The public precinct hallway was always bustling with people moving to and from the bullpen to the interrogation rooms, the file room, the report writing room, and the coffeepot. Jo had been introduced to it on her very first day with the NYPD just hours after she nervously made her way into the crime lab to start her new job and suddenly found herself staring at a dead body.

Maybe it was the immediacy of that case, the fact that the victim had died in "their house," but all the natural unease that she'd walked in with for a first day of work had evaporated before the morning was out. As he took control of the scene, Mac had immediately struck her as a man she could respect and build a relationship with, Danny and Sheldon had easily become teasing partners in crime, and Don Flack had proven himself to be a solid investigator. Even Adam, easy mark that he was, had a clear role in her life by day's end.

It had taken her longer to connect with Lindsay, but only because the younger woman had been struggling with some pretty intense demons in those early days, and with Sid because it had taken another case or two to get her into the morgue. But far more quickly than she'd expected, the small group had welcomed her into their work family even if past experience and the dark cloud of her last days at the Bureau had made Jo a little bit cautious about forging ahead into new friendships with her coworkers and a challenging but highly enjoyable partnership with Mac.

Their cases often brought her back to the precinct and the now familiar hallway on the far left side of the building. As you walked down it, you could see into the interrogation rooms via windows, at least, into most of them. Two of the rooms were set up so that no one could see in them any way other than the observation room's two-way mirror. That's where they generally interviewed higher profile suspects or witnesses that they knew might need to remain confidential until they were revealed to defense counsel in discovery or when they were trying to turn suspects in a case against each other.

She sat on a bench in the long walkway now, watching as the busy commotion she was normally a part of went on as usual. Jo heard a set of patrol officers laugh as they headed back out to the streets, some funny story clearly just shared. She watched a teenage girl make her way from interview three, head and eyes down, teeth sinking into her lip as a detective brought her out to meet up with her very angry parents. She heard the words "spray paint" and "cheerleader's car" shoot through the air via raised voices and guessed the worst punishment the teen would be facing was from her parents no matter what the police and the D.A. decided to do with her case.

How many times had she known a parent was waiting out here on one of these benches hoping the worst news they'd get was that their child, whatever age, had vandalized a car or gotten caught with a beer underage? And every time, because it was just the nature of the work she did, the news was so much worse than those mothers and fathers ever wanted to let themselves imagine... daughters raped, sons beaten for twenty dollars and pair of tennis shoes, children lost to drunk drivers, random violence, or the murderous jealousy of someone they'd trusted.

It was hard for her to imagine what thoughts were going through the mind of the father she was lying in wait for now. Jo knew from the numerous FBI files she'd read on Ramon Delasentora Sr. that he was vicious and seemingly without conscience when it came to protecting his powerbase and his drug trafficking empire. But she also knew he'd gone to great lengths to keep his son on a different path. Ramon Junior had gone to the best private schools in New York, had traveled the world, going to more historic places than most kids read about in their text books. There was even an unsubstantiated rumor that a young runner in the Delasentora family had met a swift end after breaking the rules and taking Junior out to party, exposing him to several low-level dealers and the girls who followed them around, hunting for a meal ticket and protection.

But Mac had been right about the psychology of men like Ramon Junior. Whether they were embraced by their fathers or held at arms length, they often grew up with an inferiority complex, a feeling that because their fathers had purposely made sure they never had to work as hard for what they wanted, their fathers somehow thought they were less than. It was a universal phenomenon, too. She'd seen it working cases in other countries and cultures... some time-worn instinctual battle between fathers and sons in which logic couldn't intervene.

Cop instinct told Jo that the son had not run to his father for help after his plan for revenge had gone so tragically awry. If he had, Junior would probably be on a plane to South America instead of sitting in one of the precinct interrogation rooms. And to be honest, she was a little surprised they had gotten away with arresting their prime suspect without someone calling his father and alerting him, resulting in a high-priced lawyer dropping on their doorstep before they could ask a single question.

That was likely a result of Junior's ego issues. His own small band of associates had probably heard him posture about how the cops couldn't possibly have anything on him, how he would be home in a few hours, and those same dealers, runners, and enforcers he ran with were terrified of what would happen if Ramon Senior found out they'd played any part in what would now befall his son. It was a case where silence was truly golden... and possibly the difference between life and death.

So likely, the drug kingpin's first real sense of concern had come from Mac's phone call informing Senior that they needed his assistance to clear up some details about a matter concerning his son. That was how Mac had phrased it. "We've been speaking with your son, and I think you could help us clear up some details about this matter if you're willing to come down to the precinct." Ramon Senior had said he was on his way, and they both knew that meant his lawyer, Ward Brevington, would also be glued to his side. Brevington had done a miraculous job of keeping his client out of courtrooms for more than a decade, and there was no doubt he'd be bellowing about injustice and false arrest two seconds through the door, which would, they hoped, result in a chance to leave Jo alone with the notorious Ramon Delasentora.

The question was, who was he as a father? Was the attempt to push his only son out of the business that had made him millions real or had it been a ploy to look like a good father while awaiting the inevitable? And even if it was genuine, even if every hope he'd ever had for his child was the same as every parent-a son who was respectable, who didn't make a living from crime, who never even tried an illegal drug let alone sold one-what value did this father put on his son's life now that he had fallen so far?

"You expect me to believe that my client did not ask for an attorney?"

Jo took a deep breath and fought the urge to glance down the hallway as the raised voices reached her ears. Then she heard Flack's response and knew their plan had been set in motion.

"He did not, and you can hear the tape yourself if you like."

"Oh, believe me, detective, I insist. And you damn well better hope it's as clear cut as you're implying."

"Mr. Delasentora," Flack said, refusing to acknowledge Brevington's idle threat, "if you could just have a seat in the hallway, I'll let Detective Taylor know you're here."

"I want to see my son."

"Sorry, sir, but your son is an adult. While he's being interviewed, you have no legal right to see him."

Jo spared a glance that direction, feeling safe with all the men engaged in conversation. Ramon Senior was about to protest, but Brevington put his hand on his client's arm."

"Ramon, let me handle this. Chances are this is all just a smoke screen to harass you anyway."

Her eyes dropped as Flack motioned toward the hallway benches, and then she saw him lead the still protesting attorney toward the opposite side of precinct, where the entry doors to the interview rooms were safe from public access. Ramon Senior, who looked nothing like the ruthless drug lord he was-$2,000 suit clinging to his fit physique, his hair grayed at the temples, but still full and well styled-walked about halfway down the hall and sank down two benches from where Jo sat.

Uniformed officers passed by, detectives hurried to get some fresh coffee before they had to take another call, and Jo Danville sat mere feet away from father of the boy who had killed her son.

The faith Mac had shown in her was magnified now that she was sitting in the reality of the situation. It would've been so easy if she'd been looking for retribution, if vengeance was her goal. Though there were half a dozen officers spread throughout the corridor, not a one of them could have gotten to her if she were concealing a weapon and ready to strike. Especially after the stunt Russ had pulled, it spoke volumes about how deep the trust ran between them, and she felt her resolve strengthen as the truth of that wrapped around her heart, giving comfort to what felt permanently broken inside.

Mac needed justice here. He needed it for her. The idea of failing, of there being no "solved" electronically stamped across Tyler's file... she knew him well enough to know the weight that had put on his shoulders. And tied as her hands were, Jo felt a need she couldn't even put into words to do something to help free him from that burden.

She sighed deeply and sat her purse beside her, pulling out her phone. She sent a text she genuinely needed to send, alerting her mother that an FBI agent would probably be at the apartment soon to collect Russ, and that it was fine to let him leave. Mac had told her that once they had Ramon Senior in the interrogation room, he was going to have Flack call the local director and pull him in the loop. They were going to need the bureau's help if it went the way they hoped, and Jo wanted Russ to know what was happening so he could see firsthand that the person who had killed their son was suffering consequences for it, even if it wasn't the eye-for-an-eye justice he'd envisioned.

Text sent, Jo went to put her phone away, but instead tipped her purse so it spilled off of the bench. Keys, sunglasses, assorted small notebooks and slips of paper flew across the floor, and as she leaned down to start trying to reassemble it, she let out a sound that could convey nothing but frustration. Then she started pulling the papers into some kind of order so she could shove them back into her bag.

"May I help?"

She looked up and found Ramon Delasentora Sr. looking at her, his hands already working to gather up the notebooks and her keys, which had gone furthest, skidding along the tile.

"Thank you," she offered, her voice needing no acting on her part to sound broken and exhausted.

Her scattered purse contents retrieved, Jo moved to stand, but the man took hold of the bag in one hand and her arm with the other. She let him help her back to her seat and then took possession of her woven satchel when he presented it to her.

"Thank you again. I'm sorry. I'm sure, this being a police station, you have more on your mind than helping some clumsy woman pick up her purse."

"There's always time to be a gentleman," he said, and then instead of moving back to his prior seat, he sat down at the end of the bench Jo had returned to.

"I don't... I'm not normally such a mess. Well, my office is normally this big a mess, but I don't usually drop my whole life on the floor in public places."

"A lot on your mind as well?"

Jo nodded and took a deep breath.

"My son. He was... killed two nights ago."

She felt the pain of it rise up and try to choke her as she said it out loud, but Jo forced herself to finish the sentence.

"I'm so sorry."

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. She repeated the exercise and then forged on.

"Thank you. Anyway, they called me down here because they said they had some information, but I've just been waiting, and... waiting lets me think too much."

Delasentora nodded.

"I can imagine."

"Do you have children?" she asked, and she watched his head move in the affirmative again.

"Two daughters, both married now. And a son. A son who seems determined to throw away every opportunity I've given him."

"That seems to be how children are. You work so hard to make sure they can have an easier life than you, a better one, and then they resent you for not letting them work hard for things, for wanting to spare them the same mistakes you made."

Another nod, and Jo let a beat of silence pass between them as she readied herself for what came next. She'd made a career on being able to read people quickly, sizing up their weak points, gauging the best method of interrogation in a fraction of the time it took most of her coworkers. And she knew from the small bit of commentary this man had offered to her that he was a father who had genuine love for his children; they weren't just for show. The tidbit about his daughters being married had expressed pride in having raised two girls who had started lives of their own. And his genuine disappointment in his son's current situation, even without knowing all the details, made it clear he had a real desire to see his son living in a different world than the one he knew so well.

She'd had two strategies planned based on how he read to her in the few minutes that she'd have with him. And now that she knew which path to follow, Jo thought about the people she was doing this for... for the son she loved, the girl he had loved, and all the other parents who were grieving today.

And for Mac... who needed this to be over as much as she did.

"If there had been a way for me to save my son... even if it meant trading places with him... dying in that fire instead of him... I would have done it. If someone could give me that chance right now, I'd still say, 'yes, take me instead.' Because he was worth that to me. He was worth everything."

The words were honest to the point of brutality, the wishing that there was some mystic way the universe would hear her and make this right somehow not a manufactured piece of dialogue but a truth from the deepest part of her maternal soul.

"If you love your son... fight for him. Even if he doesn't want you to... do what you have to do and give him every chance you can to grab hold of that life you want him to have. Because believe me, there's nothing worse than being powerless to do something to protect your child."

She was about at her breaking point, and Jo realized she must have looked it because Flack came toward them then, somehow appearing from the end of the hallway.

"Detective," she said, bypassing his name so she wouldn't tip their hand to Ramon Senior. She stood, and Don reached out instinctively to steady her.

"Thanks for waiting. Let's, uh, head back somewhere we can speak in private."

Flack paused as Jo nodded and then he focused his attention on Delasenatora.

"Mr. Brevington is with your son. Detective Taylor will be out to speak with you in just a moment."

Ramon Senior nodded and then looked over at Jo.

"Thank you for the counsel. And again, I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she said, her stomach knotting up from the tension of trying not to fall apart, which Jo knew was coming, and fast.

If she were really just a grieving mother talking to a worried father, she knew she might have wished him good luck or said she'd think good thoughts for him and his son. But the fact that she knew how many sons and daughters this many had taken from others left Jo unable to conjure enough of the cop in her to put that final finishing touch on her encounter with the father of her son's killer.

So instead, she let Don's hand lead her off, back toward the report writing room, away from prying eyes that didn't need to watch her body start to shake as she wobbled toward the room to the rear of the precinct.

"No matter what happens," Flack whispered, his arms pulling her into a loose embrace once they were safely out of sight, "you did everything you could, Jo. Promise me you're gonna remember that, okay?"

She didn't trust her voice, wasn't sure that if she opened her mouth anything but a sob would come out, so Jo nodded against his shoulder and accepted the steadying balance his height and hold provided.

The rest of it lay in Mac's hands... and she hoped for all their sakes that it was almost over.


Mac stood at the end of the hallway with a folder in his hands, pretending to scan it as he watched Flack lead Jo away from Delasentora. He could see the toll the brief exchange had taken on her, and he felt an ache to go to her that he could barely tamp down. If the stakes weren't so high, nothing could've stopped him.

But the stakes were that high, and so he reminded himself that she was in good hands with Don and then Mac started down the hall toward the man who would decide exactly what kind of punishment Ramon Delasentora Jr. would suffer for his crimes.

"Mr. Delasentora, I'm Detective Mac Taylor. If you'll follow me, we can get this cleared up and get you on your way."

"And my son?"

"He's still speaking with your attorney," Mac said, not revealing that Brevington was only just now being allowed in to see Ramon Junior after a few rather lengthy manufactured delays.

Ramon Senior followed him into one of the confidential interview rooms, Mac fully aware that Junior was one room over, likely spilling his guts to his lawyer about the confession he'd already written up.

"What exactly is it my son has done, Detective?"

"Your son attended a party the other night, briefly, and we wanted to get some information from him on what happened there before he left."

"Was there some problem at this party?"

"There was, yes. A fire broke out some time after your son left. Several people died in this fire, many more were injured. And we're just trying to gather as much information as we can."

"My son is in college, Detective. He goes to a lot of parties. I'm not sure what it is you think I can help you with here. He certainly doesn't share the details of his social life with me."

"Well, can you tell me, has he ever mentioned someone named Tuffi? Uh, this man?"

Mac pulled out a photo of Tuffi from the folder he was holding and slipped it across the table.

"Frequents fraternity parties, apparently. Small-time drug dealer. He was trying to muscle in on the row's trade. We think he may have been the target."

Ramon Senior studied the photo a moment and then looked Mac straight in the eye.

"Detective, how about you and I not play any games here? You are fully aware of who I am, and you didn't call me down here to ask me about my son's friends. So what is it you want to know?"

The question was asked in the same calm voice Senior had been using since he'd walked through the doors of the precinct, and so Mac responded in kind, his voice measured.

"Your son started a fire in an effort to kill this Tuffi over drug sales in the frat houses at NYU. Only he didn't kill his rival. He killed eight people... eight kids who were just living their lives trying to enjoy some fun on the weekend before they went back to classes on Monday."

"My son is not that stupid."

There was an edge to it, but there was also a sense of bravado, and Mac could feel the dishonesty of it. Senior wanted to have faith in his kid, but he didn't; history had taught him better than that.

"Your son was selling drugs from your network right here in New York without you knowing about. He convinced people who work for you to keep you in the dark. And then he tried to be a big man and show you how tough he was, so he started this fire to defend his territory."

Mac didn't set the photos of the victims out one by one as he had for Junior. This man had seen enough death in his life to be unfazed by them. Instead he just plopped them on the table as an exclamation point to his next statement.

"And Junior confessed. He soaked the rugs in alcohol, dropped cigarettes on them to smolder and then... dead bodies everywhere."

There was a long moment where the pieces clicked, when Senior realized how deep the foundation of betrayal was that lay under his son's downfall. His men hadn't told him about any of it... not about the dealing or Tuffi, not about the fire, not about Junior's arrest, and it meant that his own organization had allowed this to happen. There was probably a lot of arrogance to blame for that, low-level hoods who wanted to make good and thought getting in with the possible future head of the business was the way to go. But there were also probably, among those men who had kept their silence, loyalists to Senior who felt Ramon Junior was a liability to them all... and the sooner he took himself out of the game, the better.

Window open, Mac picked up a sheet of paper from the folder and read from the page.

"A man has to prove himself. I just wanted to show my father that I was like him, that I could handle my business."

"He... he really confessed?"

Mac sat the handwritten sheet down on the table. He saw the acceptance on Senior's face as he recognized that the writing was his son's.

"He confessed, and he's going to spend the rest of his life in prison. He's damn lucky New York doesn't currently utilize the death penalty, because he'd be a shoe-in."

"I want to see my son now," Senior demanded, standing up, his cool facade slipping.

"You can you see your son after he's booked for eight counts of first-degree murder, fourteen counts of attempted murder, and arson. And you can do it during normal visiting hours at Rikers."

Picking up the page from the confession, Mac shoved it back into the folder along with the photos and started toward the door. His hand was barely on the knob when he heard Delasenatora shout out his name.

"He didn't mean to kill those people. He couldn't have."

"He still killed them," Mac noted, turning back to face this man who had become one of the most wanted criminals in the country even as he stood right out in the open, defying capture. "No one is just going to forget that those kids are dead because of something your son is responsible for starting."

"But the intent..."

"I'm sure your lawyer can confirm this for you, but blocking the exit doors to trap the partygoers inside, placing the accelerant? That all speaks to intent, whether he killed the right victim or not."

"He's a stupid boy! A stupid child who made a mistake."

"A costly mistake, Mr. Delasentora, one he's going to have to pay for. And don't underestimate us. We have his DNA at the crime scene, we have fingerprints, a match to his shoes, eyewitnesses. Your son is going to prison."

Mac moved to walk out once again, but this time he stopped on his own and moved the few steps back toward the table.

"He cried. When he realized what he'd done, Ramon Junior cried. So the best thing you can do for him is make sure your attorney tries to get the best deal he can. Because your son? He isn't you. He's not built for survival in a place like Sing Sing."

Ramon Senior held Mac's gaze for a beat, and then another. And then he closed his eyes and shook his head. When his eyes opened again, the man sat back down in his chair and calmly slid closer to the table.

"What would be the best deal you think my son could get?"

Mac dropped the folder down onto the table and took up his seat again, mirroring Ramon Senior's pose.

"If we had something to offer the FBI, they could take jurisdiction in the case. It's likely that, for the right incentive, they would be willing to take manslaughter pleas in the deaths and drop the rest of the charges. He could be sentenced to a federal prison then, hand-selected for the staff's ability to protect him; none of your old enemies looking for payback, no street hustlers looking to make a name for themselves by going after Ramon Delasentora's son. And even with multiple manslaughter charges, he might see the light of day again, while he's still young enough to have some kind of a life."

"And this incentive? I'm sure you didn't get me down here without some idea of how much would be needed to make this happen. So what will it take if I want to ensure Ramon Junior secures this deal?"

"Simple," Mac said, his hands folding over each other on the table. "You."


Jo watched as Russ listened intently to his director and the U.S. Attorney who had been assigned to the case detail what they had in mind. Ramon Junior would still go to prison, but to a medium-security federal prison in upstate New York. He would serve no less than 15 years, but would accept a full sentence of 35 years on multiple pleas of manslaughter in the first degree. In exchange for that deal, Ramon Senior would plead guilty to tax evasion, several violations of the RICO statues, and he would name four court officials he'd been bribing over the years. The plea meant that a good decade of Senior's life would be spent behind bars, and while it wasn't the dream conviction in either case, it gave the FBI ten years to try to dismantle what would surely be a weaker drug syndicate without the savvy of Ramon Senior there to protect it. And there was still a chance they could find evidence in those years to add to his sentence by closing cases on some of the numerous murders and other crimes they knew the drug lord had committed.

It was imperfect justice, but it was a huge blow to the very industry that had led to Tyler and Natalie's murders. And even though Jo knew he probably hated the idea of their son's killer ever having the chance to walk free, Russ nodded his acceptance of the terms.

While the FBI went off to finalize the deal and arrange for transport of both their prisoners, Jo walked up to her ex-husband, her hand falling gently against his arm.

"You need to let this be enough, Russ. Let this be the end of it. Because I couldn't bear it if I had to watch you destroy yourself over this. You're the only piece of Tyler I have left."

He leaned into her, his voice dropping low as he spoke.

"I'm trying, Jo. I really am."

"Try harder," she implored, the real risk that he might be the kind of parent who couldn't survive this sort of loss too obvious after his earlier behavior to be ignored. "I can't lose anyone else. So do it for me if you can't do it for yourself."

Russ nodded and stepped back, glancing toward the precinct doorway where his brother stood waiting.

"I'm gonna head out. I'll call you tomorrow?"

Jo nodded and offered a wave to Ben as Russ turned and headed for the door. Then she glanced over at Flack, who was sitting at his desk, his expression troubled. She moved to the chair at his right and sat down.

"You okay?"

Don nodded and looked up at her.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Just... long couple of days, right? I know you must be ready to get out of here, though."

"Oh, you think?"

And somehow that made them both laugh, just a little, and the deep tension that had filled the air for hours was broken.

"Don, I wanted to ask you... some of Tyler's friends are going to be pallbearers, and I thought, if you wouldn't mind..."

"I'd be honored," he said, sparing her from finishing the question. "You just let me know where and when you need me, and I'm there."

She offered him a grateful smile and then her eye was drawn to Mac, who was walking toward her after what she imagined had been a rather lengthy lecture from the chief of detectives. Their boss was less than thrilled that Mac had waited to bring in the FBI and even more pissed that he hadn't been kept in the loop. But the plea deals were huge wins for the NYPD and the FBI, and so the reality was, there wasn't much the chief could do but bluster and wag his finger, not if he wanted the public to stay focused on the good job they'd all done and not on why a detective who'd closed a major case so quickly was being disciplined.

"I don't know about you," he said as he walked up and leaned against Flack's desk. "But I would love to be done with this day now."

"We were just discussing that. Why don't you guys get outta here?" Flack offered. "I'll be around if the brass or the feds need any paper cleaned up."

Jo looked up at Mac, who nodded and stood up to his full height. He reached into his pocket for his keys and handed them to her, and she took them in hand as she rose up out of the chair.

"I just need to go over one last thing with Don. Meet you at the car?"

She agreed and said her goodbyes to Flack, and then Jo took the back route to the parking garage. As she passed the confidential interview rooms, she cast a grateful look up, thanking whatever force had helped her make it through this day, minefield it had become, and let her see the other side of it.

Her son's killer was going to pay for his crime. And it had to be enough, just like she'd told Russ. Because the truth was, nothing that happened to either of the Delasentora men could bring Tyler back. And short of that, nothing else could truly ever equal what she had lost.

The relative quiet of the Avalanche was a welcome change after hours of the buzz and hum of the precinct, and Jo leaned her head back against the seat, the silence she now dreaded broken enough by the screech of tires in the garage and car doors opening and closing that she felt safe from the danger of memories or her mind playing tricks on her.

When Mac opened the driver's side door and climbed in, Jo glanced over and saw exhaustion wash over him. Her hand reached for his, and as their fingers laced together, he turned to her.

"Is it okay if we don't go back right away?" she asked, and at Mac's furrowed brow, she went on. "I just... I think I need to not have to talk about funerals or flights for relatives or hymns for the service for a while. I just... can we just go somewhere that it's only you and me, for just a minute?"

Mac squeezed her hand and then he let it go to start the engine.

"More than a minute if you need it."

Then he smiled at her, despite how tired he was. And even though pain weighed down nearly every space in her heart, Jo felt some corner of it brighten, the light somehow reaching that lone space beyond all the darkness.