One thing: You damn well better have learned to steer clear of alleys.

A year ago he’d nearly been beaten to death because he’d been walking too close to a wall, with a perp hiding around the corner of a building. The man had stepped out and walloped him in the head with a billy club.

Careless and stupid.

As Detective Sachs had said, “You didn’t know. Now you do.”

Approaching another alley now, Pulaski veered to the left to walk along the curb—in the unlikely event that somebody, a mugger or junkie, was hiding in the alley.

He turned and looked down it, saw the empty stretch of cobblestones. But at least he was being smart. That’s the way it was, being a cop, learning these small lessons and making them a part of—

The hand got him from behind.

“Jesus,” he gasped as he was pulled through the open door of the van at the curb, which he hadn’t seen because he was staring into the alley. He gasped and started to call out for help.

But his assailant—Deputy Inspector Halston Jefferies, his eyes cold as the moon overhead—slapped his hand over the rookie’s mouth. Somebody else grabbed Pulaski’s gun hand and in two seconds flat he’d disappeared into the back of the van.

The door slammed shut.

The front door of the old grocery store opened and Marilyn Flaherty walked inside, closed the door behind her and latched it.

Unsmiling, she looked around the bleak store, nodded at the other officers and Wallace. Sachs thought she looked even more tense than usual.

The deputy mayor, playing it cool, introduced her to the IAD detective. She shook his hand and sat at the battered table, next to Sachs.

“Top secret, hm?”

Sachs said, “This’s turned into a hornets’ nest.” She watched the woman’s face carefully as she laid out the details. The inspector kept up the great stone face, giving nothing away. Sachs wondered what Kathryn Dance would see in her stiff-backed posture, the tight lips, the quick, cold eyes. The woman was virtually motionless.

The detective told her about Baker’s partner. Then added, “I know how you feel about Internal Affairs but, with all respect, I’ve decided we need to bring them in.”

“I—”

“I’m sorry, Inspector.” Sachs turned toward Wallace.

But the deputy mayor said nothing. He simply shook his head, sighed, then glanced at the IAD man. The young officer pulled out his weapon.

Sachs blinked. “What . . . Hey, what’re you doing?”

He trained the gun on the space midway between her and Flaherty.

“What is this?” the inspector gasped.

“It’s a mess,” Wallace said, sounding almost regretful. “It’s a real mess. Both of you, keep your hands on the table.”

The deputy mayor looked them over, while Toby Henson handed his own gun to Wallace, who covered the women.

Henson wasn’t IAD at all; he was a detective out of the 118th, part of the inner circle of the extortion ring, and the man who’d helped Dennis Baker murder Sarkowski and Creeley. He now pulled on leather gloves and took Sachs’s Glock from her holster. He patted her down for a backup piece. There was none. He searched the inspector’s purse and removed her small service revolver.