Camille leaned on her elbow and stared at the phone on her desk, reading the text a third time. Tommy had spent some hours watching one of the properties she'd asked him to scout, a small commercial building near Midway Airport, but had nothing definite to report.

The only interesting bit he gave Camille was that she should look into one of the occupants of the building, JCSS, Inc., an Illinois corporation. The company provided commercial shipping supplies, and, according to Tommy, the employees all spoke various dialects of Cantonese.

He also sent along a photo of the company letterhead he'd filched when feigning some reason to enter the premises, a handful of photos of the offices themselves, and about twenty photos of various employees coming and going. He promised to check on the other three properties within the next few days.

As she began to leaf through the various images, a sudden thrill seized her. Toward the end of the roll were about a dozen personal photos her friend had added from Chicago.

The first shot was of Sam, who stood tall and broad, facing the camera with one of his generous smiles. The next few included posed shots of Sam, Celia, and two other women, including Christy Sue, who Camille had met only briefly. The fourth, a tall, lean, athletic woman with long raven tresses, Camille didn't recognize but assumed to be a Gifted refugee she'd never met.

Most photos were of Celia and the raven-haired woman. The young girl had matured, and was looking lovely and happy, but, to Camille's surprise, Tommy had included a picture of the dark-haired woman alone. The photograph was so intimate and tender that Camille thought perhaps he'd found a crush, and her stomach pitched several different ways at the thought.

With a budding irritation, the detective flicked through several more images, wondering why none were of Lydia. It was only when she came to the last photo, in which Celia and the woman lay stretched arm-in-arm on a couch, that it struck her the tall woman was Lydia.

She nearly leapt from her chair at the discovery.

"Okay, steady, girl," she whispered, hoping no one in the squad-room had seen her sudden start.

Another few minutes flicking through the pictures of Sam and the girls in the light of the realization made her feel better, but the speed at which the innocent young child she'd helped rescue barely a year before had grown to womanhood dumbfounded her. It was not the first time she was reminded of how different was the world in which Tommy Haas and his kind dwelt.

A short sip of her still-hot coffee brought her back to reality, and she realized she was smiling. Despite the fact Tommy's world often frightened her, and irrespective of the fact she regularly spent far, far too much time thinking of him, she was grateful to have him on her side.

Tommy had not just been a great friend but had helped her career enormously. In the past ten months or so, she and Eric Mueller had closed a remarkable number of cases, often generating their own cases on tips Tommy had provided. That had raised her and Eric's profile and had gotten them assigned to bigger and more complex projects. Their names were known at 1 Police Plaza, and, more important to their daily lives, their supervisor, Lieutenant Ted Silva, had placed a number of gold stars next to their names.

Much of that success she also owed to her partner. Mueller was smart, hardworking, and one of the best detectives on the force, a guy who understood crime and the less-flattering impulses of the human heart, but who likewise knew the system and how it worked. And though the man did have a slight temper, he otherwise was one of the most methodical and tightly controlled people Camille had ever met.

He was perplexing. Eric was something of an old-fashioned cop in many ways. From some of the personal titbits he'd dropped, it was clear he'd had a pretty rough upbringing, and his various excesses were a subject of much teasing at the precinct. Despite those vices, he had never once said or done anything even vaguely inappropriate to Camille, not even after three or four fingers of Irish whiskey at end of shift.

Having a partner who she liked and respected, and who reciprocated, put her well ahead of the curve.

Glancing up, she caught sight of someone she neither liked nor respected. Special Agent Ashford Caldecott-Nevarez had arrived three days before to act as agent-in-charge of several FBI task-forces working with the NYPD and other agencies, including the human-trafficking taskforce to which Camille and Eric were assigned. The partners had met the man on the day of his arrival.

"Ashford," to his friends, "but never Ash," he had proven himself within scant minutes of speaking to be a pompous ass who knew precious little of police work. His thick and lustrous blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, perfectly chiseled jaw, and flawless teeth might have landed him on the cover of GQ, but the effete New England manner in which he callously abused the letter R—he immediately had announced himself a Hahvahd man—suggested his Hispanic roots were none too deep.

Camille realized the oaf was making a beeline for the lieutenant's office.

"Der Fuhrer is here," she said to Eric, not caring who overheard.

"He is a handsome Aryan bastard, isn't he?" Eric said after glancing over.

"I mighta gone for that type, once," she said wistfully. Fucking Tommy Haas really has ruined me for any other man. She was just able to suppress a laugh—even her inner voice, she realized, had taken on a muttering quality. "But he's just too fucking stupid ... despite that five-thousand-dollar suit."

"Noticed the Italian wool, didja?"

"Yup ... whattaya think he wants?"

"I don't care," said Eric, turning back to his desk. "We're three weeks back on paperwork. I don't want to be here all night."

Camille shrugged and went back to work, but it was short-lived.

"Hey, Mueller, bring your partner." It was the thick Bronx accent of the lieutenant. Both detectives rose without a word, and the lieutenant held the door as they entered. "You know Special Agent Caldecott-Nevarez. He has something he wants to show you."

The FBI agent had set up a laptop with the screen facing a windowless wall, and after Camille and Eric took up places near the lieutenant's desk, he handed them each a sheet of paper.

"That's an SF312 Non-Disclosure Agreement. Just look it over and sign and initial where it indicates," said the agent with no prompting.

Without exchanging looks, the detectives complied and returned the forms. Neither had so far said a word, not especially caring if it made them look sullen.

"What I'm about to show you is classified secret. For the purposes of this briefing, you've both been granted interim secret clearances. In accordance with the NDA you just signed, what you're about to see and hear cannot be shared with anyone."

Over the next fifteen minutes, the special agent took the two detectives through a presentation on the computer screen detailing the existence of "superhumans" in the United States.

From time-to-time during the talk, Camille caught sight of Eric's face. It was a mask from beginning to end. He truly was a superior actor. Finally, several silent moments after the end of the presentation, her partner spoke.

"Lieutenant," said Mueller, "we have a lot of work to do."

Camille maintained her stoic face despite everything. The lieutenant gave an awkward sigh.

"Detective Mueller," said Agent Caldecott-Nevarez, "this isn't a joke, and I wouldn't waste your time or mine if it wasn't of the utmost ...."

"So, you're saying it's official U.S. government policy that Bigfoot exists?" asked Camille.

Again, Mueller kept a straight face, concerned and professional, but the lieutenant's façade cracked ever so slightly.

"Camille," said the agent—she did not like the way he said her name—"I know it's hard to wrap yourself around. It certainly was for me. But there are superhumans living among us. And it's our job to find them and protect this country ...."

"More important, Tommy," interrupted the lieutenant, using Camille's precinct nickname, "the commissioner mentioned the two of you by name when it came to providing NYPD support."

Camille wasn't a great thespian but was learning from Mueller. Timing was everything here. She locked eyes with the lieutenant. One, two, three ..., she counted.

"Lieutenant, are we being punished?"

She nailed it. Silva gave her an apologetic look.

"Oh, jeez," he muttered and rose from where he sat on the front of his desk. "Why don't you guys get back to work. I want to talk to Agent Caldecott-Nevarez. Close the door on your way out."

The two detectives returned to their desks and for the most part continued to work in silence. As her hands did their duty, however, Camille thought furiously. Her first instinct had been to dodge what seemed a possible landmine, but the more she thought of it, the more she felt it might not be a bad thing to work on this taskforce, if for no other reason than to keep apprised of its progress.

She voiced her thoughts to Mueller, quietly. He nodded slowly and went back to work. She'd come to know her partner well enough to realize he was thinking the same thing and that they would speak more on it when alone.

After twenty minutes, the FBI agent left. Thirty minutes after that, the lieutenant emerged again from his office. He spoke immediately.

"Look," he said firmly and quietly, "this is what it is. I was on the force in '91. I don't believe in this shit ... I don't not believe in it. Either way, this project is going on, and the commissioner insists NYPD have a hand in it. That means the two of you ... in recognition of your skill and hard work."

"In the near future," he continued, "special agent ... fucking-what's-his-name has a couple of days' worth of briefings and indoctrination for you. I know you have court dates and at least one deposition coming up. He's willing to be flexible on when you do the briefings, so whatever you do, do not miss court over them."

"Once you get past those, give this project the time it deserves." The lieutenant looked back and forth between them. "You have other cases open, so do not back-burner any of them for this FBI shit. This precinct still has its own crimes, and you're still in the rotation. If anybody has any problems with that, you still work for me ... so send them to me. And, yes, overtime is authorized. Send your thank-you notes to Uncle Sam."

"Look, guys," he said candidly, "bear with this thing a few months. If, at the end of that time, it looks like nothing more than a Bigfoot hunt," he paused, looking at Camille, "let me know. We'll figure out what to do from there. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said both detectives in unison.

"Questions?"

Neither spoke.

"Thank you for your service," said the lieutenant before returning to his office.