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things upon which she had based her whole life became redefined as madness.
Jessica opened the door, stepped inside, thinking:
Watch my back, big brother.
Watch my back.

5
    MONDAY, 7:55 A M
    The Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department was located on the first floor of the Roundhouse, the police administration building—or PAB, as it was often called—at Eighth and Race Streets, nicknamed for the round shape of its three-story structure. Even the
    elevators were round. Criminals were fond of pointing out that, from the air, the building looked like a pair of handcuffs. When a suspicious death occurred anywhere in Philadelphia County, the call came here.
    Of the sixty-five detectives in the unit, only a handful were women, a stat the brass were desperate to change.
Everyone knew that, these days, in a department as politically sensitive as the PPD, it wasn’t necessarily a person who was promoted, but quite often a statistic, a delegate of some demographic that made the cut.
Jessica knew this. But she also knew that her career on the street was exceptional, and that she had earned her slot on the Homicide Unit, even if she arrived there a few years ahead of the standard decade or so on the job. She had her degree in criminal justice; she had been a more-thancompetent uniformed officer, garnering two commendations. If she had to knock a few old-school heads in the unit, so be it. She was ready. She had never backed down from a fight, and she wasn’t going to begin now.
One of the three supervisors of the Homicide Unit was Sergeant Dwight Buchanan. If the homicide detectives spoke for the dead, it was Ike Buchanan who spoke for those who spoke for the dead.
When Jessica walked into the common room, Ike Buchanan noticed her and waved her over. The daywork shift began at eight, so at this hour the room was packed. Most of the last out shift was still on, which was not all that uncommon, making the already cramped half-circle space a snarl of bodies. Jessica nodded at the detectives sitting at desks, all men, all on the phone, all of whom returned her greeting with cool, perfunctory nods of their own.
She wasn’t in the club yet .
“Come on in,” Buchanan said, extending his hand.
Jessica shook his hand, then followed him, noticing his slight limp. Ike Buchanan had taken bullets in the Philly gang wars of the late 1970s and, according to legend, had endured half a dozen surgeries and a year of painful rehab to get back in blue. One of the last of the iron men. She had seen him with a cane a few times, but not today. Pride and grit, around this place, were more than luxuries. Sometimes they were the glue that held the chain of command together.
Now in his late fifties, Ike Buchanan was rail-thin, whipcord-strong, and sported a full head of cloud-white hair and bushy white eyebrows. His face was flushed and pocked by nearly six decades of Philly winters and, if the other legend was true, more than his share of Wild Turkey.
She entered the small office, sat down.
“Let’s get the details out of the way.” Buchanan closed the door halfway and walked behind his desk. Jessica could see him trying to cover the limp. He may have been a decorated cop, but he was still a man.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your background?”
“Grew up in South Philly,” Jessica said, knowing that Buchanan knew all this, knowing that this was a formality. “Sixth and Catharine.”
“Schools?”
“I went to St. Paul’s. Then N.A. Did my undergraduate work at Temple.”
“You graduated Temple in three years?”
Three and a half, Jessica thought. But who’s counting? “Yes, sir. Criminal justice.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you, sir. It was a lot of—”
“You worked out of the Third?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How did you like working for Danny O’Brien?”
What was she supposed to say? That he was an overbearing, misogynistic, witless shithead? “Sergeant O’Brien is a good officer. I learned a lot from him.”
“Danny O’Brien is