“Sir, I respectfully submit that there were a few occasions when I was unable to attend roll call due to my duties with the BSC but that—”

“You don’t have duties with the BSC. You elect to perform labor on its behalf.”

“—but that…In all cases, sir, I was given clearance by both the watch commander and the duty sergeant.”

Curtis nodded. “May I finish?” he said.

Mark looked at him, the muscles in his cheek and jaw gone taut.

“May I finish?” Curtis repeated. “May I speak without fear of interruption? Because I find it rude, Patrolman. Do you find it rude to be interrupted?”

“I do, sir. That’s why I—”

Curtis held up a hand. “Let me dispel the notion that you hold some moral high ground, Patrolman, because you most certainly do not. Your watch commander and your duty sergeant both admitted that they overlooked your tardiness or outright absence from roll call because they themselves are both members of this social club. However, they did not possess the right to make such a decision.” He spread his hands. “It’s not within their purview. Only a rank of captain or higher can make such allowances.”

“Sir, I—”

“So, Patrolman Denton—”

“Sir, if I—”

“I am not finished, sir. Would you please allow me to finish?” Curtis propped his elbow on the desk and pointed at Mark. His splotchy face shook. “Did you or did you not show gross indifference to your duties as a patrol officer?”

“Sir, I was under the impress—”

“Answer the question.”

“Sir, I believe—”

“Yes or no, Patrolman. Do you think the people of this city want excuses? I’ve talked to them, sir, and they do not. Did you, or did you not, fail to appear at roll call?”

He hunched his shoulder forward, the finger still pointed. Danny would have thought it comical if it had come from any other source, on any other day, in any other country. But Curtis had come to the table with something they’d never expected, something they would have thought outmoded and out-lived in the modern age: a kind of fundamental righteousness that only the fundamental possessed. Unfettered by doubt, it achieved the appearance of moral intelligence and a resolute conscience. The terrible thing was how small it made you feel, how weaponless. How could you fight righteous rage if the only arms you bore were logic and sanity?

Denton opened up his attaché case and pulled out the pages he’d been working on for weeks. “Sir, if I could turn your attention to the raise we were promised in—”

“We?” Curtis said.

“Yes, the Boston Police Department, sir.”

“You dare claim to represent these fine men?” Curtis scowled. “I’ve spoken to many a man since taking office, and I can tell you that they do not elect to call you ‘Leader,’ Patrolman Denton. They are tired of you putting words in their mouths and painting them as malcontents. Why, I spoke to a flatfoot at the Twelfth just yesterday and you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Commissioner Curtis, we police at the One-Two are proud to serve our city in a time of need, sir. You tell the folks out there in the neighborhoods that we won’t go Bolsheviki. We’re police officers.’”