"Bob, it's Sharon Raydor. Just checking in on the FOP hall reservation, making sure you have everything you need. Let me know, my desk number is 213-555-9329."

She tries not to slam the handset back onto its base. For the third time in a week, Rambert hasn't answered the phone when she called for a status update. If she was the paranoid type, she'd think he was avoiding her.

He has the most straightforward job on the entire Christmas committee. It also happens to be the most essential, and the least supervised. Without a venue, they have nothing. And, for all the years Sharon has helped plan the party, they've never had a backup locale.

Her poking intuition leads to a twisting gut. Her heart thumps in her chest. She reaches for the phone, but the echo of her captain's words from her yearly review keep her from dialing.

A tough lesson for any new leader is the art of delegation, he'd said. You're one of the most diligent officers in my unit, but you're spreading yourself too thin. As a lieutenant, your responsibility now covers more than a single person can handle. It's by design.

She'd bit her tongue, thinking that his own leadership style does her no favors in getting through her daily task list. But she was willing to admit he'd had a point.

With that perspective, the Christmas party marks the perfect, low-stakes opportunity to test her delegation skills. Let Bob handle himself, she resolves. If he doesn't get the FOP hall, he'll just need to find somewhere else to host them.

Them. She swallows, picturing the crowd.

At least 200 officers, with a decent number of guests mixed in. They'll be half-rowdy and looking to unwind, having dropped $10 a piece for the opportunity. Everyone will expect a party worth their hard-earned money, consistent with past years…

And does Bob care about any of that?

Low stakes? Sure, no one is dying, but LAPRRA's credibility and its 1999 operating budget relies on the party's success.

And isn't a central principle of leadership knowing where the burden ultimately rests?

Sharon reaches for the phone again, this time flipping through her Rolodex to the Fs. With fingers that feel oddly removed from the rest of her body, she punches the digits from a crinkle-cornered card. Two rings bring a distracted greeting to the line. "Fraternal Order of Police, this is Joe."

"Joe, hi. This is Sharon Raydor."

"Oh, hey, Sharon." His voice warms. "How're things goin'?"

"Good, I hope." She taps a pen against her desk. "I was wondering whether you've been in touch with one of my team members, Bob Rambert."

"Rambert?" The long stretch of his breath rustling across the line leaves Sharon frozen, praying for an affirmative answer, no matter how unlikely. "Uh, no. Doesn't ring a bell, why?"

Her stomach plummets. Every drop of fatalism she's held back like a dam comes rushing to the front of her mind. It thickens her tone when she says, "Oh God. He was supposed to make the reservation for the LAPRRA Christmas Party."

"Ah, right." Joe goes flat. "I was wondering why I hadn't heard from anyone yet this year."

"Please tell me—"

A throat-clearing cough interrupts her plea. "Listen, I'm sorry, but we're booked up for the 12th."

"Joe, we've rented out your hall on the second Saturday in December, every year for the past ten years."

"I understand that, Sharon. But someone beat you to it this time."

"Is there anything we can do to—"

"I'm sorry, no. It's a wedding reception for the daughter of a retired captain. There's no moving it around." Her answering silence leaves him cajoling, "Hey, how 'bout Sunday instead?"

Sharon sighs, "We can't have a party on a Sunday, Joe." She winces at the thought of the sleep-deprived and potentially hungover rank-and-file rolling into their divisions the following day. "Who'd want to wake up early the next morning for work?"

"Well, that's a valid point." A creak carries over the line, no doubt marking Joe leaning back in his chair. "Look, I'm real sorry. I wish there was something I could do, but my hands are tied."

Through the swirl of panic filling her mind, she manages an even response. "No, Joe. It's not your fault. I understand"

"Hey, I hope to see you guys again next year, okay?"

"I hope so too. Thanks."

She doesn't wait for his sign-off before dropping the handset back into its receiver. The firm beat of her heart finds an echo at her temple. They're without a venue at the three-week mark. No matter how much work the committee strings together between now and the 12th, it won't lead to a party if they don't find a replacement.

A nearby ringing phone snaps Sharon's attention from its spiral. Her watch reads 3pm. With a stretch, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her Christmas clipboard. A few flipped pages unearths the master contact list. Again, her fingers press into her phone's keypad.

A concise greeting meets her after one ring. "Vice, Kippering."

"Alex, it's Sharon."

"Oh, hey. You know, I was just about to send you the menu—"

She shakes her head. "We have a huge problem with the party."

"Really?" His voice sharpens. "What's up?"

"The FOP Hall is out. We have no site."

"Oh shit."

"Yes, that sums it up." Sharon looks over the office, gauging the number of still-occupied desks in her own unit. "We need to have an emergency meeting of the full committee this evening. Let's say 5:30, in the big conference room on the first floor."

"Sure, but I can't guarantee all of my people will be there."

"Understood. Just get as many as you can." She turns back to her list. "Can you reach out to Dawn and Julie? Have them call their teams. I'll take Adam and the rest of my group."

"Copy that."

By the time Sharon makes it downstairs, a few minutes before 5:30, most of the larger committee has gathered.

Dawn, the ticket sales leader, wastes no time in getting to the heart of the issue. Sharon hasn't even dropped her bag before she asks, "Is it true? We don't have the FOP hall anymore?"

"Well," Sharon scans the group, finding a line of wide eyes and hard jaws. There's no use in skirting the truth. "It'd be more accurate to say we never had it in the first place. Joe said he never heard from…" she stops short of naming Bob, choosing instead to finish with, "anyone."

This doesn't deter Dawn. "But we've already hung posters and printed the address on the tickets."

"I know," Sharon says, "but the only thing I can promise at this point is that we're not having the party there."

Dawn's eyes narrow into a glare, as if this was a choice Sharon made to personally inconvenience the ticket team. "Well. That's wonderful."

"I agree." She glares at her clipboard rather than returning the scowl aimed in her direction. "Regardless of that, though, we either need to find and advertise a different venue or cancel the party."

Shocked glances travel around the room. In the back, Rod raises his hand. At Sharon's nod, he asks, "And what's our timeline for finding a new place?"

"As soon as possible."

Down the line, Sobriki says, "My aunt and uncle have a ranch over in Pomona."

Sharon bites her tongue, fixing her eyes high on the wall until a tactful response finds her. "I do appreciate the offer, Carl, but we need to locate something within city limits."

This spurs a few indistinct murmurs and more than one shaking head. She forces a smile and tries again. "I'm not expecting to find a solution now. But I wanted to get the word out, so that hopefully we can figure out an alternative. If you know someone who knows someone, have them give me a call. Otherwise…" She trails off, lifting a shoulder. "Have a great night, and I'll see you next time."

As the room's movement flows away from the table and into the quick fade of evening, a familiar dark-haired form appears in the doorway. Flynn's brow creases as he notices the session breaking up.

His eyes meet Sharon's. "Sorry, I was out at a scene. Just got your message."

"It's fine, Andy. Don't worry."

Looking around the emptying room, he asks, "What's going on?"

She waits for the last few meeting attendees to file out before answering, "The FOP hall fell through. We don't have a place to hold the party."

"What?" His mouth drops open. "How'd that even happen?"

"The short version," she grits, having exhausted her earlier supply of diplomacy, "is that Bob dropped the ball."

"Damn." He slides his hands into his coat pockets as his frown deepens. "So, what's the game plan?"

"I'm taking any and all suggestions."

He draws a deep breath and exhales, "Well…" After a stretch of silence, he lifts his arms, parting his jacket as he moves. "I know a guy."

"You… know… a guy," Sharon repeats, flatly.

"Yeah," his voice takes on a defensive edge. "He might be able to help out."

As stereotypical as it may be, the combination of his accent and talk of having 'a guy' leaves Sharon wondering whether they'll end up with an offer they can't refuse, maybe holding the party down at the port. But the corner they're backed into gives her little choice but to consider the option.

"If you don't mind giving him a call," she sighs, "it'd be a huge help."

"Sure thing." He backs toward the door. "Be right back."

She should tell him he doesn't need to rush. But the pressure of the day keeps her quiet as his steps fade. In the empty room, she sinks into a chair. She's been churning at high gear for hours, now, trying to tease a solution from the tangled mess of her well-laid plans. The dull throb of her headache pulls to the forefront of her attention, overwhelming every conscious thought. She rubs at her hairline, a futile attempt to ease the pain away. Closing her eyes against the glaring overhead lights helps. A series of deep, measured breaths pushes it further afield.

"Um, Sharon?"

She starts at the sound of Andy's voice. When she straightens and drops her hand from her face, she finds him wincing. "Sorry—"

"No, don't worry about it." He sinks into a chair across the corner of the table from her. Exhaustion seeps from her when she asks, "Any leads from your guy?"

The center of his mouth lifts into a nonchalant frown. "Well, better than a lead, actually."

Sharon leans forward. "Really?"

"You familiar with Our Lady of Mount Carmel?"

"No, I'm not."

"It's a parish over in Silver Lake. They have a school with a nice basketball gym, plenty of parking, relatively close to the freeway…" He trails off with a shrug.

"And?"

His eyes lift to the ceiling. "And they'd be willing to host our Christmas party."

"Really!?" She straightens as an unexpected wave of relief floods over her. "That's…" Sharon shakes her head, awed. "That's perfect, Andy. How did you ever manage to—"

He holds his palm up. "Let's just say I have an in with the principal."

"Well I appreciate it. Truly." At his long, answering nod, another sentiment rushes forth. "And I owe you an apology."

He stills mid-nod and raises a brow. "Why?"

"I may have… prejudged your reasons for getting involved with the R and R. And that was wrong of me."

A half-grin, half-grimace twists his mouth as he rubs at the back of his neck. "Well… uh… I should probably let you know, before you get too far into this apology, that there is a catch to this whole Mount Carmel thing—"

Sharon's eyes widen. Her blood seems to still in her veins at the possible nature of this condition. "And what's that?"