“Because a lady likes to know.”

“Okay,” he said. “You tell me what you feel, and I’ll tell you what I feel.”

“What are we, ten years old?” she asked with a chuckle.

“No, but I’m not used to all this ‘feelings’ stuff. In my day you dragged a woman off by her hair. You didn’t have to bare your soul.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just wondering what you want from me.”

He turned onto Skippack Pike and tried to think of an honest answer to her question. When he couldn’t, he took the easy way out.

“I want to be friends,” he said. “If it grows into something more, that’s fine. If it doesn’t, I can deal with that, too.”

“A man doesn’t look at a woman the way you look at me if he just wants to be friends.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Coletti said as they turned onto Graterford Prison Road and parked in the prison’s shadow. “But you made me promise to let you work. As far as I’m concerned, the work starts now.”

By eight o’clock, the streets of downtown Philadelphia were eerily quiet. The city’s Quaker roots, though in many ways forgotten, still demanded a certain piety when it came to drinking. Bars closed on Sundays, clubs shut down at two, and weeknight happy hours were never especially spirited, even in the heart of Center City.

This evening was no different. A few middle-aged men drank at the sidewalk cafés along Walnut Street, and young women from nearby office buildings kept them company. The girls were flirty, because the men’s designer loafers and Cuban cigars made them look more prosperous than they were. Not that it mattered. For women in their twenties, a man who looked rich was sometimes enough.

Sandy Jackson knew better. Even from her squad car, she could spot the frauds, and she often made a point of doing so, because people-watching made her workday go by faster.

As she cruised down Walnut Street in car 9A, she spied a brunette at Brasserie Perrier, crossing her legs seductively while fifty-year-olds panted at her feet. The girl knew how to play her first card, Sandy thought. But the sprayed-on LA tan and brassy New York attitude led Sandy to doubt the girl could play out her entire hand. Phony didn’t fly in Philadelphia.

Smiling, the sergeant looked down Seventeenth Street at the little diner where she’d eaten earlier. Seeing the place reassured her that Philadelphia was still cheesesteaks with onions rather than foie gras and Brie.

She liked her city gritty, and in spite of the changes that had spawned million-dollar condos and gourmet restaurants, Philadelphia was still a tough town. It wasn’t the boxing tradition or the bare-knuckled politics that made Philadelphia what it was. The most tangible manifestation of Philly’s toughness was the street people.