Wickes and Asheby learn something disturbing from Seavey and are forced to go on the defensive. The officers of theFifty-Fifth Precinctattend Malloy's funeral.

Warning: Tearjerker. Have your tissue boxes handy.

Jerome Kimball stared at the two detectives on the other side of the table, his upper lip curled with just the right amount of attitude. The fact that he was facing more than a few years in prison didn't appear to bother him. Time to change that, Wickes thought.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"You think you got somethin' on me."

"No, actually we don't. We know we got somethin' on you. See," Wickes opened the folder in front of him and slid a mugshot across the table. "We got your buddy Adam Seavey. He's in the other room rollin' on you right now."

"Yeah? What's the little punk sayin'?"

"He's sayin' that it was all you."

Kimball's sneer got more pronounced. "Figures. He's a weenie."

"Give us something that sounds better."

"I ain't talkin'."

Wickes and Asheby exchanged glances. "Okay. I guess that's a wrap, then. The A.D.A. will be in shortly to advise you of your options. It's out of our hands now."

"Wait, what is?" Kimball demanded as the detectives started to get up.

"The charges she's filing. Murder One, for starters."

"Probably conspiracy to commit murder, illegal possession of a concealed firearm, illegal possession of narcotics, and assault on an officer with a deadly weapon will show up in the paperwork too." Asheby added. "That's not even taking into account the fact that you violated the conditions of your bail."

"Either way, you're lookin' at fifteen to twenty years at Riker's, at least."

Kimball looked at each detective, his cocky attitude rapidly dissolving. "What happens if I roll?"

"We'll put in a good word for you with the D.A. Co-operation looks very good when it comes time for sentencing."

"Okay. It went down like this…"

"Hey, Sarge, I think we got something."

Sergeant Jones turned away from the desk officer he had been conversing quietly with. "Better be good."

"It is. Kimball just spilled. He gave us everything." Asheby said, gesturing at his notebook. "He knows where Morris' couriers hang out, when they move to get and deliver messages, how they do it, everything. He told us who did Staples, who was in the schoolyard, and who pulled the trigger on Malloy. Hell, he even agreed to let us test his hands for gunpowder residue. The only powder on him is from the one round he fired when he and his buddies were thumping on O'Shea."

"Powder residue can be washed off."

"Yeah, but he's been here since we picked him up."

Jones made a face. "There's still a problem with that. It doesn't really matter how many rounds are fired. Powder residue collects on whatever surface is closest. There's no way to tell if he shot Malloy or not, because he fired his gun again. All we've proved is that he did in fact fire his weapon, which completely supports what we already know."

"Oh."

"Good effort, though."

Wickes appeared from the interrogation room. "We better call the teams back in. There might be a problem."

"How bad?" Jones asked.

"I was just in with Harris and Spindelli. Seavey told them something very interesting."

"And?"

Wickes opened a drawer at his desk and pulled out an extra magazine. "He said that Morris likes to hide out down near Marcus Garvey Park."

"So what?"

"Seavey said that he heard that Morris is planning to knock off the cops who are putting the biggest pinch on his operation. Meaning," the detective dropped the magazine out of his sidearm and racked out the round in the chamber. "That he plans to go after O'Shea, Yokas, and Boscorelli. And us."

Jones' face paled. "When does he plan to go about this?"

"Seavey said he didn't know and he's probably telling the truth. Morris has been playing things real close to the vest."

"What can we do about it?" Asheby asked.

"Alert the teams. They'll need to keep an extra sharp eye out for any trouble." Wickes slid the magazine he had taken from his desk into his gun. The metallic sound of the slide clicking as he pulled it back to rack a new round into the chamber seemed to echo around the station house. "We don't know how much about us that he knows, but it's probably a good idea to post protective details at Yokas' and O'Shea's. I wouldn't be surprised if Morris knows exactly where we all live."

"Dave, what kind of bullets did you just put in your gun?"

The detective dug a box of cartridges from his desk drawer. "9mm hollow points. You might want to load up a mag for yourself."

"What do they do?"

"They hurt."

"Wickes, those rounds aren't department-issue. You can't use them." Jones said.

"Write me up, then, Sarge. I'm not taking any chances." Wickes replied. "Come on, Mark. You've still got your uniform in your locker, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Get it out and get changed. We gotta get moving."

Wickes glanced uneasily up and down the hallway, the unfamiliar weight of his gunbelt digging into his hips. It had been more than a couple of years since he'd worn an actual uniform. His partner, on the other hand, appeared completely at ease. He was standing on the other side of the door, thumbs hooked on the leather belt.

"Officer Yokas, open up."

There was the faint sound of movement from inside the apartment. Wickes took a half-step back and adjust the gunbelt for the fifth time.

"How can you stand all this weight?"

Asheby shrugged. "Just have to bear it."

The apartment door opened. Yokas peered sleepily out at the two uniformed detectives. "Can I help you?"

"Is this a bad time?" Asheby asked.

"We've got some unwelcome news for you. May we come in?"

"Of course." She stepped aside to let them enter. "Is this about the Morris case?"

"Unfortunately."

"Is there anyone else here with you?"

Yokas shook her head. "No, it's just me. Fred's at work and the kids are at school."

"Is it all right if we sit down?" Wickes asked. At her nod, both men took a seat on the couch. "Do you remember Jerome Kimball?"

Yokas thought for a moment. "Yeah, the guy who beat up Andy O'Shea."

"He told us the whole story about the recent murders. His buddy Adam Seavey gave us quite a bit of inside information about the Dolphin ring. One particular piece of information caught our attention, which is why we're here."

"Seavey told us that Morris is planning to go after the cops who are jamming up his operation. That's you, O'Shea, Boscorelli, and us."

"What does that mean for us?"

"Protective details on all of you, Sullivan and Davis included. Until we bag this guy, it's best to assume that nowhere is safe, other than the station house. Lieutenant Marsh is putting together the paperwork that will assign two uniforms here around the clock. There will be similar teams at your partner's apartment, as well as O'Shea's, Sullivan's, and Davis'."

"It's that bad, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Dammit." Yokas rubbed both hands over her face. "I didn't think it could get any worse, after what Andy told me earlier."

Wickes' eyebrows went up. "What did he say?"

"He called not long after Fred left for work, to see how I was doing. He said he had noticed a dark sedan following his truck around. It struck him as odd, so he made a stop at the station house for a moment. The sedan waited down the street for him to come back out."

"That is odd. Did he mention it to the desk officer?"

"Yeah. He got the plate number and had the D.O. run it through the system. I wrote it down when he told me." The officer handed Wickes the piece of paper. "Andy also asked if I had noticed anything strange around the building, like people hanging around who shouldn't be. I told him no."

"This doesn't sound good. Do you keep an off-duty gun in the apartment anywhere?"

"No, not with the kids here. I don't want them stumbling across it."

"Okay. I would strongly suggest keeping this close by, then." Wickes reached inside his jacket and pulled out a holster and gun. "It's got a full magazine in it, and there's a round already racked."

Yokas took the weapon. "This one's yours, I take it?"

"Yes, but I won't need it as much as you might. Keep it handy."

"Got it."

"A couple of day-shifters are on their way over right now. They'll be in uniform. Steve Harrington and Timmy Langley. Good guys. They won't let anybody but your family in or out of the apartment unless you okay it."

"Okay."

The detectives stood up. "We've got to get over to O'Shea's fast. If there are people already watching his place, he could be in some serious trouble."

"Andy's a sharp guy and he's protective of his family. I doubt he'll let anything happen to them."

Wickes shook his head. "This is a rough outfit we're up against. It'll take more than an old beat cop with only one good eye and a gun to protect anyone."

"Who's assigned to Bosco's place?"

"Corey MacGregor and Nathan Kelley. I figured your partner would prefer a couple of cowboys outside his door."

Yokas grinned a little. "Yeah, they'd probably spend more time swapping war stories than they would standing guard."

"Thanks for your time, Officer. I hope these details turn out to be unnecessary."

"Yeah, me too. Thanks."

"He's not here right now."

Asheby sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "You don't understand. It's important that we speak with your father immediately. Where is he?"

The teen on the other side of the door didn't even blink. "He's not here right now."

"Listen, son, you really don't understand. There are some men watching this building, waiting for your father. They want him dead. That's why we need to talk to him as soon as possible."

"You mean those two blokes sittin' in the nineteen-eighty-seven Lincoln Continental about twelve yards north of the front door?"

The two detectives wheeled around in surprise at O'Shea's unexpected appearance. "Where'd you come from?"

"Roof. You can see quite a bit from up there without bein' seen yourself."

"You've been watching them the whole time?"

"Aye. Watching and recording." O'Shea held up a Nikon camera with a zoom lens. "I signed this outta the house's special tools locker, or whatever it's called. Bloody useful piece of equipment. I got some decent shots of both lads in the vehicle, as well as the vehicle itself. I think I used up a whole roll of film, but I ain't got a clue how to take it out."

Wickes took the camera and rewound the film so it could be safely removed. "You're one step ahead of us, Andy. Great work."

"You lads want a drink or somethin'? I ain't got much, but you're welcome to it."

"Sure," Asheby said at the sharp jab in the ribs from his partner's elbow.

"Put that away now, Jamie."

The two detectives tensed again as they entered and saw the weapon in the teen's hand. Without so much as a glance at the pair, Jamie vanished down a short hallway.

"Make that two steps ahead of us. Good thing we didn't try to force our way in."

"Aye." O'Shea said. "Hope you're okay with soda, it's all I got for now."

"Yeah, that's fine."

The Irishman handed out the plastic bottles before lifting himself onto the counter. "Haven't seen you in a uniform since Donovan retired, Davey."

Wickes' cheeks turned light pink. "Yeah, it's been awhile. The better to stand out, you know. Helps to have Morris' boys think that it's just a couple of other beat cops payin' a visit."

"Aye, makes sense. So what's the purpose of this wee visit? I don't reckon you're here to admire the view."

"No, unfortunately." Wickes pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "We're assigning a protective detail to your apartment, Andy. At least until this mess is all over. There's already a two-man team over at Yokas' place, and we're despatching one to Boscorelli's as well. Adam Seavey told us that Morris is after the cops who are pinching his operations."

O'Shea nodded. "I get it. That's why those blackguards are followin' me around."

"That's it. Too much has happened already. We don't need anyone else to get hurt or killed."

Asheby glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, what's your name?"

The little girl ran back into her room without answering. O'Shea smiled, taking a sip from the dark brown bottle in his hand. "That's Sarah. Heather's somewhere down the hall."

"She looks like her mother," Wickes commented.

"Aye, more than a little."

"How old is she?"

"Five. Heather's six."

"Pretty girl."

"Who's getting assigned here?"

"Hanscom and Puller."

O'Shea chuckled. "Ah, Marty and Chris. They still partners?"

"Yeah. Inseparable as ever."

"Aye, they are that."

A silence fell between the three men. Wickes could think of nothing appropriate to say to O'Shea that expressed his sympathy for the officer's loss. Luke Malloy had been more than a good cop. He'd been a good friend to most who knew him.

"You gonna be all right alone here until Hanscom and Puller show up?"

"Aye. I've got a rifle in me bedroom and Jamie has a Glock nine, which you've already seen."

Asheby was incredulous. "He owns it?"

"That's right. He wanted one, so he got one. As long as he keeps it under lock and key and unloaded, it's fine with me." O'Shea replied. "Whenever I get a day off, I take him out to the ESU sniper training range to blow the hell outta tin cans. Only time we really do somethin' as a family."

"Family bonding at its best," Wickes said. "Still want to stay on medical leave?"

"I dunno, now. With those blokes perched outside, I'd rather not leave the girls alone. Jaime'd not leave, even for a second, but I'd rather be around anyway." O'Shea nibbled on his lower lip. "Then again, the sooner this Morris gets bagged, the sooner we can go back to living normally."

"It's not like there won't be a guard here, Andy." Wickes reminded him.

"Aye, I know that. But two uniforms outside the door would be a sign to the bad guys just to get more firepower."

"Would you feel better if an ESU team was posted here too?"

"Maybe, except for that stuff don't happen for regular lads like me, Davey. You know that."

Wickes grinned. "I know. Just thought I'd ask, I got a couple buddies in the unit who might be willing to freelance if I asked 'em to."

"Nah, don't worry about it."

"Yokas is back on Monday. If you came back too, Lieutenant Swersky might pair you two up again. It all depends on what you both want, and if you even get back on."

The Irishman sighed. "All right. I'll let the doc look at me head and say her piece. Whether or not it gets me back on the beat remains to be seen, but I'll go in to Mercy."

"Good. Thanks, Andy."

Faith was the first to see Andy O'Shea amble into the locker room Tuesday morning. She was in the middle of fastening on her gun belt when the unexpected opening of the door caught her attention. Bosco hadn't yet arrived, and she assumed that it was him just getting to the house. It wasn't until she looked over to be sure that she realised that the Irishman was back.

"Andy! What are you doing back?"

O'Shea was already at his locker and was pulling off the grey NYPD T-shirt he was wearing. "Doc cleared me for duty. I'm back until somebody knocks me round the head again."

"That's good. I'm glad," she said, and was surprised to discover that she really was. "You gonna to work alone today?"

"I dunno. Depends on what Lieu has to say. Wouldn't mind pairin' up with somebody, though. Makes the shift go by a little quicker."

She couldn't miss the hint in his statement. "I wouldn't mind that, either."

The older cop blew off the thin layer of dust that had collected on his duty gun and worked the slide to make sure it wasn't sticking. "Good thing I cleaned this 'fore goin' on leave. So where's Boscorelli?"

"Late, as usual. I don't think he's ever been on time for work."

"Ah."

"So you want to beFive-Five Edward Foot tonight?"

He looked over with a grin. "Aye, sounds good."

Faith returned the grin as she shut her locker. "Okay. I'll go tell Lieu."

"Yeah. See you in roll." O'Shea turned his attention back to his locker. As Lieutenant Swersky had promised, there was a new uniform waiting for him at the apartment, complete with his badge and the plastic backing that held all his medals. Even the hash marks on the left sleeve had been sewn on for him. He pinned the badge and its plastic backing onto his jacket, then laid the jacket aside. It felt good to strap on the Kevlar vest again, like he was putting a shield over his body. His upper body, anyway. He pulled the long-sleeved shirt over the vest and swiftly buttoned it. The whole process was completely second-nature to him. He could do it in his sleep. He'd miss it when it was gone.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

O'Shea rolled his eyes. "I'm clear for duty, so here I am."

"Great. Now you have another shot at getting someone hurt." Boscorelli said.

"Ain't no chance of that, me boyo. All I'm out for is a quiet shift."

"Turnin' soft, O'Shea?"

"Nope. Just got two wee girls at home who need their father back home. Those two blokes standin' outside me door ain't good enough."

Boscorelli almost dropped his flashlight. "You've got a detail on your place too?"

"Aye. Yokas has one too."

"Damn."

"Guess so." O'Shea grabbed his hat and nightstick and shut his locker. "Time for the hunt, I reckon. Hope it's a futile one."

"We're actually going be in an RMP tonight, okay?"

O'Shea shrugged. "Okay."

Faith only shook her head and picked up her hat. The pre-shift briefing hadn't told them much more than they already knew. Anthony Morris was still on the loose. With any luck, the detectives would make more progress in their effort to track him down. Andy was beginning to get fidgety with the ongoing lack of headway in the case and she understood his agitation. She yawned suddenly, and remembered that it was only eight-thirty in the morning. It felt strange to work the day shift, but Malloy's funeral was scheduled for four that afternoon. The whole precinct would leave their posts to attend.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She mentally shook herself and followed O'Shea through the door leading to the crowded cruiser parking lot. "Just a little tired."

"Me too."

"Drive?"

O'Shea flipped the keys to her. "It's all yours."

The pair carried out a quick inspection of the cruiser's interior and exterior lights and took care to make sure there were no hidden weapons or drugs in the backseat behind the cage. While Faith checked the gear in the trunk, O'Shea tested each switch on the siren box.

"Everythin' looks good," he reported from the passenger's seat as he stuffed his flashlight and notebook between the seat and the centre console.

"Good."

Bosco emerged from the station house with a nervous-looking kid in tow. The expression on his face showed his irritation. O'Shea chuckled as Faith started the engine.

"Looks like Boscorelli got stuck with the new kid."

"Which one?"

"Ingles, I think. Fresh outta the Academy."

"Poor Bosco. He hates training rookies."

"I feel bad for him," O'Shea said, waving cheerfully at the sour-faced Bosco. The other officer only scowled at the passing RMP.

"What's our first stop?"

"Coffee. It's too early in the morning not to have some."

Faith smiled. "Definitely. So how's it feel to be on the beat again?"

"Like I've just woken up from a long dream," he replied. He glanced over at her, and she couldn't help but notice the wistfulness in his face. "It's nice to be workin' with somebody again, too."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Nothing really takes the place of a good partner."

"Aye, that's true."

And so the conversation went, back and forth, from topic to topic. Faith learnt more about her new partner by talking to him in the space of an hour and a half than she had learnt about Bosco when they had first started working together. O'Shea was far more open than Bosco was, and she was grateful for the change. Having someone riding with her who didn't mind talking was a welcome relief after the long silences that often stretched between her and Bosco. And the stories that O'Shea told revealed the wild nature of the city when he had been a rookie. Faith learnt a lot about the way beat cops used to act and realised how much had changed over the years. It was like reading a history book on the subject, except that an actual book wouldn't have brought the events to life quite as well or as vividly as O'Shea did.

"Do you usually talk this much when you're on duty?"

"Aye, it helps pass the time. Good for that whole trust thing, too." The Irishman replied. "Me and Malloy used to go back and forth like this for hours on the beat. There wasn't much, if anything, that we didn't tell each other."

"Wish I could say the same, sometimes."

He sipped his coffee. "What, you and Boscorelli don't talk?"

"Not really. Most of the time, we only discuss work."

"Don't that sound like fun, then. It's a wonder you ain't gone crazy that way."

"We get along all right. There's not much need for conversation, really. He watches my back and I watch his. That's all that counts."

"To a degree, I reckon it does. But how well do you know him? What's he do when shift's over? Where's he go? Who's he go to see?"

"I don't really know," Faith admitted. "I've always figured that he goes home, or goes to visit his mother. That's what he always says he does, anyway."

Andy nodded. "Aye, he strikes me to be that kinda lad. I usually knew where Malloy went after shift, 'cause it was the same place I went. Straight home to be with the kids. Once a week we'd have a night where he'd bring Tara and the boys over for Irish stew and soda bread, or we'd head over to Brooklyn for fried chicken and potatoes. Every Friday night, the day shift lads would gather at Haggerty's for a couple rounds of pool and a drink or two." He shrugged. "Guess things ain't the same no more. I haven't been to Haggerty's in a coupla years, and I don't reckon any of the old guard has, either."

"No, I don't think so. It's usually a spur-of-the-moment thing to go there now, I think. A lot of cops don't want to be bothered with it."

"Bloody shame, that. There was a time when there wasn't a cop who didn't go to Haggerty's on Friday nights."

Faith shrugged. "Times change, traditions are broken."

"Aye." O'Shea stared out the window and fell silent. Faith studied his profile for a moment, then swung the cruiser to the curb.

"Come on. We're not too far from your usual beat. Let's go walk it for awhile."

A heavy silence had taken over the station house when Faith and Andy made their way to the locker room to change quickly. It was two-thirty and officers from neighbouring precincts were arriving to take over the posts and patrol circuits. The dozen or so officers who were returning from the street didn't say much to each other as they filed into the locker room. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been said during shift. As Faith thought back, she was somewhat surprised to realise that, despite as much as she and Andy had talked, there were still a myriad of things for them to talk about. It really was good to get a comfortable banter going, instead of the short-lived and often one-sided conversations she and Bosco had.

Most of the officers had left the locker room when Bosco entered, the nervous rookie still following. This was hardly surprising. Bosco was definitely an acquired taste. She hadn't relaxed until long into their partnership. The aggressive manner of his stride all but screamed belligerence. His attitude was almost tangible. It was a bad sign.

"How'd your day with tough guy go?" He asked, pulling the turtleneck shirt over his head and tossing it into his locker.

"Decent. Not a whole lot went on."

"Oh yeah? That's surprising," Bosco said with a pointed glance at O'Shea, who was quietly hanging up his duty jacket.

"Yeah. It was pretty quiet. I liked the change of pace," Faith told him. "How was your day, Ingles?"

The kid looked startled that she addressed him directly. "Uh, uh, it was okay." He stammered, with an almost frightened glance at Bosco.

"Yeah. We chased down a coupla wannabe thieves over on East 123rd."

"Good for you."

Bosco put his duty gun on the top shelf of the locker. "What'd you two do?"

"We talked."

"You talked. That's it?"

"Pretty much."

"What about?"

"The Job, life, our families."

"How come you don't talk about that stuff with me?" Bosco asked, sounding hurt.

Faith shrugged, closing her locker. "Kind of hard to talk about family to somebody who doesn't have one of their own."

The casual remark robbed Bosco of any words. He gaped for a moment before blinking once or twice and focussing on putting his gear away. Andy sat on the bench in front of his locker, quietly observing the interaction as he re-laced his boots.

"Hey, Yokas. You need a ride back to your place?"

"Uh, no, I think I'm all set. Thanks."

Andy only nodded, slipping on the well-worn leather jacket that went everywhere with him. "See you in a coupla hours, then."

Bosco scoffed and made a show of humming to himself, as if he wasn't paying close attention. Faith looked at him for a long moment, then turned toward Andy. He was halfway out the door when she changed her mind.

"Andy, wait."

He looked back over his shoulder. "What?"

"I think I might need a ride after all."

The buttons on his stiffly starched dress uniform gleamed like tiny round mirrors in the harsh, fluorescent glare of the light bulb over the bathroom sink. His freshly polished silver shield was pinned on the left lapel, the mourning band covering the centre of the badge like a burial shroud. Today, no one would see the numbers 2785. They would just see a badge wrapped in a piece of elastic black cotton. A heart-piercing reminder to the public that the safety that they enjoyed came with a price.

He smoothed non-existent wrinkles out of the wool jacket and tugged firmly at the hem, settling the fabric over his shoulders. The pair of white gloves that he wore to too many funerals rested on the edge of the sink, waiting for him to tug them over his shaking fingers. This had to stop. He couldn't handle many more ceremonies, where high-ranking officials got up in front of flocks of uniformed, sombre-faced cops and grieving civilians and extolled the virtues of the beat cop or the sergeant or the lieutenant who was lying sealed inside a wooden tomb. It was getting to be too much.

His gaze shifted to the silver device pinned to the front of his eight-point hat and he let his fingertips trace the numerals. 2785. His father had worn this shield and he hoped that he could pass it on to his own son. With a heavy sigh, he fitted the hat onto his head and picked up the gloves. As he flicked off the bathroom light, he looked across the hallway toward his bedroom, where his bagpipes lay on the end of his bed.

"No Taps today, mate. But you'll sing out for the lads soon enough. You'll tell 'em all that the watch is over. And they'll all hear the wish of an old mate. Aye, you'll sing out to all the lads and help 'em get safe home."

"R-i-i-i-i-g-h-t face!"

The rows of cops pivoted as one body and stamped their heels in complete unison. Faith stared out from under the brim of her hat at the crowd of civilians lining the other side of the carpet that had been rolled out. Friends, family, and people who knew what it meant to lose a member of the NYPD. People who were there showing their support for the police. The good people of New York. She watched Bosco out of the corner of her eye. He was as expressionless as the next cop, but the myriad of emotions thundering through him were plainly visible to her.

"You okay?" She whispered as Sergeant Christopher marched up the aisle.

"Yeah."

It was the reflex answer they all gave. He wasn't okay, but like everyone else present, he would hold his emotions until the end. The entire Fifty-Fifth Precinct was turned out for Malloy's funeral. Other commands were covering the precinct until the ceremony was over. Faith squared her shoulders. The pallbearers were moving slowly up the slight hill. A bagpiper from the Emerald Society Band played Amazing Grace. Malloy's widow sat next to her mother, bravely keeping her composure whilst her kids stood by and watched the coffin holding their father was borne toward them.

Faith's breath caught in her throat when Andy O'Shea stepped from the ranks and marched stiffly to the front. He faced the six pallbearers and their sad burden, straightening to a position of rigid attention. Lieutenant Swersky nodded almost imperceptibly at him. O'Shea drew in a ragged breath.

Is é mo chaoi gan mise maidin aerach,
Amuigh i mBéarra i m' sheasamh ar an dtr�,
Is guth na n-éan 'o m' tharraing thar na sléibhte cois na farraige,
Go Céim an Aitinn mar a mbíonn mo ghrá...

The words he sang were in a language utterly foreign to Bosco's ear, but he felt a sense of deep understanding of their meaning. O'Shea's voice rang out, clear as a bell, over the hushed mass of people. There was a level of pain and guilt in the lyrics that he was sure was only there because of who was singing them in that hauntingly beautiful language. As much as he was disgusted with the older man's methods and actions, seeing how hard it was for him to remain composed softened the resentment and turned it to sympathy. The poor guy was suffering far more than he would ever admit, but it was painfully clear now.

...Is obann aoibhinn aiteasach do léimfinn,
Do rífinn saor ó ana-bhroid an tláis,
Do thabharfainn droim le scamallaibh an tsaoil seo,
Dá bhfaighinn mo léirdhóthain d'amharc ar mo chaoimhshearc bán ...

Malloy's widow wiped furiously at her eyes with a tear-stained tissue. Davis had a feeling that she knew the song O'Shea was singing. The widow's children mouthed the words to themselves in a silent tribute to their father. Although he had never really known Malloy, he felt like he too had just lost a good friend. He felt tears welling up in his eyes but did not lift a hand to wipe them away. He was too moved by the words flowing out of Andy O'Shea's mouth.

...Is é mo dhíth bheith ceangailte go faonlag,
Is neart mo chléibh dá thachtadh anseo sa tsráid,
An fhad tá réim na habhann agus gaoth glan na farraige
Ag glaoch is ar gairm ar an gcroí seo i m' lár...

Sully watched the grief take over O'Shea's face, washing away the stoic mask he desperately tried to keep in place. Luke Malloy's casket weighed heavily on his shoulder as he stood there with the other pallbearers, waiting with white-gloved hands folded in front of them, but he was more than willing to bear the weight. Andy was saying goodbye to the only true friend he had left. Hell would freeze solid before any cop present even thought about interrupting him. Sully's lower lip began to tremble as he finally recognised the song. He had never heard the melancholy tune sung in Gaelic before. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Andy's rich tenor more than did it justice.

...Is milis briomhar...

His voice broke for the barest of seconds. He sucked in a steadying breath and made himself continue. The tears were streaming down his face but he carried on. Faith admired his determination to keep going. He had more strength than she would have had were she in his place. The conversation they'd had in her hospital room replayed in her mind. It was nearly impossible for her to accept that the cop who was standing in front of hundreds of people at the funeral of his best friend with twin rivers of liquid running down his cheeks would think that he had nothing left to offer The Job.

...Is milis briomhar leathanbhog an t-aer ann,
Is gile ón ngréin go fairsing ar an mbán,
Is ochón, a ríbhean bhanúil na gcraobhfholt,
Gan sinne araon i measc an aitinn mar do bhímis tráth!

Lieutenant Swersky straightened his back as O'Shea finished. The last echo of his voice faded gradually from the otherwise still cemetery. From his place to the left of the waiting pallbearers, Swersky licked his lips in an effort to regain some moisture. Of all the funerals he had attended, this one was particularly difficult. He was losing two outstanding officers. One was balanced on the shoulders of six solemn-faced men and the other was all but breaking down where he stood.

At his slight nod, the pallbearers moved forward to gently and respectfully lower Malloy's casket from their shoulders and place it on the metal frame over the hole where he would be laid to rest. God, this never got any easier. The men lifted the flag from the burnished oak casket and folded it with slow, precise movements. John Sullivan took the triangle of cloth in his white-gloved hands. It was his task to deliver the flag to the widow. He did not. Instead, he turned toward O'Shea. With a visible swallow, the Irishman stepped out of ranks again. He took the flag from Sullivan gingerly, as though it might suddenly bite him.

"Tara."

Malloy's widow looked at O'Shea through the fine black veil over her face. She reached up for the flag with trembling hands. Swersky marvelled at her composure. The tears flowed freely, but she did not vocalise her pain. He watched as O'Shea slipped one hand into his pocket. Malloy's shield, lovingly polished until it looked brand new, appeared in his palm. The Irishman placed the shield on the flag and stepped back a pace. Swersky felt his throat begin to tighten. Now was not the time to get choked up. If Andy O'Shea could find the strength in him to perform as well as he had, Swersky could do no less. He cleared his throat.

"P-r-e-e-e-s-e-n-t arms!"

In almost perfect unison, the assembled members of the Fifty-Fifth Precinct snapped their right arms up, fingers stiff, to their brows. One by one, the pallbearers passed the casket, laying long-stemmed red roses on top. They paused before the widow's seat to offer precise salutes and brief offerings of sympathy and support. Andy O'Shea reverently placed a rose on the casket and laid both hands on the lid for several moments, his head bowed. He pressed the fingers of one hand to his lips and touched the casket. When he straightened up, his red-rimmed eyes locked with Swersky's. The lieutenant only nodded. O'Shea moved away to take up position beside Tara Malloy.

"O-r-d-a-a-a-h arms!"

The saluting officers relaxed their right arms and again stood at attention. It was time for the family to pay their last respects. Tara Malloy accepted O'Shea's offered arm and he walked with her to the graveside. A black-gloved hand reached out to touch the rose-covered oak. Together, the pair whispered a prayer that was only barely audible, crossing themselves in unison before and after. She clung to her escort as she stared down at the coffin of her slain husband, finally losing the battle to hold back her grief. O'Shea led her away.

It was all Swersky could do not to cry.

The bar was buzzing with the low murmur of voices, occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter. Dark blue dress uniforms filled the bar stools and almost every other open space, keeping the bartender busy with orders for whisky, beer, or whatever happened to be the drink of choice. Andy O'Shea sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of Guinness. His shirt was unbuttoned around the throat, the tie loosened and hanging low. He had spoken to nobody since arriving and nobody had bothered to approach him. It was an unspoken gesture of respect.

Faith watched the Irishman empty the glass in a single long swallow and promptly order another. It was his third round in almost an hour. Sully and Davis were seated around the table with her, and Bosco was somewhere with a group of cops swapping stories. The overall atmosphere was sombre, with subtle overtones of self-reflection and nostalgia. Most of the officers present had worked with Luke Malloy, or had at least known who he was.

"So there we were, runnin' up the stairs after this guy, when all of a sudden he yells out, 'Help! Help! I'm being attacked!' We get to the street and there he is, on top of a parking meter, trying to fight off the little Chihuahua that was barking its head off at him. Come to find out, the guy had accidentally kicked the dog as he was running and it started barking at him." Sully was saying. "Luke pulled the guy off the parking meter and handcuffed him, after the Chihuahua's owner had called the dog off. He ruffled the poor guy's hair and said, 'Y'know, mate, there are laws against molesting city-owned parking meters.'"

Faith and Davis laughed. Sully tipped up his bottle of Budweiser and shook his head. "Man, Luke was something else. Most people liked him, or at least tolerated him."

"Yeah, it sounds that way."

"I didn't know him all that well, but Andy says he was one of the best guys on the beat." Faith said.

"And that's high praise coming from him. He doesn't hand out good favour all that often. When he says that somebody's good, it's probably true."

Faith looked across the bar-room again. Andy was still perched on his stool, nursing another pint of Guinness. She stood up, taking her beer with her. Sully had launched into another story so she left the table and crossed the crowded floor.

"Hey Andy."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. His only response was a grunt as he drained the glass, thumped it onto the bar, and tapped the rim with his finger. The bartender came over at once with a fresh glass.

"Are you okay?"

"Aye."

"Anything you need to talk about?"

The Irishman shook his head, taking another long drink of the dark liquid. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye. Ain't nothin' wrong with me that a coupla drinks can't fix," he said and emptied the glass. Faith caught the bartender's eye and shook her head. The man nodded, clearly relieved, and moved to pour a shot of whisky for another officer.

"How many have you had tonight?"

"Dunno. I can handle 'em."

Another glance over at the bartender. He held up five fingers and shook his head, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Faith got the message. She dug out her wallet.

"Come on, Andy. It's time to go home."

"Not until I get another pint."

"You've had enough."

Andy shook his head. "Ain't a good idea to keep an Irishman from his drinkin'. Another pint, Frankie!"

"Not tonight, Andrew. You'll just fall off the wagon again." The bartender answered. "You're already well on your way as it is."

"Aw, to hell with that. I need a drink."

"Soda or water is all you'll get now."

Faith counted out some bills. "This should cover his drinks and mine."

"Thanks."

Andy tried to stand up but stumbled and knocked over the bar stool. "I can make it home by myself."

"Not like that, you can't."

"Hey, Frankie. You got a bottle of DeWar's back there?"

"Been saving one for you, Andrew." The bartender replied. "I was wondering when you would come by to pick it up." He produced a bottle of whisky, but handed it to Faith.

"Hey, that's for me."

"You'll get it later. Come on."

"I don't need nobody's help," Andy said, leaning on the bar for support. He took a step away and promptly fell over. Frankie the bartender pulled the dirty glass from the bar-top and shook his head.

"That Guinness is powerful stuff. I'm surprised he can even stand up, he's had five pints of it."

Faith pulled O'Shea to his feet with the help of another officer and the pair dragged the groggy Irishman outside. "I got him now, thanks."

"No problem."

"What's your name, anyway?"

The other officer grinned. "Mike Turner. I've been Malloy's partner for a couple of years."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah. He was a good guy. And he was right, too, when he said that O'Shea here could put 'em away."

"I guess so. Thanks."

"Sure." Turner went back into the bar. Faith pulled O'Shea's right arm over her shoulders and helped him across the street to where his truck was parked. He stared up at the sky, seemingly fascinated with the sprinkling of stars, while she searched his pockets for the truck keys.

"Is anybody home at your place?"

"Nope. Just the two blokes outside the door."

"Okay." She helped him into the passenger's seat. He was coherent, but his co-ordination and balance was non-existent, a fact made evident when he stumbled getting into the truck.

"Don't you puke on me," she warned him.

"Course not."

"Where do you live?"

"Four-Oh-Seven, East One-Oh-Six."

"All right." Faith started the truck. Andy rested his head against the window and stared out at the streetlights, occasionally bursting into song only to fall silent moments later. She shook her head, a slight grin lifting her mouth. At least he was cheerful.

"I said don't puke!" She exclaimed as she helped him out of the truck in front of his building. It was too late; he was doubled over, emptying his stomach onto the sidewalk. "Dammit, Andy, you got that mess all over my shoes!"

His only response was a weak chuckle, closely followed by a fit of coughing. A thin ribbon of saliva dribbled over his chin as he struggled to keep from vomiting again.

"Are you okay now?"

"Aye," he gasped, swiping at his chin. Faith tugged the Irishman upright and slung his left arm across her shoulders.

"Don't do that again."

"No."

With her free hand, Faith fumbled for the key that would open the front door. "Which key is it?"

"Round one."

The lock clicked and she elbowed the door open. "Hey! Help down here!" She called up the stairs, hoping that one of the officers guarding O'Shea's apartment would hear her. "Officer needs assistance!"

At once, there was movement from two floors up. Two officers pounded down the stairs toward her, weapons drawn.

"What's the problem here?"

"Is he shot?"

"No, just drunk."

The two uniformed cops holstered their sidearms and Faith let them take O'Shea. "Drownin' your sorrows in Guinness again without our company, Andy?"

"'S a personal thing," the Irishman mumbled.

"We got him from here."

"Here's the keys." She handed them over. The taller cop took them, then helped his partner carry the half-conscious O'Shea up the stairs. She watched for a moment before going back outside. As soon as the door clicked shut and locked behind her, she remembered that she had no way to get home.

"Dammit!"