Keith DeCandido - Four Walls

"He gives a rat's ass about Clay Dobson. That gave the department a black eye, and I cost him his handy scapegoat." Sinclair shook his head. "Keep an eye on Taylor, Stan. He needs to be either the absolute best cop in the history of the NYPD, or he needs to go in disgrace. It can't be anywhere between those two."

Gerrard left Sinclair's office more than a little confused. Did he actually just defend Mac Taylor? Will wonders never cease?

But he saw Sinclair's point. If Mac excelled, then Sinclair could point to that and say that it would've been bad for the department if he'd been punished. If Mac screwed up, then Sinclair could serve him up to the commissioner on a silver platter.

It was going to be an interesting next few weeks.

Dina Rosengaus missed the morning shift.

She had been applying for jobs elsewhere in the neighborhood. A Subway had opened up on Johnson Avenue with a HELP WANTED sign in the window, there were four supermarkets in the area that were always looking for cashiers, and she'd also filled out applications at the Staples on Broadway, some of the restaurants up on Riverdale Avenue, and the CVS on 235th Street.

But nobody had given her a job yet.

Of course, all the jobs asked if you had a criminal record, and she had to answer in the affirmative. She had been arrested, fingerprinted, the whole thing, but her parents' lawyer-a fellow Russian emigrй and husband to her father's cousin-was able to get her to plea to a lesser charge and pay a fine, which her father had paid. She hadn't even spent any time in a jail cell, though she did spend hours sitting at one police officer's desk with nothing to do except think.

Mostly she thought about Maria Campagna and her stupid necklace. If she hadn't felt the need to show it off all the time, maybe Dina wouldn't have taken it.

It wasn't like Dina killed her. And Jack hadn't either, for which Dina was grateful, as she liked Jack. No, it was that guy from across the street.

Dina had never liked him.

While her father had paid the fine, it was only on the condition that she pay him back. At that, he told her he'd wanted to let her rot in prison for the rest of her life, but her mother convinced him it was better to pay the fine.

"But you will pay me back, every penny!" he had bellowed in Russian.

School had been miserable. The summer-session classes were smaller, so it was harder for Dina to hide in the back of the class and hope nobody noticed that the girl who got arrested was there.

At first, it hadn't been that bad. People found out that she had been one of the ones who found the body, so that raised her in several people's estimation. They wanted to know what the body looked like, what it smelled like, what the police did.

But eventually, they found out that she had stolen from the body. Dina had no idea how they found out-she certainly didn't tell anyone. Then again, she didn't tell anyone that she had found the body, either. The information simply was there.

The same people who were morbidly but genuinely curious about the look of a corpse were now disgustedly querying why she would do such a thing, and wasn't it gross to touch it, and isn't that like necrophilia or something, and on and on and on and on.

And nobody would give her a job.

Which meant that she spent her mornings, not in Belluso's Bakery pouring coffee for commuters and people walking their dogs and parents taking their children to school, but sitting at home alone wondering why she'd thought taking Maria's necklace was a good idea.

Maybe she'd look for a job that wasn't in the Riverdale area. She could find something in Manhattan, take the 1 train to and from whatever job she got.

If she could get a job. Maybe being a criminal would keep her unemployed forever.

No, that was ridiculous. People got out of prison all the time, and they must have gotten jobs.

Dina would find something.

Then maybe she could stop thinking about Maria Campagna and her stupid necklace.

Malik Washburne's funeral was packed. Mac supposed he shouldn't have expected any less.

About half the people were NYPD, Mac among them. Many of them wore their dress blues, for all that it wasn't a departmental funeral, though Mac was not among those. He hadn't worn his blues for Aiden Burns's funeral last year, for much the same reason: when they died, neither Washburne nor Aiden were police officers anymore.

However, Mac was wearing a tie. The last time he'd worn one was, ironically, Aiden's funeral. That had been a modest affair. Aiden's family, of course, all attended, and several friends, none of whom Mac really knew, and her other ex-coworkers from the crime lab.

Aiden had been a good friend. Mac had nothing but praise for the excellent work Lindsay Monroe had been doing the past two years, but often Mac found himself missing Aiden's fiery passion, smart-ass remarks and dedication to justice. True, that dedication had led to Mac having to fire her, and eventually to her death, but at least in death Aiden was able to lead Mac and the others to her killer.

But where Aiden's funeral had been small yet intense, Malik Washburne's was large and overwhelming. Besides the huge NYPD contingent, there were also hundreds from the city's African-American community, in particular from the Queens neighborhood of Long Island City, whose lives Washburne had touched. According to one person Mac talked to, the Kinson Rehab Center was down to a skeleton crew today, as everyone who worked there wanted to be present when Malik Washburne was laid to rest.

Several high-profile African-American New Yorkers were there, including Brigham Sinclair, the NYPD chief of detectives and one of Mac's least-favorite people. Mac found a certain bitter amusement in the fact that Sinclair never once made eye contact with Mac during the entire funeral.

The eulogy was delivered by the Reverend Michael Burford, who ran the Kinson Rehab Center.

"The Bible states in the Book of Ephesians: 'Be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ.' Brothers and sisters, Malik Washburne was a good man. He was not a perfect man. In fact, he would be the first to admit to his own failings. He was cursed by the demon alcohol. The devil tempted him, and in a moment of weakness following a vicious tragedy, he fell. But he knew that he fell, and he took the road to redemption willingly. We may look today at Malik's death and see a tragedy, and a horrible accident. But what I see today is what Malik would want us to see: a life given in service to his fellow man. He determined that he would be subject to others and that he would help them. Malik grew up in the Robinsfield Houses, and like so many young African-American men, he was tempted daily by the lure of drugs and vice. He resisted those temptations and became a police officer, in the hopes of serving his community. Later, he handed in his badge and served his community in other ways. But the important thing, brothers and sisters, is that he served. He devoted his life to the aid of others. Even while serving his penance in prison, he served his fellow man. That, brothers and sisters, is how he should be remembered, and that is how he was subject to others. When you go back out into the streets, do not remember that a good man has died. Remember that a good man has lived, and done service to others. Remember that life, not that death, brothers and sisters, and remember to be subject to one another. Malik and I did not share the same faith, and some of you may question my use of the Bible when eulogizing a man of Islam. But whether you believe in Jesus Christ or Mohammad as your prophet, whether or not you believe in God or Allah as the creator of all things, whether or not you call yourself Christian or Muslim, we all can learn from the example that Malik set. Go with God, go with Allah, go with Christ-but go and be subject to one another, as Malik did."