Gerald Marlow, a man with thick, Vitalis-crisp hair, was head of the NYPD's Patrol Services Division. His deliberate manner had been forged walking a beat for twenty years and tempered by spending another fifteen at the far-riskier job of supervising officers who walked similar beats.

Now, Monday morning, Amelia Sachs stood more or less at attention in front of him, willing her knees to ignore the arthritis that dug switchblades into them.

They were in Marlow's corner office high up in the Big Building, One Police Plaza, downtown.

Marlow glanced up from the file he'd been reading and eyed her impeccably pressed blue navies. "Oh, sit down, Officer. Sorry. Sit down. . . . So, Herman Sachs's daughter."

Sitting, she noted a faint hesitation between the last two words of his sentence. Had the word "girl" been quickly replaced?

"That's right."

"I was at the funeral."

"I remember."

"It was a good one."

As funerals go.

Eyes on hers, posture upright, Marlow said, "Okay, Officer. Here it is. You're in some trouble."

It hit her like a physical blow. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"A crime scene on Saturday, by the Harlem River. Car went into the water. You ran it?"

Where the Conjurer's Mazda took out crack-head Carlos's shack and went for a swim.

"Yes, that's right."

"You placed somebody under arrest at the scene," Marlow said.

"Oh, that. Not really arrest. This guy went under the tape and was digging around in a sealed area. I had him escorted out and detained."

"Detained, arrested. The point is he was in custody for a while."

"Sure. I needed him out of my hair. It was an active scene."

Sachs was starting to get her bearings. The obnoxious citizen had complained. Happened every day. Nobody paid attention to crap like that. She began to relax.

"Well, the guy? He was Victor Ramos."

"Yeah, I think he told me that."

"Congressman Victor Ramos."

The relaxation vanished.

The captain opened a New York Daily News. "Let's see, let's see. All, here." He lifted the paper and held up a centerfold, which featured a large picture of the man in cuffs at the scene. The headline read: "TIME-OUT" FOR VICTOR.

"You told the officers on the scene to put him in time-out?"

"He was-"

"Did you?"

"I believe I did, sir, yes."

Marlow offered, "He claimed he was looking for survivors."

"Survivors?" she barked, laughing. "It was a ten-by-ten squatter's shack that got clipped when the perp's car went into the river. Part of a wall fell over and-"

"You're getting a little hot here, Officer."

"-and I think a bag of goddamn empties got ripped open. That was the only damage. EMS cleared the shack and I sealed it. The only living things left to rescue in that place were the lice."

"Uh-huh," Marlow said evenly, uneasy with her temper. "He said he was simply making sure anybody living there was safe."

She added with uncontrolled irony, "The home owners walked out on their own. Nobody was hurt. Though I understand one of them later got a bruised cheek when he resisted arrest."

"Arrest?"

"He tried to steal a fireman's flashlight and then urinated on him."

"Oh. Brother . . ."

She muttered, "They were unharmed, they were stoned and they were assholes. And those were the citizens Ramos was worried about?"

The captain's grimace, containing shreds of both caution and sympathy, faded. The emotion was replaced by his rubbery bureaucratic facade. "Do you know for a fact that there was any evidence Ramos destroyed that would've been relevant to collaring the suspect?"

"Whether there was or not doesn't make a bit of difference, sir. It's the procedure that's important." She was struggling to keep calm, keep the edge out of her voice. Marlow was, after all, her boss's boss's boss.

"Trying to work things out here, Officer Sachs," he said sternly. Then repeated, "Do you know for a fact that evidence was destroyed?"

She sighed. "No."

"So his being in the scene was irrelevant."

"I-".

"Irrelevant?"

"Yessir." She cleared her throat. "We were after a cop killer, Captain. Does that count for anything?" she asked bitterly.

"To me. To a lot of people, yeah. To Ramos, no."

She nodded. "Okay, what kind of firestorm're we talking?"

"There were TV crews there, Officer. You watch the news that night?"

Nup, she thought, I was pretty busy trying to collar a murderer. Sachs chose a different answer: "No sir."

"Well, Ramos was prominently featured, being led off in cuffs."

She said, "You know the only reason he was in the scene in the first place was to be filmed risking his goddamn life to look for survivors. . . . I'm curious, sir: Ramos running for reelection any time soon?"

Even confirming comments like that can get you early retirement. Or no retirement at all. Marlow said nothing.

"What's the . . . ?"

"Bottom line?" Marlow's lips tightened. "I'm sorry, Officer. You've washed out. Ramos checked on you. Found out about the sergeant's exam. He pulled strings. He got you flunked."

"He did what?"

"Flunked. He talked to the examining officers."

"I had the third highest exam in the history of the department," she said, laughing bitterly. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes-on the multiple choice and the orals. But you need to pass the assessment exercise too."

"I did fine on it."

"The preliminary results were good. But in the final report you flunked."

"Impossible. What happened?"

"One of the officers in the exercise wouldn't pass you."

"Wouldn't pass me? But I . . ." Her voice faded as she pictured the handsome officer with the shotgun stepping out from behind the Dumpster. The man she'd snubbed. Bang, bang . . .

The captain read from a piece of paper, "He said you didn't quote 'display proper respect for individuals in a supervisory position. And she exhibited disrespectful behavior with regard to peers, leading to situations of endangerment.'"

"So Ramos tracked down somebody willing to dime me out and fed him those lines. I'm sorry, Captain, but you really think a street cop talks that way? 'Situations of endangerment'? Come on."

Well, Pop, she thought to her father, how's this for sticking in the craw?

Feeling heartsick.

Then she looked carefully at Marlow. "What else, sir? There is something else, isn't there?"

To his credit he held her eye as he said, "Yes, Officer. There is. It gets worse, I'm afraid."

Let's hear how exactly it could be worse, Pop. "Ramos is trying to get you suspended."

"Suspended. That's bullshit."

"He wants an inquest."

"Vindictive . . ." The "prick" didn't get spoken as she saw in Marlow's gaze the reminder that it was this sort of attitude that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

He added, "I have to tell you that he's mad enough to . . . Well, he's going for suspension without pay." This punishment was usually reserved for officers accused of crimes.

"Why?"

Marlow didn't answer. But he didn't need to, of course. Sachs knew: to bolster his credibility Ramos had to show that the time-out woman who'd embarrassed him was a loose cannon.

And the other reason was that he was a vindictive prick.

"What'd the grounds be?"

"Insubordination, incompetence."

"I can't lose my shield, sir." Trying not to sound desperate.

"There's nothing I can do about your flunking the exam, Amelia. That's in the board's hands and they've already made their decision. But I'll fight the suspension. I can't promise anything, though. Ramos's got wire. All over the city."

A hand rose into her scalp. She scratched until she felt pain. Lowered her hand, feeling slick blood. "Can I speak freely, sir?"

Marlow slumped slightly in his chair. "Jesus, Officer, sure. You have to know I feel bad about this. Say what you want. And you don't have to sit at attention. We're not the army, you know."

Sachs cleared her throat. "If he tries for suspension, sir, my next call'll be to the PBA lawyers. I'll light this one up. I'll take it as far as I have to."

And she would. Though she knew how non-rank cops who fought discrimination or suspensions through the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association were unofficially red-flagged. Many of them found their careers permanently sidetracked even if they won technical victories.

Marlow held her steady gaze as he said, "Noted, Officer."

So it was knuckle time.

Her father's expression. About being a cop.

Amie, you have to understand: sometimes it's a rush, sometimes you get to make a difference, sometimes it's boring. And sometimes, not too often, thank God, it's knuckle time. Fist to fist. You're all by your lonesome, with nobody to help you. And I don't mean just the perps. Sometimes it'll be you against your boss. Sometimes against their bosses. Could be you against your buddies too. You gonna be a cop, you got to be ready to go it alone. There's no getting around it.

"Well, for the time being you're still on active duty."

"Yessir. When will I know?"

"A day or two."

Walking toward the door.

She stopped, turned back. "Sir?"

Marlow glanced up as if he was surprised she was still there.

"Ramos was in the middle of my crime scene. If it'd been you there, or the mayor, or the president himself, I would've done exactly the same thing."

"That's why you're your father's daughter, Officer, and why he'd be proud of you." Marlow lifted his phone off the cradle. "We'll hope for the best."