Chase of a stolen vehicle, perpetrator's attempt to ram pursuit vehicle, credible risk to officer's life, not to mention potential for harm to innocent drivers, fucking guy roaring the wrong way down the road. Officer fired, killing perpetrator. A righteous shooting, end of story. No deep probing, no reason to believe there was anything funny. Cooley's record is clean as a whistle. Never any paper on him, brutality or whatever. Racism? Hell, his partner's black. So we're fine there."

"There'll be a report," said Robb.

"Yeah, it's a homicide, sir. I would expect the detectives involved to write it up to the best of their ability without fear or favor."

"Just like always."

"Just. And then it's the DA's ball."

"Right. Who caught the homicide, by the way?"

"Steve Amalfi and Oscar Rivera."

Robb consulted the card file in his head that held the names of the hundred-odd detectives who worked in his fief. Nothing popped up, which was good. Had either of the homicide cops been a discipline problem, or a whistle-blower, or under the personal protection of some significant PD rabbi, Robb would have known about it. So he would have a clean, competent report, written by men who could, if it came to that, be burned. Which report no one in the department would read in great detail. There was so much paper passing across the desks of the bosses. The main thing was to ensure that if any shit started flying around behind this, none of it could stick to him or his. He thought he was pretty safe. He could in reasonable conscience convey to Deputy Chief Inspector Gavin the results of his preliminary investigation: a clean shooting-fleeing felon, credible threat-not another case of a half a dozen heavily armed white morons blowing forty or so holes in a crippled Negro deacon or an old Hispanic lady or a mentally retarded, minority twelve-year-old.