He found Foley at the bar.

“The second shift reports in?” Gordon asked.

“On your desk,” Foley assured him. “But you should put in more time with the mayor.”

Gordon snorted.

“That’s your department.” Foley was better at working City Hall, and stroking the egos of politicians. Gordon preferred the nuts-and-bolts of old-fashioned police work.

With one last, rueful glance at the portrait on the dais, he decided he’d done his part for Harvey Dent Day this year. So he headed for the gravel driveway in front of the mansion, where a long row of spotless town cars waited for their powerful and/or affluent passengers. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

This got harder every year.

Back at the bar, the congressman shook his head at Gordon’s abrupt departure. He couldn’t believe the dumb schmuck was actually abandoning this fancy spread to go back to work, especially now that the war against crime had already been won.

“Anyone shown him the crime stats?” he said.

Foley shrugged.

“He goes by his gut, and it’s been bothering him lately, whatever the numbers.”

“Must be popular with the wife,” Gilly cracked. His own ball-and-chain was conveniently home with a migraine.

“Not really,” Foley replied. “She took the kids and moved to Cleveland.”

“Well, he’ll have plenty of time for visits soon.” Gilly lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned in toward the younger man. “Mayor’s dumping him in the spring.”

“Really?” Foley was surprised by the revelation— or at least seemed to be. “He’s a hero.”

“War hero,” Gilly said. “This is peacetime.” He poked Foley in the chest. “Stay smart, the job’s yours.”

While he let Foley mull that over, Gilly glanced around the party. It was picking up, now that the speeches were finally over and done with. Unlike Gordon, he had better things to do than burn the midnight oil.

Say, the congressman thought, whatever happened to that cute piece of ass in the maid outfit?

She could still feel the congressman’s grabby fingers on her butt. Her ire rose at the memory. He’s lucky I didn’t teach him a painful lesson in manners.

The mansion’s kitchen offered a temporary refuge from the demanding partygoers out on the lawn. A small army of waiters, caterers, and cooks were deployed throughout the spacious area, working overtime to keep the guests lavishly fed and watered. Discarding her empty tray, she dived into the bustling activity, blending in with the rest of the wait staff. Nobody gave her a second look.

Forget the congressman for now, she reminded herself. Focus.

She overheard a small cluster of maids gossiping in the corner.

“They say he never leaves the east wing.”

“I heard he had an accident, that he’s disfigured.”

Another maid hurriedly signaled them to shut up. All chatter died as a distinguished older gentleman in a butler’s uniform entered the kitchen. His silvery hair complemented his gentle, careworn features.

Alfred Pennyworth, she identified him. The faithful family retainer.