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Amy looked up at the knock on her office door. “Come in.”

The door opened, and the district attorney walked in.

Amy stood. “Bert.” She would have expected her assistant Jenny to announce him first, but this was one of Bert's favorite tricks, waltzing in and catching people off guard. Amy made a mental note to talk to Jenny about that.

“Please,” Bert said. “Sit. Just a casual pop-in to see how my new right hand is getting along.” Bert was a short, tidy man in his late fifties, neatly tailored gray suit, round glasses, and a tight haircut. Gleaming Stanford Law cuff links. He lowered himself into one of the chairs opposite Amy.

She sat, gestured to the ton of paperwork stretched across her desk. “Remember when I thanked you for the promotion? I take it back. This is all
one
case.”

“But an important one,” Bert said. “Dante Payne is the leading figure in the city's organized crime world, and hardly anyone knows it. He's done one heck of a job making himself look legitimate. He even won some kind of community award a few months ago for helping arrange a new hospital cancer wing. And there are three different politicians waiting to see how this turns out, so they can decide if they're going to take sizable campaign contributions from him or not. He needs to be put away, but if we botch it, we'll make some powerful enemies. I'd like for all of us to keep our jobs.”

Amy nodded. She knew all of this already, and Bert knew that she knew. This was just his way of letting her know he was anxious, and that made
her
anxious. Bert's feathers didn't ruffle easily. He was nervous.

“I know,” Amy said. “There's a lot hinging on a single witness. We've been trying to get others to corroborate his story and strengthen the case, but it's tough. People are afraid to come forward. And Payne butters too many people's bread.”

Bert nodded, bit a thumbnail, jaw tight. “And where is our Mr. Preston now?”

Del Preston. The witness. The one man in the city prepared to sing his heart out and put Payne behind bars. Amy didn't know if he was brave or crazy, but the case hung on his testimony, which was the linchpin that allowed all of the circumstantial evidence to link up neatly. Without Preston the case fell apart.

“He's arriving soon. Any minute now actually,” She said. “In police custody for his own protection.”

“I'll feel better once he's inside the building,” Bert said. “With all the metal detectors and bailiffs and security cameras, it's probably one of the most secure places in the city.”

Amy would be glad when the entire affair was over. Since her promotion, her caseload had been reduced to one. Payne. For some reason, she found it more stressful to focus on this single case than it was juggling multiple assignments. As a rookie assistant DA, she'd been overloaded with so many cases she wondered every day why the whole system just didn't collapse. But somehow she woke up every morning and the cases were still there, the wheels of justice grinding slowly but still grinding.

It felt odd to look back on those days as relatively carefree. Now she felt like the eyes of the entire justice system were upon her. The mayor. The governor. Not for the first time, Amy suspected she wasn't really cut out for the limelight.

Amy knew that Bert was trying to kill multiple birds with one stone when he'd boosted her to deputy district attorney. There'd always been some vague pressure to promote more women, but it was more than that. Bert knew she could handle the job, was, in fact, counting on her. Amy would never have accepted the position just to serve as Bert's token female. She knew what she was doing. She was the right choice.

So why do I feel more stressed out than I ever have in my whole life
?

She calmed herself. So. One case. For all the marbles.
Hey, it's just a career, right?

Maybe it was all that pressure that had put a strain on things at home. David had always been stoic, but
stoic
had become
distant
these last few months. Normally, she'd give her husband space, let him work it out, but maybe she'd been too patient. The Army had put him on some kind of indefinite leave so he could rest. But rest from what? Maybe it was time she forced David to be more forthcoming about whatever it was that was eating him.

Still, they'd really connected the other night. Like old times. She'd felt a surge of optimism, which had sadly been undermined by the break-in. The incident with the burglar seemed to crank up David's stress level again.
Which is understandable. For God's sake, our children were right upstairs. Anything could have happened
.

Amy was about to cobble together some reassuring phrases for Bert when the phone rang. She answered. “Jenny? Yeah. Right. Tell them we'll be down in a few minutes.”

She hung up and looked at Bert. “They're bringing him in now.”

*   *   *

Amy and Bert stood between a brace of bailiffs as a squad of NYPD cleared the hall, motioning for the usual herd of lawyers and clerks who haunted the place to stand out of the way. At the far end of the hall, she saw them coming.

If Amy understood the procedure correctly, a team of police with bomb-sniffing dogs had arrived an hour ahead of time to sweep the level of the parking garage in which Preston had arrived. He then came up the elevator, surrounded by policemen in Kevlar vests. Preston wore one, too. The witness was now being escorted to a room where a stenographer waited to take his statement in front of Amy, Bert, and the witness's personal attorney. There was a lot riding on Preston's testimony, and they were making it all as official as possible. All of the stiff formalities and dire precautions rubbed Amy's nerves raw. She realized she was biting the inside of her lower lip—an old habit—and made herself stop.

Amy's eyes shifted to Bert standing next to her. He didn't seem worried, chin up and eyes bright as he watched the witness and his police escort approach. Not Bert's first rodeo, Amy realized. He'd been doing this a long time.

Her guess was that he was still nervous. Just better at hiding it.

She glanced the other direction at the bailiff standing on the other side of her. The man had his hand on his holster. She supposed everyone was tense, and maybe the bailiff was simply bracing himself for whatever might—

The bailiff unsnapped the holster. Amy blinked. Was
that
necessary?

The witness and his police escort had almost reached them now. Bert was already stepping forward, welcoming. He had a way of putting people at ease. Preston was looking straight at Bert, but the cops with him were looking off left and right as if expecting terrorists to come storming from a side hall at any minute. Bert was raising his hand to shake it.
That's it, Bert. Do your thing. Let's get this guy into the room, get his statement, and then we can all go to a champagne lunch to celebrate a job well
—

The bailiff had his hand on the butt of his revolver. He was drawing it. Amy opened her mouth, objections stuck in her throat. She wasn't sure what she was seeing. Her eyes blazed across the scene, taking it all in at once. The cops still scanned each nook and cranny, looking in every direction but hers.

The bailiff raised the pistol.

No!

Amy grabbed the man's arm, tried to pull his aim away from the approaching group of men.

He jerked his arm free and smashed Amy in the corner of her mouth with the pistol.

Pain exploded across her face, a white light flashing in her eyes. She stumbled back over her own high heels, skidded on the tile floor, and went down. She tasted blood in her mouth, spit, dizzy and nauseous.

A gunshot shook the hallway. Shouting.

Amy's ears rang. It seemed to take forever to blink the stars from her eyes and look up, but it was only a split-second. Bert lay on the ground.

The bailiff fired again, and almost simultaneously another smattering of gunfire smacked into the bailiff, three red blooms sprouting wet across his chest. He spun back, bounced off the wall and went down.

The hallway became a confused tumult, everyone shouting, police radios squawking. Somebody bumped into Amy and when she turned to see who it was, someone bumped her from behind.

She was still on the floor.

Amy crawled to Bert. He looked up at her, face ashen. His mouth worked to talk, but nothing came out. His jacket had fallen open, and Amy saw that his shirt stuck red to him low on his side. He reached for her with a trembling hand, blood dripping from the fingertips. His eyes pleaded.

“Take it easy, Bert.” She scooted behind him, pulled his head into her lap. “I've got you. You're going to be fine. A little mess, that's all. Just keep still.”

His eyes again. Afraid. She took his hand, squeezed.

She looked up. “Hey! Somebody call 9-1-1. We need a doctor. Over here.”

A voice from the confusion acknowledged her.

Amy's gaze shifted to the other body sprawled a dozen feet away. Del Preston lay awkwardly on his side, eyes wide open and vacant. His life leaked red from the gaping wound in his head. A pool of blood spread under him in a slowly widening circle.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first David heard of the shooting was when he'd tried to get into the building.

They'd turned him back as a matter of course, very edgy cops who were in no mood to hear excuses, and they didn't care whose wife was doing what where because the building was on lockdown and as far as they were concerned David could fuck straight off.

David wasn't one to give up easily, but it was obvious the direct approach wasn't going to work.

He alternated between calling Amy's office phone and her cell. He finally caught her in her office, and she sent down a bailiff—one she knew personally, she later explained—to escort him inside and up to Amy's floor.

He stood in Amy's office doorway, took her in at a glance. She held a hand towel full of crushed ice to the side of her mouth but otherwise looked fine.

He asked anyway. “You okay?”

She scowled at him around the towel. “I think he knocked a tooth loose.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It
hurts
.”

“I'm
very
sorry.” David stepped into the room, put his hands on the back of the chair in front of him. “Seriously, you need me to take you home?”

“Home?” She stood, slammed her hand down on the stack of papers on her desk. “When am I ever going to get home? I'm
in charge
of this circus now.”

David hadn't considered that, but of course with Bert down, it all fell to Amy.

She hurled the towel of ice at the wall. It hit hard, cracking the glass in the frame of her law diploma and scattering ice. “Shit!”

David raised an eyebrow.

Amy's shoulder slumped immediately, the heat leaking out of her. She rubbed her eyes. “Oh, God. That's not fair. Poor Bert. I got word from the hospital a few minutes ago. He's stable. They say he'll be okay. It could have been me. I was standing right there.”

She took a deep breath, let it out again raggedly. “It could have been me.”

David circled the desk, lifted Amy's chin with a finger and examined the red blotch at the corner of her mouth. It would soon turn into an ugly green and purple bruise. “I'm glad you don't see the women at Anna's preschool drop-off. I'd hate to have to explain this.”

Amy shook her head, stepped back. “Save the jokes. I'm in no mood.”

“Okay, sorry. But you're being hard on yourself.”

“I was promoted to do one thing and that was to put Dante Payne behind bars. Without that witness, I can just forget it. We've been holding Payne as long as we can without bail, but now we've got to cut him loose. I just gave the order ten minutes before you arrived. I don't even want to describe the rotten taste doing that left in my mouth. God, Bert is shot, and now I've let him down. This just sucks.”

“What were you supposed to do?” David asked. “Jump in front of the witness and take the bullet for him? Look, this isn't your fault.”

“But I should be able to figure something out, come up with an idea to stall or something,” Amy said. “All I can do is sit here like some stupid…” She groped for the right word.

“Just stop. Okay? That's the problem with being one of the good guys. You have to play by the rules. It's not your fault.”

She blew out a tired sigh.

“Do they know anything about the bailiff who did it?” David asked.

“Not yet,” Amy said. “The police are looking into it. I mean if you can't trust—”

A blond woman of about twenty-five stuck her head in the door, pretty and bright, black-framed glasses just a little too hip, David thought.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Mrs. Sparrow, you wanted to know when they were taking him out.”

“Oh.” Amy nodded. “Thank you, Jenny.”

Jenny returned the nod and left.

“What was that about?”

Amy didn't answer. Instead she stared at a spot on the wall, unblinking. David had seen her do this many times before. She was on the razor's edge of some decision, probably something she knew was a bad idea but some stubborn part of her was insisting. Any minute she would—

Amy stormed past him out of the office.

“Amy!”

David ran after her.

She fast-walked past the elevators and banged open the door to the stairwell, David right behind her. The rapid click of her high heels echoed off cement as she descended.

David harbored no delusions that he'd be able to talk her out of whatever she was doing, but considering her mood, he gave it a try anyway.

“Amy, calm down and think about what you're doing,” David called after her. “Whatever it is.”

He kept chasing her but not too fast. Frankly, he wasn't sure what to do if he caught her. His wife didn't tolerate a lot of interference when she got up a head of steam like this. She was on the warpath and woe unto anyone who got in her way. The best he could hope for was to stay right behind her and try to mitigate any collateral damage.