning because Calvert was five minutes late for
  the Plodder’s debriefing. “Hot night, Calvert?”

  Tick had only glanced at Mike and shook his head, aware of the undercurrent in Mike’s tone,
  but ignoring it. Logan, however, was angry over what he’d seen in the bar two nights before
  and didn’t know when to quit.

  Finally, around lunch time, Tick’s patience broke.

  “What’s your real beef with me, Logan?” Tick demanded, leaning back in his chair, pulling his
  tie loose with one hand. He’d had enough of Logan’s thinly veiled barbs. He thought he knew
  what the problem was, but he wanted it out in the open. And while he was making a wish list,
  he wanted Logan gone, out of their lives. The glare Mike shot him could have frozen the fires
  of hell, but Tick pushed on. “It’s Cait.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Mike returned coldly.

  Tick shook his head, irritation crawling under his skin, aware he was itching for a fight. “You’re
  pissed off because she got on with her life,” he shot back. “What did you expect? That she
  was gonna wait for you to get your head together and remember she was there?”

  Mike’s eyes narrowed as the barb found its mark. Part of him had expected her to wait, had
  expected her to always be there, despite his own behavior. The silent admission and the grim
  pity in Calvert’s eyes made him furious. He took a deep breath, and when he poke, his voice
  was oddly calm, coldly enraged. “So were you fucking her while she was down here before?
  When you found Chloe?”

  “You son of a bitch!” Fury twisted Tick’s features, and Mike didn’t have time to tense before
  the younger man was out of his chair, over his desk, and pinning Mike against the wall with a
  punishing grip. “I think you’ve forgotten who you’re talking about,” Tick gritted, face close to
  Logan’s, eyes burning with an angry loathing. “This isn’t just your ex-wife, Logan. This is Cait.”
  He let go of Mike’s jacket with a muttered
  oath. “Shit. I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”

  Mike tugged a hand through his hair, glancing away, ashamed. He knew better than that. He
  knew Caitlin better than that. Remembering how desperately she’d tried to hold their marriage
  together, he sighed roughly. She wouldn’t have cheated on him then, no matter how bad things
  had gotten between them. And, he had to admit grudgingly, Tick Calvert wasn’t the type of
  man who’d sleep with another man’s wife,
  either. He looked up at Calvert, whose eyes were burning with a justified outrage, turned on his
  heel and walked out.
 

  Mike went outside into the bitter air and waited for the traffic to thin. He would have coffee at
  Bianchi's and think...

  A familiar figure caught his eye. *Lilly?* He couldn't see her face, but the hair and clothes
  looked right. She entered the building which housed the office under surveillance.

  Mike's first impulse was to run across the street and follow her in. But he quickly changed his
  mind. The Force Plodder members suspected that the Judge's 'shadows' had security
  cameras on their floor.

  Mike hurried back to the Plodder group and said, "Quick, play back the last minute or so from
  ground level!"

  The ground unit, hidden in a van, showed the girl's face quite distinctly as she approached the
  entrance.

  Mike jabbed a finger at the screen and said, "That's Lilly. Cassi O'Connor's daughter. What's
  she doing here?"

  Tick said, "We've got action."

  The office view showed Lilly talking briskly to someone who was not visible. She became
  increasingly agitated and furious. A large male figure appeared and blocked the view of her.
  When he left Lilly was gone.

  Plodder contacted LaMotte, who was eyeing the rear, and told him to watch for a pretty
  blonde girl in her late teens.

  Two long minutes went by. Then Lilly stormed out the front doors. Mike wasn't sure, but she
  appeared to be weeping.
 

  Tick was staring at the screen, a frown drawing his brows together. "Wait a minute. Back that
  up."

  Mike glanced at him and punched the rewind button on the recorder. Tick concentrated on the
  blurry images in front of him, and finally a slight grin tugged at his mouth. "I'll be damned."
  Spinning away, he picked up his cell phone from the table where he'd thrown it down
  carelessly earlier. Eyeing the screen again, he punched in a number and listened. "Hey," he
  told whoever was on the other end, "I need a favor. That box of files and junk by the door?
  Yeah, that's the one. I need it. Yeah, at 46th St. Thanks." Clicking off the phone, he dropped it
  again and grinned at Ransome. "I think we might have a break."
  **

  Twenty minutes later, Caitlin Falconetti strolled through the door, a cardboard storage box
  balanced under one arm. Tick jumped to his feet to take it from her, unaware Mike had also
  risen. "Thanks," he murmured, bending to brush a brief kiss over her mouth.

  Caitlin stepped away as Tick began to rummage through the box, tucking her hands into the
  pockets of the faded jeans she wore with a thick, ivory turtleneck sweater. "What are you
  looking for?" she asked curiously.

  "This," Tick said, satisfaction coloring his voice as he held up a thick folder and a videotape. He
  opened the file, speading its contents on the table. "This is what we've gathered on Joseph
  Tyrone's pornography and prostitution activities." He glanced up at the Plodder and shrugged.
  "We are ninety-nine percent sure he's using underage girls, but-"

  "You need a hundred percent," the Plodder finished for him.

  Tick nodded. "Yeah, but . . ." He pulled out the photo he was looking for and laid it on top of
  the others. "Look what we have here."

  The photo, of a young girl lying on a rumpled bed and wearing not much more than her naughty
  smile, was of Lilly O'Connor.
 

  Lilly headed to Bryant Park, unaware that two men were following in a plain Ford cruiser. The
  passenger was Major Schurz and the driver was Lorne "Lorry" Reynolds, an old Marine buddy
  who was now a 12th Precinct vice squad sergeant and a new member of Force Plodder.

  Schurz used his telephoto unit and a compact digital camera to record Lilly's meeting with a
  known drug dealer nicknamed Firenza. As before, Lilly argued frantically. Reynolds reported
  their sighting to Plodder headquarters.

  "Lorry, get your guys ready to run them in," said the Plodder. "Miss O'Connor does not leave
  that park without at least a good talking-to."

  "Understood...This is interesting, Firenza's phoning someone." Reynolds and Schurz watched
  as the man spoke and nodded. After a few minutes, Firenza pocketed his phone and escorted
  Lilly to a sidewalk food vendor, who sold them coffee and pretzels.

  At 4:50, sixteen minutes after Firenza's call, a green BMW sedan pulled up. Firenza spoke to
  the driver, who handed him cash, then Lilly got in.

  Reynolds barked the code, then gunned his cruiser to block the other car. Its young driver was
  taken into custody, along with Firenza and Lilly. Lorry's team took them to the 12th Precinct
  headquarters.

  When word of the arrests reached Force Plodder, Mike volunteered to participate in Lilly's
  interrogation. But before he could leave, Anita Van Buren brought a new arrival.
 

  Lennie and Anita came with bags of food from Bianchi's, where they'd exchanged friendly but
  somber winks with Atlanta Willow. The people in Bianchi's, along with the rest of NYC, still
  seemed to be in a daze. Yesterday's bombing continued to weigh heavily; the death toll had
  reached 46 and was expected to climb higher due to the many children still in critical condition.

  Anita pressed the speaker button and gave the password of the day--"Wolf." The door was
  opened by a familiar man.
  Mike Logan was wearing his plaid tie and brown leather coat, and for a pleasant moment
  Lennie felt like he'd gone back in time. He and Mike embraced like the old friends they were.

  Mike led his old colleagues to a windowless room on the right, where they met Stan Oromocto
  aka "Plodder" (Lennie remembered him from the first night of the Kinbasket affair), Caitlin
  Falconetti, and "my very best friends in the whole wide freakin' world, Tick Calvert and Kelson
  Ransome," as Mike said. Bonneau, Cragen, Deitz, LaMotte, Reynolds and Schurz would turn
  up later tonight.

  Three video screens were on and tapes were being recorded for the two surveillance ones.
  The other was tuned to a local channel which showed Judge Sullivan kissing the pale Amanda
  Enjo as she lay in a hospital bed.

  "Makes you feel nice and warm all through, doesn't it," growled Lennie.

  "How about this," said Calvert, tapping the office screen. The Judge was in the room, shouting
  at an offscreen person. Soon he became truly furious.

  "Whoa, he's as bad as Deitz..."

  "I heard that, Lennie!" barked Deitz, who had just arrived.

  Deitz looked at the display of an enraged Sullivan and said grimly, "Red Alert, people. When
  the Judge is upset, trouble quickly comes."
 

  Tick slumped down in his seat, the binoculars resting on his thigh. “I hate surveillance detail,”
  he groused.

  “As much as you hate Logan?” Kelson asked, head resting on the seat, eyes closed.

  “I don’t hate him,” Tick said quietly, glancing at his colleague. “I feel sorry for the poor bastard.
  He has no clue what he’s lost.” He stretched in the seat, extending his long legs as far as he
  could in the cramped confines of the Taurus. “But I wouldn’t mind tying Tyrone to Masucci,
  maybe throwing Sullivan in for
  good measure, and getting them all settled in nice, cramped prison cells so I could go home.”
  He shuddered lightly. “This city gives me the creeps. I feel trapped.”

  Kelson chuckled, opening his eyes. “Yeah, but the twenty-four hour take-” His voice died in his
  throat, and he sat up straight in the seat, staring. “Hey, there’s Sullivan and our unidentified
  smoking man.”

  Grabbing the camera from the seat behind him, Tick began snapping photos rapidly. “I really
  want to know who this guy is,” he muttered. “And just how he’s involved in all the crap.”

  “Yeah,” Kelson agreed, his eyes trained on the two men sharing a hurried, intense
  conversation on the
  steps of the restaurant. A shaky, fearful look passed over Sullivan’s normally impassive
  countenance, and Kelson shook his head. “Me, too.”
  **
 

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Caitlin sighed at Faith’s irritable tone and dropped the dish towel she was using to dry.
  “Dammit, Faith, I’ve told you a hundred times. I’m sure.”

  Her voice gave an unspoken order to drop the topic, which Faith ignored. Pulling the sink plug,
  she turned to Caitlin, drying her hands. “How can you be sure? You haven’t been divorced a
  year yet, and you’re planning to get married in two months.” She frowned, shaking her head.
  “It’s not long enough, Cait. You can’t go from being in love with one man to another in that
  short a time.”

  Anger sparked in Caitlin’s eyes. “I do love him,” she said coolly. “I’m more sure about marrying
  Tick than I ever was about marrying Mike. And if I’d trusted my misgivings, I wouldn’t have had
  to go through what I did with him!”

  Faith frowned. “Cait, maybe if you had listened to him more, you wouldn't be so quick to write
  him off.”

  Caitlin’s temper flared. “Maybe if he’d bothered talking to me, I would have been able to listen!
  Dammit, Faith, you don’t know everything; you can’t-”

  “All I’m asking is whether or not you did everything you could? How hard did you try, Cait?”
  Faith shook her head sadly. “You didn’t see him the other night. He misses you, Cait, I know
  he does. If you’d only give him-”

  “Another chance?” Caitlin scoffed. Her voice lowered with intensity. “He doesn’t want another
  chance, Faith. There's no chance for us. I mean, my God, the man runs to you every time he
  has a problem. He asked you to live with him, he was here the other night looking for a little
  easy sex, and you think I’m going to take him back? When hell freezes over.”

  “Fine,” Faith snapped. “So you’re through, but that doesn’t mean that you’re ready to get
  married again. Cait, I don’t want to see you hurt again-”

  “Tick wouldn’t hurt me,” Caitlin said firmly. “That’s one thing I can count on. I know him, Faith. I
  mean, I know the real man. He loves me, and he would never do to me what Mike did.”
 

  “I’ll remember you said that,” Faith said nastily, “next year when you’re crying over your marital
  troubles again.”

  “You bitch!” The words exploded past Caitlin’s lips in a furious whisper. She calmed herself by
  invoking her customary control, covering the wrath curling through her. “Thanks so much for the
  support, Faith. It’s nice to know I can always count on you,” she snarled, grabbing up her coat
  and slinging it over her arm. “I’m going home. Tell Tick I got a cab.”

  “So did you walk out on Mike like this when things got too heated, Cait?” Faith taunted,
  following her from the kitchen into the living room.

  Caitlin turned on her, eyes burning with bad temper. “Go to hell, Faith,” she said icily.

  Faith smiled coldly. “Been there. Remember?”

  A knock at the door stalled Caitlin’s reply, and Faith swept past her to open it. Kelson took one
  look at the righteous anger twisting her face and sighed, glancing past her to Caitlin’s equally
  hostile expression. “Having fun?” he asked wearily, dropping a kiss on Faith’s cheek.

  “Loads,” Faith replied, voice dripping sarcasm.

  “I’m ready to go,” Caitlin said to Tick, ignoring the other couple.

  Tick lifted his eyebrows at her tone, but didn’t argue. Offering Kelson the folder he held, he slid
  his arm around Caitlin’s waist, hugging her to him warmly. “Don’t lose those. We’ll drop them
  off to Orocmoto in the morning.” Unabashed, he grinned at Faith. “Night, y’all.”

  The door closed behind them, and Faith turned into Kelson’s arms, burying her face against his
  chest.
  “She’s making a mistake,” she said, voice muffled by his jacket. “God, Kelly-”

  “Maybe not,” he soothed, tossing the file on the coffee table, not noticing that half the pictures
  they’d taken that night spilled across its surface. Smoothing her hair, he whispered, “She’ll be
  fine. He’s a good guy, Faith.” He decided to keep his opinion of Mike Logan to himself. Kissing
  his way across her cheek, he
  dropped a light kiss on her mouth, rocking her against him. “She’ll be fine.”
  **
 
  As the men assembled for a long sit-down discussion, Mike excused himself and gently tapped
  Reynolds and his ex-partner Briscoe and motioned them to follow him.

  Lilly sat in a drab room. Looking around she noticed the pale green paint was chipping and
  peeling, giving the room a dreary, depressed feeling. She threaded her hair between her
  fingers, humming softly. Twenty minutes later, the door jerked open and she stared
  open-mouthed at the sudden appearance Mike Logan along with two other men. Smiling
  prettily at Mike, she leaned back in a seductive manner.

  Mike seated himself directly across from Lilly with Reynolds and Briscoe flanking him.

  "How are you, Lilly?" He leaned back in his chair.

  She smiled at him. "Mike, good to see you again. I missed you." She placed her hand on
  Mike's, embarrassing him. He caught Reynold's raised eyebrows.

  Clearing his throat, Mike removed his hand. "Uh, Lilly, you know why you are here, right? You
  have been charged with possession and prostitution. Do you know what that means?"

  "Of course, Mikey." She ignored the other men.

  Lennie's voice broke in. "Miss O'Connor, do you want a lawyer?"

  Not taking her eyes off Mike, she shook her head. "I can tell Mike anything."

  Reynolds's sharp tone stripped her eyes from the detective. "O'Connor, we know you know
  Eugene Masucci. What is your relationship with him?"

  As though a switch had been flicked, she crossed her arms in front of her in the same act of
  defiance that reminded Mike of Cassi. Feelings of guilt washed over him. Mike had a sudden
  sick sensation that Lilly was involved with Cassi's death. He knew all he had to go on was a
  hunch, but the feeling was too strong for him to ignore.

  "Who's that?" Her face mirrored the biting sarcasm of her voice.

  "Come on, Lilly. Don't play games with us. We know you are involved in a pornography ring."
  Briscoe slid his chair toward her.

  "We know you are involved in a prostitution ring that has Masucci's name all over it." Reynolds
  followed Briscoe's example and slid his chair closer to Lilly.

  "I don't know nothing. I swear!" She backed away from the men. "Mikey," she implored to him.
  "You know I don't have anything to do with uh... Massuki who?". Lilly played with her hair and
  batted her eyelashes at Mike.

  Feeling like Lilly's play toy, Mike tried to control his anger. "Masucci. Eugene Masucci. We
  have you on tapes. They'll be used as evidence." Narrowing his eyes, he lowered his voice to a
  seductive whisper. "You were very good in them."

  "Really?" She hugged herself in glee. "You know what, Mikey?"

  "Miss O'Connor! We need-" Mike's raised hand stopped Reynolds.

  "What Lilly?" He leaned close to her.

  "I was thinking of you when I acted in the movies. You were my inspiration." Sick with nausea,
  Mike faked a pleased grin.

  "How was that? How was I your inspiration?"

  She laid her hands on his arm, feeling his warmth. "I always put myself in Cassi's place while
  you were having sex with her. You and I made the most wonderful love. Night after night."

  Mike didn't meet the stares that he felt. "That's right. You and I... together..... But I need
  names. Is Masucci the man who pulled you into the ring?"

  Reynolds interrupted the uneasy silence with his booming voice. "Miss O'Connor, who gave
  you the drugs?"
 
 

  Tick glanced sideways at his fiancee. She held the steering wheel in a death-grip, her jaw set
  stubbornly. She went through a light as it flickered from yellow to red, and Tick cringed in the
  passenger seat. Caitlin shot him a look, aware of his movement. “It was not red,” she gritted.
  “It was pink.”

  “Whatever,” Tick muttered, sliding his palms down his thighs uncomfortably. “I’m not sayin’ a
  word.”

  Braking for the next light, which really was red, Caitlin sighed, flexing her fingers on the wheel.
  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, dropping one hand on his thigh. “I’m not angry with you, Tick.”

  A crooked grin curved his mouth. “I know.” He covered her hand with his, threading their
  fingers together. “I take it I don’t want to know?”

  Caitlin laughed without humor. “Probably not.”

  Tick placed a kiss in her palm. “Then I won’t ask,” he said easily, then groaned as his cell
  phone rang. “Dammit . . . Calvert.” He listened as Caitlin moved into traffic smoothly. “All right.
  Yes, I said okay, didn’t I? I’ll be right there.” Sighing, he clicked off the phone and met Caitlin’s
  inquisitive gaze. “We need to head back to 46th,” he explained wearily. “Schurz has to go, and
  that means I have camera duty.”

  “Okay,” Caitlin smiled, linking her fingers through his again. “Then I’ll stay with you.”
 

  Judge Sullivan met the Mayor, several high-ranking police officials and attorneys, and some of
  his Federal allies on the morning of the 29th. The past two days had brought very mixed news.
 

  The good news was that the Parker/Whitestone bombing had produced a public outcry. Many
  sensible Americans were now willing to embrace tough new laws even if it meant turning their
  country into a police state.

  Many threats had been called in, so many that the NYPD bomb squad had not seen more than
  four consecutive quiet hours since the explosion. Every news update reported another
  evacuation. NYC was a city in fear.

  Despite Sullivan's campaign against the NYPD, the people had not turned wholeheartedly
  against the city cops. The Judge's attempt to shut down the 27th Precinct had failed. At least
  Lennie Briscoe would be stigmatized from his well-publicized arrest.

  At 11 AM, the Judge learned that Amanda Enjo was dead. He offered his condolences to the
  surviving family members and scheduled a news conference for noon. He would weep and vow
  to continue the full-scale effort to catch the guilty party.

  Meanwhile, there was the issue of Lilly O'Connor to deal with. Sullivan had never directly given
  drugs to her; that was Sam Catchpole's job. She just knew Catchpole as "Barney Bear" and
  had given the 12th Precinct people an inaccurate description of him.

  Nevertheless, Lilly was no longer useful to the Judge. Before his noon conference, Sullivan
  spoke to Catchpole and another specialist called The Keypad. Their plans depended on
  whether or not Lilly was released.
 

  Mike let out a snarl of disgust as he and the Plodder watched Judge Sullivan's news
  conference.

  "Sanctimonious, hypocritical asshole!" Mike strode to the TV and smacked it. "If this unit
  weren't police property I'd have put a fucking bullet through it already!"

  "Easy, Mike." The Plodder looked like Donny Cragen, only stockier, and he had the same
  calming effect. Mike felt his anger settle at a low simmer.

  "I should go to the courthouse. Lilly's bail hearing is in one hour and there's no telling what'll
  happen with traffic." Bomb scares had produced numerous delays and detours.

  Before Mike could get his coat, Tick's voice said the day's password--"Palm"--and Plodder
  buzzed him in.

  Kelson and Tick came to the room. With them was an attractive woman with a good head of
  red hair. As Mike made contact with her keen blue eyes, Tick spoke:

  "Gentlemen, meet Agent Reed Macy of the ATF. Agent Macy, this is Detective Stan Oromocto
  and here's the man who doesn't take Viagra when he should, Detective Mike Logan."

  "Mike! I remember you!"

  Mike took her hand and said, "That makes two of us." Reed had been in senior high with him.
  "Excuse me, I have to go."

  He grabbed his coat and said, "Oh by the way, Tick, the drug's real name is Sildenafil...but you
  know that."
 

  Irritated, the Plodder rolled his eyes at the exchange.

  A newscaster was recapping Sullivan's speech, and Tick shook his head in disgust, crossing
  his arms over his chest. "I have got to get out of this city."

  He caught the quizzical glances of the others and shrugged. "That son of a bitch is planning on
  turning this place into a police state. Wait and see. And I don't want to be around when it
  happens. The idea of nine million people under house arrest doesn't make me comfortable,
  especially when we know that a few million of them aren't law abiding citizens. He'll get the
  lawful guns, but not the ones that belong to the bad guys."

  "Sounds like a card-carrying member of the NRA to me," Mike muttered.

  "Nope," Tick retorted. "But I'd like to see Sullivan try this in southwest Georgia. He wouldn't
  stand a chance. Those corrupt sons of bitches down there would kill him in an instant. And it's
  not like they don't know where to hide a body where it won't be found."

  Oromocto sighed darkly. "Too bad you can't take him home with you."
 
The first death occurred at 12:13 p.m. on January 29.

  Incredibly wearing, Detective Madison Holton of the 15th precinct rubbed a hand over her eyes
  and stared at the patrol unit still sitting at the traffic light. The driver, a rookie officer two
  weeks out of the academy, was slumped in the seat, and one eye stared out of what was left
  of his face. His training officer had been taken to St. Vincent's Hospital, but Madison had
  gotten a glimpse of his face as the EMT's had loaded him into the ambulance. He wouldn't last
  long, either. Momentarily wishing for a small Georgia town where nothing ever happened, she
  glanced over at her partner, who was deep in conversation with a young uniform officer.
  "Description of the perp?"

  Collin O'Hara shook his head. "Sort of. A white guy driving a generic car. Witnesses have given
  us six different makes and models, plus four different colors."

  Madison turned back to the patrol car, its side riddled with holes from the shotgun. "Great,"
  she muttered, drawing her shoulders up straight with an effort. "Just great."
 

  January 29
  3:46 p.m.

  A handful of Force Plodder members sat, staring silently at the special news coverage on the
  fatal shooting of two NYPD officers. Tick, chain smoking, lit up his third Camel in fifteen
  minutes and swore softly before voicing the question they were all thinking. "Y'all think Sullivan
  would go this far?"

  "What the hell would he gain?" Oromocto muttered, a sick feeling twisting in his gut.

  "This is freaking unbelievable," Cragen snapped, dropping heavily into a chair, looking suddenly
  old. "Unless he's planning on pinning this on another cop, too."

  "God help us." Tick shook his head. "Or else he's stirred up some whacko that thinks the cops
  should be exterminated now."
  **

  By 6:00, New Yorkers received a partial answer. A badly-typewritten letter, sent to four
  separate tv stations, detailed the shooter's disgust with the NYPD as a whole, applauding
  Sullivan's efforts to "wipe out the corrosive corruption at work in the laughable organization
  known as the New York City Police Department." He swore to continue his efforts to "aid the
  Honorable Hiram Sullivan."

  The young rookie killed, one James T. Erringer, was the nephew of a high-ranking FBI official
  in Washington, D.C. By 6:11, a small Bureau task force was being put in place to aid the 15th
  precinct with their investigation. The task force would include a weapons expert, two support
  agents, and the New York field office's top profiler.

  By 6:13 p.m., Special Agent Caitlin Falconetti had been informed that her plans to leave the
  New York office's Violent Crimes Unit had been temporarily placed on hold, until the sniper had
  been apprehended.
 

  6:52 PM, January 29: Lilly hunched over the kitchen table at Cassi's home and said to her
  listeners, "Ever see one of those movies in which Government or business guys in smart suits
  send hit men to whack the good guys?"

  "Yeah," said Mike. "There've been a few." He exchanged looks with Reed Macy and Ben
  Stone.

  "Like *Capricorn One,*" Lilly went on. "These astronauts are out to expose this trillion-dollar
  hoax and Hal Holdbrook in his expensive suit sends his spooks after them."

  Mike looked at the pale girl with the trembling lip and decided this was not the time to tell her
  that the actor's name was pronounced Holbrook.

  "Judge Sullivan's like that. Must have the best tailor in town. Let me tell you three just a little bit
  more about dear Hiram Sullivan."
 

Part 9