LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes narrowed. “My partner is dead,” he said shortly.

      Shaw shoved an angry hand through what was left of his thinning hair. Even though Judd had been assigned a new partner over a month ago, he had yet to acknowledge his presence.

      “I know it was rough losing Myers the way we did. We all liked Dan. But life goes on. David Sanger is your partner now, and you will, by God, treat him as such.”

      Judd didn’t blink and wouldn’t answer. None of them knew the guilt Judd carried. Three days away from retirement, Dan Myers had taken a bullet meant for Judd. Instead of a retirement party, they’d attended Dan’s funeral. Judd hadn’t slept the night through since.

      Shaw glared at the implacable expression on Hanna’s face. Never in his life had he wanted to shake anyone as badly as he did right now. And yet looking at him, Shaw knew that was the last thing a sane man would do. At three inches over six feet, and with an attitude that wouldn’t quit, Judd Hanna was a man you didn’t want to piss off. Shaw sighed, then tried a different approach.

      “Hanna, you know as well as I do that the rules are in place for everyone’s safety. Not just yours. I don’t want to attend another funeral, namely yours.”

      Judd muttered something that, to Shaw, sounded suspiciously like, who the hell cares.

      “That does it!” Shaw snapped. “Turn in your badge and your service revolver. I’m placing you on medical leave until you get your head screwed on straight.”

      Finally, Shaw had Judd’s attention. “You can’t!” Judd argued. “We’re too close to finding Dan’s killer.”

      Shaw pointed a finger in Judd’s face. “That’s what I mean,” he shouted. “Dan Myers’s case belongs to Homicide. We’re Vice.”

      Judd swallowed as panic started to intercede. He couldn’t let go just like that. Why couldn’t Shaw understand?

      “Look, Captain, Dan was my partner. He took a bullet meant for—”

      Shaw shook his head. “You heard me. As of this minute, you’re on leave…with pay, of course. You will report to Dr. Wilson at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and every morning thereafter until he pronounces you fit for duty again.”

      The department shrink? Judd’s nostrils flared.

      “Like hell.”

      Shaw leaned across his desk, glaring into Hanna’s face.

      “Hell it may be,” he snapped. “But you don’t come back until Wilson says it’s okay.”

      Judd straightened. Just the notion of letting go of the devils he lived with was impossible to consider. He tossed his shield on the desk, then laid his revolver down beside it. Without saying a word, he headed for the door.

      “Hanna—”

      He stopped but didn’t turn around, leaving Shaw to say what must be said to the back of his head.

      “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

      Judd slammed the door behind him. It was all the comment he was capable of making.

      Shaw grabbed the phone and punched in a series of numbers, frowning as he waited for an answer.

      “Dr. Wilson…it’s me, Shaw. I’ve just put Judd Hanna on medical leave. He’s due in your office at nine in the morning. Yes, he’s borderline now. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I want it stopped before I lose him, too.”

      He hung up, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It hadn’t been easy being tough on Hanna. He liked the man, even admired him. And losing a partner of fifteen years would have been difficult for anyone. At least now things were on the right track.

      But for Judd, everything was off balance. For the first time since he took the oath of office, he had nowhere to go but his apartment. He hesitated on the street outside the station house, then headed for the bar down the street. His apartment wasn’t home. It was just where he slept, and it was far too early to go to bed.

      The bar was cool and fairly quiet. The afternoon crowd had yet to arrive. Judd slid onto a stool and combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. How in hell had his life gotten so mixed up?

      “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

      “Bourbon,” Judd muttered.

      The bartender slid a bowl of pretzels his way and then went to pour the drink. Judd pushed the bowl aside. He didn’t need to eat. He needed to forget.

      “Here you go, buddy,” the bartender said.

      Judd grabbed the shot glass and lifted it to his lips, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror over the bar. But something happened between recognition and focus. Instead of seeing the man that he was, he saw the boy that he’d been. His belly knotted and his heart suddenly ached as he let himself remember.

      The pink slip in Joe Hanna’s back pocket rode his conscience like a hot poker. Overwhelmed at being fired from another dead-end job, he’d spent the last four hours, and what was left of his money, drowning his sorrows at the local bar. The only thing he had left was a constant, burning rage at the disappointments life had dealt him, and the burden of a ten-year old son he had never wanted.

      As he started up the walk to his house, it occurred to him that the house was dark. He squinted against the glare of streetlights and cursed. That damned kid. If he wasn’t home from school, he would tan his hide.

      It never occurred to Joe that more than seven hours had passed since his son, Judd, would have come home from school, or that he’d come home to a house with no food. Joe felt no guilt for his lack of concern. He kept a roof over their heads, which was more than his daddy had done for him.

      He stumbled as he started up the steps, falling forward and then catching himself on his hands and knees just before his face hit the porch. A sharp pain pierced the palm of his right hand. He got up swearing and staggered into the house, turning on the lights, room by room.

      “Boy! Where the hell are you?”

      No one answered. Joe cursed again as he stumbled to the kitchen sink. He looked down at his hand. It was bleeding. He wiped it on the front of his shirt, then reached for the cabinet. The second shelf down from the top was where he kept his liquor. He needed a drink, but there was nothing there.

      He slammed the door shut with a bang. “Goddamn it, Judd Hanna! You answer me, boy! What did you do with my whiskey?”

      Again, the rooms echoed from the sound of Joe’s voice. Rage grew. His belly burned and his head was swimming. In a minute, he was going to lie down, but not before he got his hands on that damned kid.

      Joe started through the rooms, shouting Judd’s name. Doors slammed. A lamp tumbled to the floor and shattered into pieces, and still no sign of the boy. He was furious. The shame of being fired, coupled with the frustrations of his life in general, had boiled into a rage. He staggered back into the kitchen, swaying where he stood and staring around the house in disbelief.

      It took a while for him to realize that the door leading down to the basement was slightly ajar. A cold smile broke the anger on his face. Seconds later, he stood at the landing, shouting Judd’s name into the darkness below.

      The basement walls were damp with condensation, the odors a choking blend of dust and mold. Something scurried in the darkness beneath ten-year-old Judd Hanna’s feet and he stifled a gasp. Yet the fear of the unknown was far less sinister to him than the man standing at the landing of the stairs.

      “Judd…Judd, boy, I know you’re down there. Answer me, damn it.”

      Judd held his breath, afraid to swallow for fear he’d be heard.

      When his father started down the steps, every muscle in Judd’s body went tense.

      No, no, no…God, don’t let

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