Yankee Stadium - Saturday September, 15 7:41 PM

"They gave you what?!" Branson exclaimed, nearly dropping his cup of Budweiser.

"You heard me right Mikey. They gave me a shield. I'm a fucking detective my friend."

Meanwhile, Nick Davis' mouth simply hung open.

"You gonna say anything Davis? Or are you just opening your mouth for the dog?" Young asked with a chuckle.

Davis looked at the hotdog in his hand, shaking his head as if to clear his speech process. "How the hell can they give you a job, James? I mean, you're a student!"

Young shrugged. "I'm their only living witness. And they say I've got enough of my dad's flair to get the job done."

Branson jumped back in. "That's no reason! They should have you under witness protection or something!"

"Why? So I can go into hiding for the rest of my life? There's no reason to do that now. Seaver's murder is still under wraps, the media hasn't got a clue. And Antonacci said that Kelly intends to keep any more that happen under the heads of the department. The guy doesn't know about me, and he can't find out."

Branson was till livid. "That you know of James. That cop killer could have seen you around the corner for all you know."

Young again tried to settle Branson down. "Mikey, he didn't see me. If he had, what could've stopped him from coming around the fucking corner and making sure there wasn't going to be anyone to snitch on him? If he had seen me, do you really think I'd be sitting here with a glass of Miller?"

Branson simply looked at James for a few seconds more, then turned to watch the game again just as Alex Rodriguez was coming to the plate.

Young was fairly happy that the section of the bleachers they were in was relatively vacant except for his trio. It probably wouldn't have been smart to talk about these things with every Yank fan in the burg within earshot. Then again, better a public place than a secluded booth at a restaurant somewhere. Young had once observed that if you whisper, you attract attention to yourself. But if you speak lowly, without quite whispering, people will mind their own business. And for some unexplained reason, Branson and Davis were both doing just that without even being told.

A-Rod wound up striking out on his at-bat, and the Sox ran in from the field as the sides were retired. Young was about to ask Branson and Davis if they wanted peanuts as he had just spotted a hawker five rows down, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the smirking face of Serena Brighton. "Studying hard to hit the beat James?"

Young tilted his head from side to side as he came up with a comeback. "Figured I'd better get my nightstick training from the very best. You a Yank fan, Detective?"

Brighton chuckled. "Die-hard. Who are your friends?"

Branson and Davis, both looking confused as to why a beautiful thirty-something seemed to be flirting with Young, so he picked up the introductions. "Michael Branson...Nick Davis, meet Serena Brighton, my partner against crime."

The three exchanged handshakes, then Brighton turned back to Young. "James, can we have a word?"

It was the seventh inning stretch, so Young shrugged his shoulders and got up to follow Brighton to the end of the bleacher next to a support iron. All the cheerfulness that Brighton had possessed earlier was gone in an instant. "You carrying your shield?"

Young looked at her questioningly. "In my back pocket. Why?"

Brighton nodded. "Good." She pulled a pager out of her purse. "This is yours. I had to get in touch with your mother to find out where you were. You left your cell at home."

Young looked in shock at his belt where his phone normally hung. "Shit. Sorry about that. Why? What's up?"

Brighton sighed. "There's been another one."

Young swore under his breath. "Where?"

"World Trade Center Plaza. A port authority cop. Rose and everything."

"What was the method?" Young asked.

"Strangulation. You could have snorted coke out of the line in his neck."

"You need me to come with you?"

"No, CSI's have taken care of it. It was a pretty clean kill from what I gathered."

Young was developing a headache with each word Brighton uttered. "Alright. I'll be going home straight after the game. You'll be able to reach me there. I'll keep my phone on me from now on."

Brighton nodded. "Another thing, we're gonna need you at the precinct tomorrow morning to get you sworn in, and start your munitions training."

Young nodded. "You staying for the rest of the game?"

Brighton seemed to consider. "Yeah, I think I will. Mind if I join you and your friends?"

"Knock yourself out." He turned and started walking back toward Branson and Davis, with a silly grin on his face, knowing how the two would be thrilled to have the gorgeous Brighton with them as company.

They reached their bleacher and sat down, Brighton taking the spot next to Branson and Young sitting on Davis' right. Davis immediately turned to Young. "Dude!" he whispered. "Can you get me on the force too?"

Young burst out laughing, then remembered why Brighton had come in the first place, which sobered him quickly. "It's not all fun and games Nick."

Just then, the crowd went up as Freddy Garcia belted one out from the plate toward the right field bleachers where Young and his crew sat. It was going...going...gone...right into Young's gloved right hand as he jumped up and caught it. He reveled in the glory for a few moments, then an usher came forward as they usually do when someone catches a fly in the stands. The usher had a no bullshit look on his face.

"Can I see all your tickets please?"

Young's heart skipped a beat. How had Brighton gotten in anyway? He and his boys flashed their ticket stubs to the usher. Brighton however, flashed the badge to him. "The southpaw there is under witness protection." The usher seemed dubious at first, but then shrugged and sauntered off. Brighton smiled big at Young. Young returned the smile. To Davis he said, "But it does have its perks."