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In all the time that Coughlin had known Carlucci he could count on one hand, and still have fingers left over, the occasions that Carlucci had backed down from a fight. Now, however, Coughlin realized Carlucci’s tone seemed different, familiar, but in an odd, distant way. And he realized it had been a decade since he had heard that tone of voice—a combination of wariness and resignation.

“What,” Coughlin said, measuring his words, “are you thinking?”

“The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line is headed for the exit. Payne has to go. I’m sorry.”

Coughlin was silent, then blurted, “You cannot fire Matty. He’s done nothing wrong, Jerry. You said it yourself. That will cost the city a fortune. The FOP—and rightfully so, because all Payne’s shootings were found to be righteous—will be all over this.”

The Fraternal Order of Police Lodge No. 5 was the labor union for some fourteen thousand active and retired Philadelphia police officers and sheriffs. It fought to protect and improve the multiyear contract—the collective bargaining agreement—with the city that covered everything from pensions and benefits to working conditions and legal rights.

When, for example, an officer was handed a summons to appear before the Internal Affairs Division, the FOP provided legal representation for the interview. The FOP was damn effective at defending its members—on occasion, too good, getting some cops who the top brass felt did not deserve to wear a badge and gun back on the job.

“In this particular case, all that doesn’t matter,” Carlucci said.

“What? Any of the FOP’s counsel could win the case. But if Matty’s father’s law firm takes it on, that proverbial fecal matter is going to hit the fan in ways unimagined. It’s going to be one helluva mess.”

Carlucci, who was frowning, nodded.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “But we don’t have to fire him. We simply have to help him realize that he would be happier doing something else.”

“You’d railroad him out?” Coughlin said, his tone incredulous.

“This is what’s known as being politically expedient.”

Coughlin stared at Carlucci. He now really saw the pieces snapping together.

“It’s what’s known as a crappy setup, Jerry,” Coughlin snapped, his florid face turning bright red and his voice rising. “Matty’s a damn good cop. From a family of damn good cops. It’s in his DNA. And you, of all people, damn well know it.”

“I do indeed know,” Carlucci said, the exasperation clear in his tone.

Coughlin went on. “Matty wouldn’t take time off to even let that bullet wound fully heal. Hell, he’s probably bleeding blue right now.”

“Denny, I tried. I defended him. I had his back when that miserable little shit Finley first tried last month. But . . .”

Coughlin stared out the window, then nodded to himself, then turned back to look at Carlucci.

“Jerry—” Coughlin began, but his throat caught. He paused, cleared it, and went on, his voice wavering. “You know I have always appreciated your support and trust. And I devoutly believe that I have faithfully earned my three stars—”

“Damn right, you have.”

“But if there’s a sacrificial head to roll, let it be mine. I have my years in. Great years. And I would not—I could not—accept four stars knowing how they came about. Matty stays. I’ll have my written resignation for retirement on your desk within the hour.”

“And I will refuse to accept it. Period.” He paused, then added, “Listen, maybe any other time I could have succeeded keeping Payne on. But after that mail-order preacher called Payne Public Enemy No. 1 and Payne killed that punk who shot him, it put the pressure way over the top. And the record killings for the year did not help. We have to get back the citizens’ trust in our police department, restore what’s been broken.”

They met eyes and were silent for a minute that felt like an eternity.

Coughlin broke the silence with a deep, audible sigh.

“It’s already a done deal, then?” he asked, but the disgust evident in his voice made it a bitter statement.

Carlucci nodded.

“Fact is, Denny,” he said, “even you were worried when Payne first came on. You tried to hide him as a paper pusher under Wohl’s son in Special Operations, true?”

Coughlin, looking resigned, nodded.

“True. I became his godfather after Jack’s death. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to tell his widow that she’d lost another.” He sighed, and added, “Or have to face Mother Moffitt, who hasn’t gotten over Jack and Dutch.”

They again locked eyes.