The pretty redhead bounced into the temporary agency a few minutes before two o'clock Saturday afternoon , just as the men and woman who hadn't found day work for the second shift were about to give up. "I need twenty-five people to work for two hours passing out sample, and I'll pay them each fifty dollars in cash."

The man behind the counter protested loudly. "You can't just come in here and make announcements like that. You need to register as an employer." He waved a clipboard at her. "There are procedures."

"Yeahhh," she said. "Not really big on procedures myself. Or clipboards." She turned and flounced out of the room.

Three men followed her immediately. The man behind the counter shouted some more, but more people ignored him and followed her out.

On the sidewalk outside, the redhead passed out note cards to the first twenty-five people to follow her. "Sorry," she said cheerfully to the rest. "Need to work on your reaction time." Then, to her chosen people, she said, "Hello, and welcome to the Perk Street team."

"Shampoo?" one older woman grumbled.

"Energy drinks." The leader held up a two-ounce plastic bottle with a bright label. "The new competition to Five-Hour Energy. All the caffeine and a much better taste. Here's the plan. You'll be assigned a partner and a location, and given two hundred bottles of Perk, along with these coupon flyers." She held up a tri-fold flyer. "Inside the flyer is a coupon for two dollars off a purchase. These coupons are bar-coded with twenty-five different codes. When you finish passing out your samples, you can return to our central location and you'll receive your fifty dollars, in cash. But if you want to provide your name and address on this card, you'll be keyed to a set of coupons and in a month you'll receive another fifty cents for every coupon you gave out that's redeemed. That part is up to you. If you'd rather keep your name to yourself, that's your choice."

"Got a pen?" someone called.

She grinned brightly. "Of course." She scooped a handful of pens out of her bag and passed them to the crowd. "Everybody clear? Good. Let's go."

Joss Carter got home twenty minutes later than she'd wanted to. She needed to get Taylor dressed and over to Tia's house by five-thirty. Her son and his ex-girlfriend weren't back together, but they were still friends and neither was dating anyone else, so they were going to the prom together. Carter made a face; that was the story anyhow. She wasn't sure she believed it. But the evening would be fairly well supervised. Taylor and Tia and their friends were meeting at the girl's house. A limo – courtesy of Scotty Fitzgerald – would pick them up and take them to the prom, then wait and take them from there to the after-prom party at the school. Tia's father would pick them up in the morning and bring them home. Of course, they could sneak out for some lone time anywhere along the line if they really wanted to …

And there was not a damn thing Carter could do about that except hope that both of them had learned a lesson from the girl's pregnancy scare earlier in the year.

She ran up the front steps and unlocked her door. "Taylor!" she shouted. "You need to get …"

"I'm dressed," he answered calmly. "Mostly."

Joss stopped in the doorway and frankly stared at her son.

Taylor had been taller than her for a while. His voice had changed. He shaved. He cooked meals for them sometimes. He had an internship on weekends, and he'd be working full time once he was done with school. He was two weeks away from graduation. She knew, in her head, that her son was nearly an adult. But until that moment, her heart had continued to see him as a boy.

The person who stood in her living room in a tuxedo was undeniably a young man. And honestly, a damn handsome one.

Then he grinned nervously and she knew he would always be her boy, even when he was old and gray and she was older and grayer.

"You look great," Carter breathed. It was true; the tux fit perfectly. She'd been uncertain at the rental store. The one he'd tried on had been too short all over. But they'd said they'd order in a tall size for him. The sleeves on this jacket revealed just a sliver of his bright white shirt, and the pants skimmed the tops of his shoes. It looked like it had been custom-tailored for him.

"Thanks, Mom." Taylor held his bow tie in his hand. It was medium blue, as was his vest, to match Tia's dress. The tux itself was deep charcoal gray. "I couldn't figure this out, though."

"Sit down," she said, "and slip your jacket off. I'll get it."

He sat on the ottoman. Carter moved up behind him, threaded the tie under his collar, and reached around his neck to tie it.

"I thought it would come with one of those slide things," he said.

"Uh-huh." Joss had to think a minute about how to tie a bow tie. It had been a long time. Then she made herself stop thinking and let her hands work. A rental tux should have come with a clip-on type tie.

The fabric of the formal shirt her son wore was very smooth. Cotton. Not the polyester she'd expected with a rental, either.

Out of the corner of her eye, Joss saw another vest and tie, dove gray, on a hanger on the back of the couch. "What's that?" she asked.

"I don't know. It was in the bag. I figured they stuck them in by mistake."

"Hmmm." Taylor had gone by himself to pick up the rental the night before; Carter had been working. She finished adjusting the tie and smoothed his collar. "There." She stepped back and picked up his jacket.

The minute she touched the fabric, she knew.

No rental tuxedo in the history of the world had ever been made of high-quality wool like that.

She held the jacket for Taylor and he slipped his arms in, shrugged it on, tugged his sleeves down. The fit across the shoulders, across his slender chest, was a dead giveaway. Carter's mouth tightened into a firm line. "Where's the receipt?" she asked.

He pointed. "On the hanger there."

There was a plain white envelope stapled to the hanger. Carter tugged it off and opened it. There was a note inside, rather than a receipt. It was hand-written, very neat.

Dear Detective Carter,

Dear Joss,

I hope you will understand that I find the entire concept of rented formal wear to be highly distasteful. Additionally, I anticipate that your son's new employment will provide multiple occasions that call for formal wear in the coming year. Therefore, please accept this gift with my compliments.

H.

The envelope also contained a credit card refund notice for the deposit she'd paid on the rental.

Carter shook her head. Between Harold and Christine, they were going to spoil the hell out of her son. She was certain that Taylor would be the only boy at the prom in a tux he actually owned, and one that had been custom-tailored for him. She wondered briefly how Finch had gotten the measurements without Taylor knowing about it. But of course he'd been fitted for the rental tux and they'd entered the measurements on their chain-wide computer. It would have been nothing for him to hack in.

Or to buy the whole chain. But that was unlikely, since he found the whole concept highly distasteful.

She looked at her son. He shrugged the jacket again, so that it settled perfectly over his shoulders. He looked handsome and very confident.

Carter sighed. "You ready to go?"

He nodded, then shook his head. "Let me grab my bag." He ran to his room and came back with a duffle bag. Then he stopped at the refrigerator and grabbed two bottle of Coke and two smaller bottles.

"What's that?" Carter asked.

Taylor opened his hand and showed her the energy drinks.

"You know I don't like those things, Taylor."

"I know, Mom. But we're going to be up all night. They're just caffeine."

"Expensive caffeine."

"They were free. Some guy at the subway was passing out samples. I got coupons, too." He gestured toward the refrigerator, where the colorful papers were stuck up with a magnet.

"Yeah, just drink coffee, okay?"

"It tastes bad."

Carter smirked. After a summer working with Scotty Fitzgerald, she was certain her son would be not only a coffee junky, but a budding connoisseur. She sighed her disapproval, but he put them in his bag anyhow, with the sodas and his clothes for later. They planned to go directly from the prom to the high school and would change there. The tux would need dry cleaning after it spent half the night stuffed in his bag, of course, but then it probably would anyhow.

She didn't tell him yet that he owned the formal suit. He'd probably be more careful with it if he thought they had to take it back tomorrow. "Camera?" she asked.

He patted his pocket. "Phone, Mom. Remember?"

"Right. Nobody has a real camera any more. What was I thinking?" Carter gestured to the door. On his way past she grabbed his arm and kissed his cheek. "You look great, Taylor. Very handsome."

"Thanks, Mom."

When he grinned and blushed, he was still her little boy.

Her little boy in a thousand dollar tuxedo.

Lionel Fusco scowled at the table full of slackers at the center of Chaos. They were loud and they smelled funny. He knew they'd get louder as the night got later.

"They're just kids, Lionel," Rhonda said. She took his hand, led him to the bar.

He didn't tell his lady that he'd spent most of the afternoon cleaning up a dead body that a bunch of just kids just like them had left in the Park. She understood police work well enough. She didn't need the gritty details. He shook his head and perched on a barstool. Then he slipped off his jacket and dropped it onto the stool beside him. If they saw his service weapon – and from the sudden drop in volume, they did – good. At least no one would light up a joint while he was sitting right there.

Christine Fitzgerald came out of the back room and slid behind the bar. "Greetings, Strangers."

"You should talk," Fusco answered. "Haven't seen you in forever."

"Still hiding out from the press?" Rhonda said sympathetically.

"No, they're mostly gone. Working my ass off up the street."

"How's that going?"

"Good." She poured them coffee, gave them a little pitcher of creamer. Fusco was convinced that cream in his coffee late in the day kept it from keeping him awake later. "The office is ninety percent done, the apartment about half-way. And the infrastructure is brilliant, of course."

"Of course." Fusco grinned wryly. "I'm just gonna pretend I know what you're talking about."

"Computers, security system, stereo. Coffee maker."

"Right. The important stuff."

"Damn straight. You got a big night planned?"

Rhonda nodded. "Spamalot."

"Oooh, nice." She smiled at Fusco. "You'll like it. It's bawdy."

"Bawdy."

"Yup."

"If you say so." He shrugged. He wasn't crazy about live theater, but this one sounded bearable and Rhonda was really excited about it. He just needed another cup of coffee or two, and to shrug off the day.

The dead kid had only been sixteen. He had his learner's permit in his pocket, but his mom said he hadn't started driving yet.

Christine looked at him for a moment. Then she gave them each a cinnamon roll.

"Hey, Double D!" one of the punks at the big table shouted.

"DD!" another one echoed.

Fusco ignored them, until he saw how Christine was staring past him. He turned, his hand already reaching for weapon.

The man stood five steps inside the front door. He was mid-twenties, five-nine, buck-fifty, light brown hair, collar-length, brown eyes, no distinguishing marks visible. Blue jeans, cheap sneakers, scarlet, navy shirt unbuttoned over a white t-shirt.

Gathering that much data took an instant for Fusco's trained mind. Habit. Routine.

But there was nothing routine about this young man. His eyes were wide, his pupils visibly far too dilated for the light. His feet were planted wide apart, but he swayed as if he might lose his balance. His hands shook. His whole body shook. His mouth was open, and spittle ran unchecked from both corners. He was breathing hard, seemed to be struggling.

High as a fucking kite, Fusco thought, though he couldn't figure out quite what this kid was high on. It didn't matter.

What mattered, more than anything else, was the gun in his hand.

The kid didn't seem to know what to do with it. He looked around vacantly, and his hand stayed down at his side. Fusco wasn't sure he knew he had a gun. But the punks at the table did. They went silent and absolutely still.

Lionel drew his weapon, kept it in one hand and low. He grabbed Rhonda's arm with his free hand and pulled her off the barstool. "Behind the bar," he muttered. "Go."

She didn't argue. She moved, not too fast, trying not to attract attention. The kid looked over at her vaguely, and the gun came half-way up.

"Don't do it," Fusco warned. He brought his own weapon half-way up, then took a big step to his right. As he'd hoped, the kid turned to keep facing him. He took another step. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhonda duck behind the bar. It was old oak, very thick. It had stopped bullets before.

The kid looked away. It seemed like his head wasn't quite right on his neck, like all his muscles were a little too loose. He swayed again.

"Hey," Fusco said. "Hey, right here. Look right here, son. What's your name?"

The boy swung around again. His body went stiff, and he began to bounce from foot to foot. The spittle around his mouth turned to white froth as he chomped his mouth open and shut.

"Dominic," Christine said calmly and clearly, "put the gun down, sweetie."

She was behind the bar still, but she was standing upright, fully exposed from the waist up. "Down," Fusco ordered.

Naturally she didn't obey.

Igor Zubec was in the doorway to the back office. He was clearly ready to move in the minute he saw an opening, but he was too far away to do much good.

"Dominic," Fusco said, "look at me. Look at me. Put the gun down. Whatever's going on, we can talk it out. But you have to put the gun down."

The young man twitched. His bouncing became more manic, as if he was jogging in place. His free hand began to wave. He blinked rapidly. "I don't know," he said. Spit flew off his lips as he spoke. "I don't know what's … what's … what the fuck is wrong with me?"

"We're going to get you some help, Dominic," Christine said. "But you have to put the gun down."

He looked toward her again. "Scotty?"

"I'm right here, Dom. I'll get you some help. Like I did before."

Fusco really wished the woman would get down behind the bar, but he had to admit that she had exactly the right tone of voice for this. Sure and warm, not afraid. And she had the right words.

Dominic brought the gun up, and Fusco tensed, but the kid just rubbed at his eyes with the back of his gun hand and lowered it again. He was sweating visibly. His chest cratered every time he took a breath; he was working hard to get air in and out.

Fusco took a step toward him, held one hand out. "Give me the gun, Dominic. Just hand it to me, okay?"

"Jesus, man," one of the punks at the table said, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Shut up," Fusco ordered between clenched teeth. "Right here, Dominic. Just look right here."

Zubec took two long steps toward the kid, then froze as he snapped around and raised the gun.

"Don't you hurt me!" Dominic shouted.

"Nobody's going to hurt you," Christine promised. "We're going to help you. But you need to put down the gun. It's dangerous, Dominic. Put it down."

He began turning rapidly, from her to Zubec to Fusco. His body grew even more tense, wound like a spring, and he danced from foot to foot, agitated and sweating profusely. Fusco saw his hand open and close around the butt of the gun. His finger danced over the trigger.

"Dominic," he said firmly, "I'm done talking to you until you put that gun down."

"Put it down," one of the punks said.

"What the hell are you on, man?" a second asked.

"I don't know!" Dominic shouted. His hand came up and he waved the weapon again. "I don't know, I don't know!" His voice rose into a wordless wail. He looked toward the ceiling, howling. Fusco stepped forward, reaching for the gun as he closed the distance between them. Two steps, one more …

Dominic spun and pointed his weapon squarely at Fusco's forehead. Lionel froze. The gun was almost close enough to touch. He looked into the boy's eyes. All pupil now, no color visible. He could smell the kid's sweat and fear, could see his chest heaving. The kid was terrified.

Rhonda made a very quiet sound of protest.

"You don't want to do this, Dominic," Fusco said quietly. "You really don't."

"I can't help it!" the boy wailed.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Fusco had time for one last thought. Hell of a way to get out of going to the theater. Then one of the punks at the table yelled, and the kid spun around and his gun went off. It was really loud. Way too loud for that handgun, Fusco thought, and he had all the time in the world to think that because time had slowed to a crawl. Something wet sprayed against his face and his shirt front, and he didn't have to look down to know it was red. The kid threw his arms out to his sides and the gun fell just a little faster than he did, and they both landed on the floor, a metal clatter and then a soft thump.

Lionel Fusco had slow time for one deep breath. It tasted like iron rust, like blood and gunpowder.

Then time snapped back to its normal speed. He looked down at the kid. He was still alive, but the whole center of his chest was red and open. His breath came in wet gasps.

Christine came over the top of the bar. She kicked mugs and plates off as she moved, but she didn't pause. She hit the floor and ran to the boy, stopped and dropped and slid the last three feet, and then she was beside him, her hands on his head and on his shoulder, leaning forward, talking quietly into his dying face, apologies and comfort …

… and then, what felt like an obscenely long time after the fact, Fusco realized that there was a sawed-off shotgun on the bar, right where Chrissy had dropped it.

After she'd fired it.

He turned his head a little. Zubec was coming from the back, moving like a charging buffalo, but his hands were empty. The gun in Fusco's hand was still cool; it hadn't been fired. The way-too-loud sound. The way the kid's chest was torn open.

Half a lifetime ago, when he was still in uniform, he'd shot Chrissy's father dead in the street in front of this bar because Tommy had come out with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands and aimed it at them. He'd killed him to save the girl's life – and it had damn near destroyed her life anyhow.

Now Chrissy was on her knees, talking to the dying kid, saying all the things she hadn't been able to say when her father died of the same wounds not twenty yards away, just through that door …

His own weapon started to slip from his fingers. He shook his head, hard, and tucked it back into its holster. Then he stepped toward the boy and kicked his gun away. The pool of blood around him was about as big as it was going to get. The wet breathing was slowing down.

He reached for his phone, but realized he could already hear Rhonda on hers. She knew the language. "Officer requests back-up, immediate assistance …" Her voice was fast but clear.

It occurred to him for the first time that maybe he ought to marry Rhonda.

Fusco took a step toward the bar and stuck his hand out. She gave him the phone. He told the operator his name and his badge number, requested a supervisor and a bus and some crowd control and a homicide detective. The last words stuck, because the kid wasn't dead yet. But he knew all the signs. He would be, before the bus got there. Though it clearly was not a homicide, it would have to be investigated as one. And not by him.

As an afterthought, he asked dispatch to notify Internal Affairs.

He gave the phone back, gave Rhonda a grateful nod and a little wave for her to stay behind the bar. Then he looked at the punks around the big table. They were silent, pale. One started to stand up. "Stay there," Fusco said sharply. "Just stay there and don't talk for a few minutes."

He stepped back to the dying kid and crouched on his heels. The kid's pupils were still blown, and despite his injury, his arms and legs kept moving as if he were trying to run away. His lips moved, but just breathy air came out, and white spit froth.

Chrissy stroked his hair and told him that she was sorry, that he'd be okay, that help was coming, that she was with him.

The kid kept thrashing his head back and forth. Every time he did a little more blood squeezed out of his chest. But Fusco knew he was almost out. Running on empty.

Then the boy went still. He looked up at Chrissy and his eyes finally focused. "Oh," he said clearly. He sounded surprised and happy. "Oh, Mommy, you're here. I was scared, Mommy."

"I'm right here," Christine answered softly. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.

When she sat back, the boy's eyes drifted closed. He took a couple more wet breaths, and then he was dead.

Chrissy stayed where she was and kept on stroking his hair.

Fusco waited. He thought she might back away, once the kid was dead. Or cry. Or scream. Something.

Then he remembered. The skinny little girl with the thousand year-old eyes. Please take me back to school. He father dead on the pavement, a dozen or so cops standing around in the blazing sun, and this little girl, calm and flat. Please take me back to school.

He'd taken her back to school. She'd taken her chemistry test, though the nuns had told her she could make it up later. She'd cleaned out her locker, put on her little navy blue sweater, walked out the front door and vanished into the city.

The next time Fusco had seen her, and every time for a couple years after that, she'd been stoned out of her mind.

"Chrissy," he said, very quietly.

He remembered, too late, that she hated to be called that now.

But she didn't flinch. Didn't even look up.

The punks at the table began to stir, and Fusco turned his head to glare them back into silence.

Outside, he head sirens approaching.

Very slowly, she raised her head to look at him.

"Christine. This is not your fault."

"It's not yours, either," she answered, very quietly.

Igor Zubec leaned down, grabbed her by both shoulders, and picked her up off the ground. He carried her like a rag doll to the front counter and dropped her into a chair. "You stay there," he commanded. He untied his big white apron as he returned, took it off and dropped if over the dead boy's face and chest. The red soaked through almost immediately.

Fusco stood up. "All of you," he said to the punks around the table. "Go out to the patio there and sit your asses down. Nobody leaves until they give a statement. Nobody. Got it?"

"We got it."

"Dude, what was he on?"

"Shut up," Fusco said, "and get moving."

They moved, carefully skirting the puddle of blood.

He looked across the bar at Rhonda. She stared back at him. She was pale, a little wide-eyed, but she was trying to stay calm. "What can I do to help?" she asked.

He was pretty sure he was in love with her.

He hoped they wouldn't break up over this.