"When I found out what they meant to the rank and file, I said, 'Bring them back.'"
-Edward T. Norris, Baltimore Police Commissioner, March 2000

Chapter One

Gripping the worn leather strap, Rick twirled an intricate pattern at his side with the attached wooden baton.

Sixteen years ago and already a ten-year veteran of the force, Rick's familiar weapon had been stripped from his hand by a police commissioner transplanted from California who didn't remotely understand this city. Six years later, Baltimore's new top cop—a tough, no nonsense NYPD veteran—restored Rick's faith in the chain of command.

The Glock 22, snug in the holster hugging Rick's right hip, provided comfort and moral support. But the antiquated wooden baton—with the ornately carved handle and soft leather strap—had become his signature. The wooden espantoon, as the weapon was called in these parts, signified security to the law-abiding and the threat of a serious ass whipping to those who weren't.

Rick made a left onto 34th Street off Keswick Road, admiring the bright autumn foliage and ignoring the hulking, deserted shell of the old Northern District precinct. The new stationhouse, an aluminum monstrosity on Coldspring Lane, seemed sterile and lifeless compared to the grand old, brick Victorian. The new building had no personality, just like the brand new, cookie-cutter houses springing up in the area. He missed the old girl.

A familiar, croupy cough snagged Rick's attention. He looked up the long flight of narrow cement stairs belonging to the rowhouse on his left. He let the espantoon fall to his side and raised his other hand to tip his dark-blue hat. "Front yard's looking nice, Mr. Griffith."

The old man—stick-thin, wearing an oversized, cranberry-colored sweat suit—shrugged and spat on his small, hilly lawn. "Can't get the goddamn kids to stay off my grass. Everything I plant gets trampled in no time. Goddamn kids."

Rick smiled, putting one foot casually on Mr. Griffith's bottom step. "My granddad told me you were one of those 'goddamn kids' back in the day. A bit of a troublemaker in your youth, huh?"

Mr. Griffith scowled. "We used to throw eggs at cars in need of washing, and we wrote dirty words on sidewalks with chalk. There's a big difference between that sort of idle mischief and these punks. Robbing graves and smashing headstones to smithereens—we would've never thought of desecrating the dead like that, Officer Baker."

"Tell you what." Rick yanked on the strap and gave his baton an around-the-world twirl for show. "I catch these boys who are tearing up the cemetery, and you plant me some daffodils and tulips next spring."

"People might talk, you asking for flowers." Mr. Griffith grinned and straightened the neckline of his sweatshirt against his throat. "Careful what you share with folks around here."

"I know." Rick planted both feet back on the straight-and-narrow sidewalk in front of the old man's tidy house. He tipped his hat and smiled. "Nice talking to you, Mr. Griffith."

Mr. Griffith nodded. "Watch your back, boy. There's evil afoot in this neighborhood, and it's got nothing to do with the likes of you and me."