LITMIR.BIZ

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short.

      “I’m getting damn sick and tired of the jokes about my being pretty enough to be a girl,” Chad said. “What do I have to do to get you and the other guys to ease up on the ribbing—run my face through a windshield or let some knife-happy perp slice-and-dice my rosy cheeks?”

      Jim chuckled. “The only reason we dish it out is because you can’t take it. Act like you don’t give a shit and it’ll stop soon enough.”

      Chad harrumphed as he turned their black Ford Taurus onto Galloway Drive. “I’d like to believe that.”

      “Believe it.”

      Jim had been partnered with the darling of the department on a string of cases these past three months since Chad’s former partner, Bill Delmar, retired. Jim couldn’t fault the kid on his professionalism. But on a personal basis, newly promoted Sergeant Chad George could be a pain in the ass. He was often a bit too cocky and always a bit too sensitive. Hell, at twenty-eight, the guy should have wised-up. A police officer, especially one in the homicide department, wouldn’t last long if he didn’t learn to distance himself from the job just enough so that the intensity of murder and mayhem didn’t bleed over into every aspect of his life. It was no secret to anyone who knew him that Chad lived and breathed his job. Odds were he’d make lieutenant in a few years and just keep moving right on up. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he had his own personal angel—none other than Congressman Harte, who was Chad’s uncle-by-marriage.

      Jim had been a lot like Chad at his age—minus the angel—but he figured there was no point in telling the boy to do as he said and not as he’d done. Ten years ago, Jim hadn’t listened to older and wiser men on the force who’d tried to warn him. If he had listened, maybe his former partner would still be alive. Maybe he and Mary Lee would still be married. And maybe he’d get to see his son whenever he was off duty and not just on alternate weekends and a couple of holidays a year.

      “It’s not every day there’s a homicide in Chickasaw Gardens,” Chad said.

      Jim glanced out the window, visually skimming over mansion after mansion in this old, well-established Memphis neighborhood, where homes often sold for somewhere between one and two million dollars. And in Tennessee, million-dollar houses were far from the norm for the average citizen.

      “Who’d they send out from the Central Precinct?” Jim asked.

      “A couple of one-man cars. Don’t know the officers’ names.”

      Jim nodded.

      Within minutes, they reached the address they’d been given when they were dispatched from downtown. Two white police cars, trimmed in red and blue, a black Chevy Trailblazer, an ambulance and a small group of curious neighbors blocked their path. Chad parked behind one of the two police vehicles. The minute they emerged from the sedan, they made their way up the sidewalk to the two-story brick traditional shaded by large oak trees. Curious stares and a hum of murmurs followed them. Jim scanned the area, left and right, forward and backward. He noted a sleek, silver Porsche convertible parked in the driveway.

      A young uniformed officer stood outside the front door, nervous sweat dampening his face on this cool spring night. Chad approached, identified himself and Jim, and then turned to the crowd.

      “Folks, I’m going to have to ask that y’all leave the yard. Your presence here could very well compromise our crime scene.”

      A loud grumble rose from several in the group, but to-a-person they moved hurriedly out into the street.

      Jim noted the embarrassed look on the young policeman’s face. His name tag read Jarnigan. “The ME already here?” Jim thought he recognized Udell White’s SUV parked behind the police cars.

      “Yes, sir. He arrived just a few minutes ago,” Officer Jarnigan replied, then swallowed hard.

      Chad zeroed in on Jarnigan, who Jim figured was fresh out of John D. Holt. If he was a rookie that would explain his nervousness. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that he had graduated from the Academy. He’d been young and stupid enough to think he could conquer the world. He should have known better. After all, his dream of turning pro had been dashed when an injury his senior year at UT had ended his football career. After his body had been refurbished through a series of operations, he had been able to function normally, at least enough to meet the force’s physical requirements. After losing out on a pro career and making a ton of personal and professional mistakes, Jim didn’t have big plans anymore. He just took each day one at a time.

      “What other officer responded to the call?” Chad asked.

      “Del Treacy. He’s inside with the ME.” Jarnigan’s voice trembled.

      Jim gave Chad a back-off glance, then stepped up on the porch where Jarnigan stood, guarding the open front door, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take it easy, son. We’re all on the same team here.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “This your first murder case?”

      “Yes, sir.” Jarnigan sighed deeply.

      Jim turned to Chad. “Why don’t you go out there and get the names of the curious and find out if they know anything about what happened. I’ll take over here.”

      Chad bristled. Too bad. Jim still outranked him. He probably should have sent Jarnigan to interview the bystanders instead of ordering his partner to do the job. But it was liable to be a long night and a little bit of Chad went a long way. He figured he’d better separate himself from the cocky kid as much as possible so he didn’t lose his cool with the department’s darling boy.

      “Yeah, sure.” Chad grunted, then headed down the sidewalk.

      Jim pulled out a notepad and pen from his inside coat pocket, then asked Jarnigan, “What time did y’all arrive on the scene?”

      “Ten forty-seven.”

      Jim made a note of the time, then jotted down the address, the approximate temperature and weather conditions. Sixty-three degrees. Cool, clear, stars in the sky. “Tell me what y’all found when you arrived.”

      “Uh…er…the guy who’d called 911 met us at the door.” Jarnigan glanced over his shoulder. “Del’s got him inside. In the living room.”

      “Go on.”

      “He said he found the victim when he arrived. They…er…they had a late date. He said she was already dead when he got here.”

      Jim nodded as he glanced around, taking note of the specifics of the old brick house. One door—a double door at the front. Four long, narrow windows. All four shut tight.

      “I’m going inside,” Jim said. “You stay out here and help Sergeant George. And don’t let him intimidate you.”

      “No sir. I mean, yes sir, I won’t.”

      Jim entered the large marble-floored foyer and eyed the sweeping staircase leading to the second floor. A crystal chandelier glistened brightly overhead. A set of double pocket doors to the left were closed, but the matching set to the right were open, revealing the twenty-by-twenty living room. Hardwood floors. Fireplace. No fire. Intricately carved wooden mantel. Traditional decorating, probably created by an outrageously expensive interior designer.

      A stocky, black-uniformed officer stood talking to a man wearing an expensive dark suit, a white shirt and a red tie. When Jim approached the entrance to the living room, both men glanced at him.

      “Officer Treacy, I’m Lieutenant Norton. Homicide.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Who’s this you’ve got with you?”

      The tall, broad-shouldered man turned all the way around and faced Jim. Wavy black hair and dark eyes, bronze skin and handsome Hispanic features. Good-looking devil, Jim thought. Not a pretty boy like Chad. Just damn impressive.

      “I’m Quinn Cortez.” The

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