Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

      I have called you by name; you are mine!

      When you pass through the waters,

      I will be with you;

      And through the rivers, they will not overflow you.

      When you walk through the fire,

      You will not be scorched,

      Nor will the flame burn you.

      —Isaiah 43:1-2

      This book is dedicated to:

      My parents, for your love, encouragement and support through the years.

      Cindy—you were the one who believed in this book, in these characters and in me. Thank you for listening, for asking questions, for allowing me to alternately whine and squeal with joy (depending on what was in the mail) and for all your prayers.

       Love you, friend!

      Grandpa Goldsmith—thank you for the writing gene!

      And especially to Pete, who gave me the freedom and the time to pursue my dreams.

       When I was tempted to quit, you said “Don’t.” You are—and will always be—my hero.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Letter to Reader

      Prologue

      “I think I’ll ride with you a while, John.”

      John Gabriel paused and looked at his chief in surprise. The man behind the desk chuckled and eased his bulky frame out of the chair with a fluidity that belied his size. “I’ve got two weeks until retirement…I thought I should say my goodbyes to the neighborhood.”

      John didn’t believe him for a second. Seamus Kelly was the neighborhood. His great-grandfather had stepped off the boat with Irish soil still caked under his fingernails and nothing that separated him from the rest of the crowd but a burning desire to make a place for his family in America. He had found his niche working as a bobbie in the slum areas of New York City, and the badge became a legacy that was passed down through the generations. Everyone who worked at the department knew the story. The Kelly family was a legend in law enforcement. There was a cop sitting on every branch of the family tree.

      “Do you want to drive?” John asked, dangling the squad car keys from one finger.

      “Get away with you,” Seamus said irritably, but the gleam in his eyes told John he was pleased with the question.

      As they walked in companionable silence to the car, John realized he wasn’t nervous around the man anymore. When he had been hired nine months earlier, he had secretly mocked the way the other officers revered their chief. After all, he was just a man. A man whose hair was thinning, whose middle was beginning to thicken and who sometimes forgot to schedule a night car on the weekend. In John’s mind, a man who should pack the old thermos into the old lunch box and make a spot in the department for someone younger.

      Yet for the amount of awe and respect Seamus Kelly commanded, his temper was also widely recognized. It erupted like a volcano with old Gaelic spewing forth like lava. John had seen it—and felt it—about a month after he was hired.

      His training officer, Dennis Meyer, was unimaginative and rather lazy. John was hungry to learn everything about being a cop. He pumped Meyer for information, badgered him about the need for a progressive department and generally made a nuisance of himself, until the man snapped one day and went to Seamus. The next thing John knew, he was standing in front of the legendary Irishman himself.

      “So,” Seamus growled, his eyebrows almost meeting over his nose. “You and Meyer have a problem, eh? None of my men ever have a problem with Meyer, so that means you must be the problem.”

      “Officer Meyer is slow—he’s getting old.”

      Seamus stood up and leaned over the desk. “Too old?” he snorted. “He’s ten years younger than I am. You were still on the playground when Meyer was getting a medal for bravery.”

      John stiffened.

      “You had a chip on your shoulder when you got here and I thought Meyer would smooth it down a little. Fact is, I think you’ve given him one now.”

      John almost smiled. Seamus saw it.

      “You think turning one of my steadiest officers into a raving lunatic is going to get you a promotion, lad?” Seamus’s voice rose and several officers within hearing range suddenly melted into the woodwork.

      “At least that proves he’s still alive,” John had retorted. “Sometimes I have to nudge him just to be sure.”

      He couldn’t believe he’d said that. Here came his walking papers for sure.

      “So who does the particular John Gabriel want for his training officer?” Seamus asked sarcastically.

      “You.” John said the first name that came to