I'm glad you liked the last chapter. Like I said, it took a few weeks and a lot of fine-tuning to get it right. Let's hope I can keep meeting your expectations!

"We really need to nab this guy."

"That's the understatement of the day."

"What? After the neat little trap he set up for Yokas and O'Shea, we'd be fools not to go after him hard." Wickes said.

Asheby shrugged. "O'Shea walked right into it. If he had waited a few minutes for ESU to get there, Yokas wouldn't be up at Mercy right now. He crossed the line when he went into that house, and he knows it."

"You know what? He did what anyone would have done. Morris was leaving the house. The only reasonable thing O'Shea could've done was attempt to detain him. Which, may I remind you, he did attempt to do."

"Yeah, and as a result of that, he got himself and Yokas hurt. That house went boom, and they almost didn't make it out. Which, may I remind you, is so far from reasonable that not even you can make it seem to be."

Wickes scowled. "Okay. So maybe he acted too rash when he went charging in. Don't forget that the only reason Yokas is still alive is because he got her out. Poor guy could hardly walk for his bruised ribs, but he managed to carry her out of the house. If runnin' into that place after Morris wasn't ballsy, that was. Even you gotta admit, O'Shea's got guts."

"Maybe. Doesn't excuse him from being stupid." Asheby shuffled the papers on his desk to one side. "Any word from the fire marshal on the scene?"

"Nothing yet. The bucketboys I talked to said it could only be arson. There's no way that place would have gotten fully involved as fast as it did without somebody liberally dumping gasoline or something everywhere."

"It was a set up. It had to have been. Yokas said that Morris was grinnin' like he'd just won the lottery when he dropped the match. And that gas can she said was against the wall must've been what caused the explosion."

"But what was in it to make such a big boom? Gasoline alone doesn't make that big a mess."

Asheby chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "That's a good question. We'll have to wait for the Toxicology report to come back on what's left of the can. Another inning in the game of hurry up and wait."

"But the home team has just tied the score." Pete Harris said, waltzing artfully through the cluster of desks. "Adam Seavey was just picked up by a couple uniforms from the Four-One for trying to break into a business."

"The Four-One? That's way the hell over in the Bronx. How'd he get over there?"

"Some buddies smuggled him out, it seems. A couple uniforms are bringin' Seavey to the house here this afternoon. They've taken a pass on charges for the attempted break-in. He's all ours."

Both detectives' faces lit up. "That's gotta be the best news I've heard today. I think I might have a cold one after signing out."

"'Zat so? Drinks are on you tonight, then, Dave."

"I might even front up for a round or two." Wickes added, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "I'm thinkin' we may have a hope of making this case make sense."

Harris moved aside some papers so he could sit on the edge of the desk. "Hate to deflate your good mood, but what do we do without Yokas and O'Shea? They were the muscle team out on the street."

"That's true. Yokas won't be back until Monday, and who the hell knows when Lieu will let O'Shea come back. I heard he got dumped on medical leave until his concussion goes away."

"Suddenly I don't feel like celebrating so much," Wickes closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Give me a break-down of our remaining street team."

"Sullivan, Davis, and Boscorelli."

"That's it?"

"Yup. And I wouldn't count on Boscorelli all that much, either. He's not too keen about takin' after what he thinks to be O'Shea's path." At the questioning glances from Harris and Wickes, Asheby continued, "I talked with Yokas after you left. Both Boscorelli and her husband took swings at O'Shea. Her husband knocked him out cold in the middle of the hospital hallway. Both of them were very angry with O'Shea for being so reckless. I doubt we can count on Boscorelli for help until we get Yokas back."

"We need them both back. I can understand Yokas wanting to grab some rest after signing outta Mercy, but we need every warm body we can get on the street."

"How'll we get Andy back, then? He's on department medical leave. Only a doctor can clear him for duty."

The sergeant ambled over to the trio, a steaming coffee mug in his hand. "Talk to Morales over at Mercy and pull some strings. Get her to take a peek at O'Shea's head. At least that way we'll get a viable timeframe on his return."

"What about Yokas?"

"We'll leave her be for now. She's off at her own request, and we'll respect that. Got it?" Jones looked each man in the eye. "She wants a little bit of time to herself, that's fine. O'Shea would rather be on the beat than sitting at home with a sore head. I know the man from when he worked a desk. Tougher'n nails and a lifer if I ever saw one. Get him back even if you have to get on your knees and beg."

"Boscorelli won't like the prospect of workin' with the guy who put his partner in the hospital." Asheby said.

"Sucks to be Boscorelli. If he don't like it, that's too damn bad. We need teams out there, and he's the only one open."

"We'll have O'Shea here by the end of the day, Sarge."

Jones nodded. "I'll hold you to that. Just make sure you wipe off the ass before you kiss it."

The three detectives laughed as the sergeant strolled back to his cramped office.

There was a strange weight draped across his stomach and chest. Something warm and heavy. Andy O'Shea opened his lead-lined eyelids to peer blearily at what was lying across him. The pain medication he'd taken before collapsing onto his bed was still working, which would explain why his ribs didn't hurt too much. Shafts of golden late-morning sunlight, filtered through the heavy drapes over the windows, brightened the room enough to allow his sleep-deprived, bloodshot eyes to gradually focus on the slumbering body perched precariously across him. His fingers brushed gently across the little girl's round cheek, stirring a few strands of strawberry hair. The girls' grandmother must've brought them home earlier in the morning. O'Shea smiled a little. He was glad for the hundredth time that he hadn't gone to Haggerty's after visiting Yokas. He'd gone instead down to McCray's Market on 110th and 1st and stood on the corner for a long time. Even though the crime scene tape had long since been removed and the blood scoured from the concrete, he could still see the body of his friend lying motionless amidst a pool of dark scarlet. An RMP drove by without stopping. There was nothing too interesting about a middle-aged man in civvies standing in the middle of the sidewalk at midnight. Nothing interesting at all.

Heather's small hands tightened around the NYPD T-shirt he'd worn to bed and she let out a sleepy, self-satisfied sigh. He hoped her dream was a happy one. The only thing on her young mind should be what to take to her friend's birthday party, not the myriad of confused thoughts and emotions that tangled up his own mind. There was too much clouding his judgement to allow him to be the objective cop he had to be on the street. Swersky had made the right call when he removed the Irishman from the beat. He was a danger to others. The condition Yokas was in because of him made that painfully clear. If he had been rational and level-headed, like he usually was, he would never have pursued Morris into the house alone, without the backup that was on the way. Boscorelli was too correct when he'd said O'Shea was going to get someone killed. Maybe it was time to retire, to move on to less emotionally-draining activities that would allow him to spend more time with his kids. Anything that would let him be with them more. They were growing up and he wasn't there to share in that. That had to change. It wasn't right.

"Noo!" Heather's sudden cry startled him from his reverie like a lightning bolt to the heart. He put his arms around the girl and she tucked herself into a ball, fistfuls of his shirt clenched tightly her small hands. She was awake now, burrowing her damp face into his sleeve.

"It's okay, Daddy's here." O'Shea murmured, wondering what had scared her out of her sleep. He tucked a lock of long strawberry hair away from her tearful face and gently skimmed his thumb over her cheeks, smearing away the drops of warm, salty liquid. "It's okay."

"I don't want you to die."

So that was it. A heavy pang of guilt hammered his heart. He'd been so caught up in taking down Morris and his gang that he had forgotten how battered he was getting in the process. Seeing him come home with black eyes and bandages on his face wasn't good for the girls at all. He remembered suddenly the saucer-wide eyes of little Sarah when the girl stood in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at the deep dark purple bruises on his torso, glaringly visible as he changed shirts. He'd immediately pulled a clean shirt on, but the damage was done. She must've told her sister right away. Small girls did that. Now they were probably both afraid, and justifiably so. They had already lost their mother. They were terrified of losing their father too.

"Damn fool, O'Shea," he whispered to himself. "There's nothing to be scared of, little one. I'm not going anywhere."

Heather clung to his T-shirt, wiping her nose on the fabric. "I miss Mommy."

He knew she did. They all did. He wished there was something he could do to help them and himself get used to not having Rebecca around.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"When is Jamie gonna be like you?"

O'Shea smiled slightly in the semi-darkness as he stroked his daughter's hair. Her question was one that he often asked himself. The way the boy talked and acted, it was a strong possibility he would apply for the NYPD entrance exam after high school. He hoped so, anyway. Somebody had to take on after he retired. The girls were far too young and there was no way he would be able to stay on the street until they were old enough. His hopes were pinned on Jamie making the choice to join the Thin Blue Line. The tradition was an integral part of the O'Shea family.

"I don't know. That's up to him."

The phone in the living room rang. O'Shea rolled his eyes as it was picked up, cutting off the second ring. It was probably for Jamie. He tuned out the barely audible conversation drifting down the hallway. If the boy went to shoot hoops or something with his buddies, that was perfectly okay. Watching the girls would be a welcome alternative to pulling on his uniform and heading for what always could be his last day on the beat. Heather had shifted her position on his chest so that her face rested on his collar bone. Her father ran his fingers through her hair and wished that occurrences such as this happened more often.

"Hold on, I'll see if he's here."

That was the standard line that all three kids gave whenever the phone call was for him. If they 'couldn't find him', they would say so. It was almost always the desk sergeant calling him in to cover a shift.

"Dad, it's for you."

"I'm not here."

"It's some doctor. She wants you down at Mercy in fifteen minutes."

"Did she give a name?"

"Morales."

O'Shea sighed. "Figures. Probably just a check-up. Okay, I'll be up in a minute."

Jamie went back down the hallway to relay this information. His father yawned and stretched as much as he dared with the little girl lying across him.

"Come on, little one. Daddy has to get up."

"Do you have to go to work?"

"No. Just have to go to the hospital for a few minutes. I'll be back soon." He picked the girl up as he rolled off the bed. "Wait here, okay? Warm up the bed for me."

"Okay Daddy."

She was already falling back asleep when he tucked the sheet over her small body. With a smile, he tugged on a pair of jeans and tucked in the T-shirt. His jacket was somewhere in the room, wait, there it was. Thrown over the chair where it had been since last night.

"I'll be back."

"Okay." Jamie was planted firmly in front of the television, a game controller in his hands. "T.J. and Jason are droppin' in this afternoon."

"They're more than welcome. Just make sure that there's something for the girls to eat when they get up. I think there might be some cereal in the cupboard."

"Nah, I ate it earlier."

O'Shea rolled his eyes. "Fine. Here's a twenty, run down to the store around the corner and grab cereal or something. There's no milk left is there?"

"Nope."

What a surprise. "Get a gallon of milk too, and anything else you want. I'm goin' down to Mercy."

"Okay."

The cop tossed down a heavily-creased twenty dollar bill and scooped up his keys from the counter. He had to replace the chipped and stained countertop at some point. Just one of the dozens of projects that needed to be taken care of. It would cost him an arm and a leg to buy one. He'd have to do it himself. One of the day-shifters had a small woodworking shop in his garage. Some weekend he'd head over there with the measurements and help cut the wood. Some weekend in the distant, unseen future.

He paused at the top of the stairs. There was never enough time.

Wickes and Asheby looked up almost simultaneously when the dark-haired off-duty cop walked slowly through the visitors' entrance. He did his best to hide the pain that lanced through him with each step, but his efforts were utterly futile. Asheby shook his head as O'Shea limped across the white tile floor.

"He looks like hell."

"I don't think you'd look any better if you were in his place."

Asheby suppressed a shudder. "I'm not too sure this is a good idea after all."

"It was your idea."

"Now I'm not so sure."

"What, because of a couple bruises and a sore head, you think Andy O'Shea will turn down the opportunity to take out Morris?" Wickes shook his head. "You don't know him. He'll go for this."

"Let's hope so, because bein' here gives me the creeps." At his partner's curious glance, Asheby explained, "I hate hospitals. One of my high school friends died in one."

"Sorry." Wickes muttered.

"You. I might've known this'd be about work." O'Shea said, coming to a halt.

The two detectives nodded. "Yeah, unfortunately."

"I ain't interested. Lieu put me out on medical leave, so's that's what I'm doin'. I got kids to get to know again."

Wickes offered an apologetic smile. "I know, but this is important. We need all the manpower we can get. The brass is leaning on Lieutenant Marsh, who's leaning on us. We need you out there, Andy."

O'Shea shook his head and grimaced in pain. "I won't do it. I'm gettin' too old for this crap, lads. Me head's splittin' like you wouldn't believe, and it feels like there's a knife wedged between me ribs. Ain't no way I can walk the beat like this."

"All you gotta do is let Morales check your head. She'll clear you for duty. We've already spoken to her." Asheby said.

"No. For once, me boyos, I'm not gonna put The Job first. I got two wee lasses at home who're so happy that their father's around they don't know what to do. You think I'm gonna squash their joy for a few hours of chasin' down dead-end leads?"

"We wouldn't even ask if it wasn't important, Andy. You know that."

"Aye, maybe I do. But there's things more important than just a few hours on the beat. I'm goin' back home to 'em now, if you don't mind."

Asheby turned toward his partner as O'Shea retraced his steps to the entrance. "That went well."

There were far too many people crowding the sidewalk. Typical for a Sunday afternoon. Bosco eased the RMP to a stop at a red light and sighed. He missed having Yokas around already. She was like his other half when they were on patrol. The voice of reason, always there to balance out his temper.

Traffic crept along Fifth Avenue. The weather was tolerable, but there were plenty of people carrying umbrellas. Just in case the skies suddenly opened up. Bosco shook his head. As dark as those clouds were, it was a wonder that it wasn't pouring already. He glanced for the thousandth time at the empty passenger seat and stopped himself from asking how things were at home. She wasn't there to answer him.

"Dammit." This separation thing was tough to get used to. He knew full well that she was still in the hospital, but for some reason, he kept thinking she was in the cruiser with him, like she had been for years. But she'd be back on Tuesday. Swersky had said so. Five-Five David would be a team again. He was only half as effective without Yokas.

Bosco turned onto East 116th. For the past couple of days, he'd been on a sharp lookout for his brother. It had been several days since he had dropped out of sight. Mikey would need to resurface to satisfy his addiction real soon, and Bosco wanted to be there to grab him when he did. Bad things would happen if Big T got to Mikey first.

"Central, Five-Five David, patrol check."

"Five-Five David."

"Ten-four." The dispatcher said. "Five-Five Edward, patrol check."

Bosco tuned out the voices chattering over the airwaves and glanced at the green numbers on the cruiser's dashboard clock. Six-thirty, on the nose. The usual time for patrol checks. He pulled the cruiser to the curb. All he was doing was aimlessly driving around. There was nothing to see. His mind was spinning in circles. He needed to walk around and clear his head.

"Five-Five David to Central. 10-88."

"Ten-four, David. Show you 10-88 at 1832."

Bosco grabbed his hat, flashlight, and nightstick as he got out of the cruiser. The evening air felt heavy with moisture. It was probably going to rain. Wonderful.

"Welcome home, Mommy!" Charlie ran forward to throw his arms around his mother's legs as Fred helped her through the front door.

"Thanks, honey."

"I made you a card!"

Faith smiled as she took the folded piece of construction paper from the boy. He had carefully written 'Welcome home!' in red crayon and drawn a picture of her. "Thank you. It's beautiful."

"Emily says it's ugly."

"Well, she just doesn't know what true art looks like, then." Faith hugged the boy.

"Come on, rug-rat. Time for bed." Fred announced, hanging up his jacket.

"Aww, can't I stay up later?"

"No. You got school in the morning, remember?"

Charlie stuck out his lower lip but went to his room anyway.

"You thirsty?"

"Um, yeah. Some tea would be great."

Fred started pulling out tea bags and the pot to boil water with an eagerness that revealed how happy he was that she was home safely. "How long are you off?"

"Until Tuesday."

"Is that all? You were pretty bad off, they said."

She draped her own jacket over the back of a chair. "Yeah. But Luke Malloy's funeral is Tuesday. The whole precinct will be there."

He looked over at her with a wary expression on his face. "Including that one who got you hurt in the first place? What's his name again?"

"O'Shea."

"Yeah, O'Shea. He's worse than Bosco. I want you to stay away from him."

"Fred, I can't do that. He's – " She stopped in mid-sentence, realising that telling Fred that she and O'Shea were temporary partners probably wasn't a good idea.

"He's what?"

What could she say? "He's just lost his best friend, Fred. And his wife died when the North Tower collapsed. He hasn't got anybody to look out for him."

Fred turned on the stove and faced her. "What are you saying? You're not working with him, are you?"

"I don't have a choice. We're part of a task force trying to track down the drug dealer who's responsible for Malloy's murder. We have to work together."

"That's not what I meant. I talked to Bosco at the hospital. He wasn't with you when that house blew up. That means that this O'Shea guy was."

Faith bit her lip. "It wasn't his fault."

"Of course it wasn't! You just happened to end up there because some old lady invited you in for coffee."

"Fred, that's not – "

"I don't want you working with him. Bosco, as bad as he can get, is ten times better than O'Shea."

"I'll have to work with Bosco anyway. Andy's out on department medical leave because of his concussion."

Fred snorted. "Good for the department."

"He's got that concussion because you knocked him out!"

"Hey, that was more than justified."

"I don't need you to take swings at other officers for me, Fred. If there was an issue, I think I'm more than capable of addressing it myself."

Instead of replying, he took the pot of boiling water and poured some into the two ceramic mugs on the counter.

"Why do you keep doing this? Questioning my job and the decisions that I make when I'm working. As long as they don't affect what happens here, at home, what difference does it make?"

"But it does affect what happens here! Every time you come home with bumps or bruises or at an absurd hour, it affects us. How good do you think it is for the kids to see that?"

"It's not that much different than if you come home with the same, Fred." She shot back. "It's an occupational hazard, getting hurt. In any line of work, there's always that chance."

"Yeah, but not every line of work would put you in danger all the time!"

"I can't change the risks of being a cop. It's beyond anyone's control. The best that I can do is accept the danger and do my best to make sure that I don't take too many chances that will get me hurt."

Fred's eyes widened. "Then what happened yesterday, Faith? If you 'do your best to make sure that you don't take too many chances', what in the hell happened yesterday?"

"That was an accident. A mistake in judgement. Neither one of us could have known the house was rigged to burn."

He threw his hands up. "I don't get it. I just don't."

"I don't either, but that doesn't mean I should stop trying."

"Maybe you should."

Faith sighed. The leaden weight of weariness was seeping heavily into her. "I'm going to bed. I don't have the energy for this right now."

"So we can put this off until something more serious happens?"

"So I can get some sleep and get better."

"I'll put the tea away for later," he called after her as she vanished into the bedroom. She flopped onto the bed and closed her eyes.

"Dammit."

10-88 – Out on portable (Maine State Police)