True Blue

  think Donnelly and Burns are sitting in an office somewhere doing business as usual?”

  “Because they probably are.”

  “Some justice.”

  Beth stared up at the old apartment building. “It doesn’t look so bad anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s a dump.”

  “A little elbow grease, some paint.”

  “What?”

  “It’s being turned into a rec center for the community.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I got the mayor to approve it yesterday.”

  “Why?” Mace asked.

  “Why not? It’s an old building that serves no useful purpose. We could leave it here until it falls down. Or we can change it into something that’s useful. A way of moving forward. Applies to buildings. And people.”

  Mace gazed at the place for a long moment. “You and Dad were always much better with symbolism than me.”

  “I always thought you and Dad were a lot more alike.”

  “Really?” said a surprised Mace. Beth nodded.

  Mace glanced over at Cruiser One where the driver sat patiently. “You done for the night, sis?”

  Beth stretched out her back. “Yeah, I was thinking of actually heading home and reading a book in the bathtub.”

  “You want a ride?” Mace eyed her Ducati.

  “What? On the bike?”

  “Problem with that?”

  “No, it’s just that, well, the liability factor if the chief of police—”

  “Oh shut up and get on. You can use Roy’s helmet.”

  On the way home, with Beth holding on to her tightly, Mace popped a wheelie and held it as she streaked down the GW Parkway, freaking out motorists as she flew past.

  Beth started to scream something in her ear but then stopped. And then the by-the-book chief of police did the unthinkable. She held out her arms straight from her sides, leaned into her sister, and started making whooping sounds.

  The sisters were headed back to the safe area of D.C., where people didn’t shoot each other over five-dollar crack scratches or to gain elusive respect. But they knew their hearts and their professional lives would always be on that unpredictable side of the line where you ran toward the fight and not away from it. That was where they really belonged.

  The front wheel hit asphalt. Mace gunned the throttle and the Perry sisters disappeared down the road.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TO MICHELLE, the primary reason I write about strong, independent women.

  To Mitch Hoffman, for good counsel, excellent critiques, and well-placed cheers.

  To David Young, Jamie Raab, Emi Battaglia, Jennifer Romanello, Tom Maciag, Martha Otis, Anthony Goff, Kim Hoffman, and all at Grand Central Publishing, for helping me every step of the way.

  To Aaron and Arlene Priest, Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kenealy, Frances Jalet-Miller, and John Richmond, for being so supportive.

  To Maria Rejt and Katie James at Pan Macmillan, for all your great work.

  To Grace McQuade and Lynn Goldberg, for keeping my name out there.

  To D.C. Police Chief Cathy Lanier, for allowing me to see a terrific slice of the job.

  To Lt. Morgan Kane, for coordinating everything and being patient and professional.

  To Officer Rob Calligaro, thanks for the education and the boat ride.

  To Officer Raymond Hawkins, thanks for the ride and the great insight.

  To United States Attorneys Jeffrey Taylor and Glenn Kirschner, for your courtroom knowledge and expertise of how the D.C. criminal system works.

  To Tom and Bob, for financial brainstorming.

  To Dr. Monica Smiddy, who makes my forensics look so good.

  To Dr. Alli Guleria, as always, for your help.

  To Bob Schule, for your advice and political expertise.

  To Tanmoy Mukherjee, M.D., for your medical expertise.

  To the charity auction “name” winners. Don, I “hope” I did the name justice. To Julie, Mandy, and Kelly of Hamilton, Petrocelli & Sprissler, I hope you liked your page time.

  To Lynette and Deborah, for doing what you do so damn well.