Wednesday, February 18,

9:00 p.m.

Finally. He sat in his car safely out of the flurry of uniformed activity taking place inside the parking garage. Lights flashed and yellow tape was strung everywhere. Either some political dignitary had been murdered in the garage or Kristen Mayhew had finally looked in her trunk. He was pretty certain he could disregard the former.

He’d been busy in the last weeks. He was up to six. Six down, about a million to go.

He’d taken his first in secret, painlessly and quietly.

And had discovered it wasn’t nearly enough. Not enough that he’d done such a thing for the world. For the victims. For his Leah. It wasn’t enough that he be the only one to know. It wasn’t enough that he be the only one to celebrate.

So he’d abruptly changed his plan and once done, it was easy to determine who else would know what he’d done. The person who most deserved to know.

„But he’s never done Homicide. I gotta have someone with some experience here.“

„He’s got experience, Mia.“ Spinnelli’s voice was soothing without being condescending. Abe liked that. „He’s been undercover in Narcotics for the last five years.“

Five years. He’d gone under a year after Debra was shot, hoping the added risk would dull the pain of watching his wife exist in the life-support-induced limbo doctors called a persistent vegetative state. It hadn’t. A year ago she’d died and he stayed with his cover, hoping the risk would dull the pain of losing her completely. That it had done.

Mitchell was silent and Abe had started to knock when Spinnelli’s voice cut through once again, this time reproachful. „Did you read any of the information I gave you?“

Another half beat of silence, followed by Mitchell’s defensive answer. „I didn’t have time. I was making sure Cindy and the kids had food on the table.“

Cindy would be Mrs. Ray Rawlston, the widow of Mitchell’s former partner who’d been killed in an ambush that left Mitchell with a scar just above her ribs where a bullet narrowly missed every major organ. It would appear Mitchell was a lucky cop. It would also appear that Abe knew a lot more about her than she knew about him. No longer compelled to eavesdrop, he rifted his knuckles to the door in a hard knock.

„Come.“ Spinnelli sat behind his desk and Mitchell leaned against a wall, arms crossed over her chest, eyeing him sharply. At five-four, her 125 pounds was a well-distributed muscled mass. Her file said she was single, never been married, thirty-one years old. Her face looked a good deal younger. Her eyes, on the other hand… She might as well have been coming up for her retirement Timex. Abe knew the feeling.

Spinnelli stood, his hand extended in greeting. „Abe, so good to see you again.“

Abe met Spinnelli’s eyes briefly as he shook his hand, but quickly resumed his study of his new partner. Her eyes met his even though she had to bend her neck to look up. She didn’t blink as she continued to lean against the wall, every muscle visibly tensed.

„Good to see you, too, Lieutenant.“ He returned her stare. „You’re Mitchell.“

She nodded coolly. „Last I checked, that was the name on my locker.“

Well, at least this won’t be boring, he thought. He stuck his hand out. „Abe Reagan.“

She shook his hand fast, as if sustaining physical contact was a painful thing. Maybe it was. „I figured that out myself.“ She shot him a hostile look. „Why’d you leave Narcotics?“

„Mia!“

Abe shook his head. „It’s okay. I can give Detective Mitchell the Reader’s Digest version since she’s been too busy to read my file.“ Mitchell’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. „We closed a five-year sting operation, nabbing the bad guys and 50 million in pure heroin, but my cover was blown in the process.“ He shrugged. „Time to move on.“

Her stare never wavered. „Okay, Reagan, you made your point. When do you start?“

„Today,“ Spinnelli said. „Everything finished up in Narcotics, Abe?“

„Almost. I have to tie up a few loose ends at the prosecutor’s office, so I’ll head over there when we’re done.“ His grin was rueful. „I’ve been under so long, it’ll be an adjustment, walking in the front door of the SA’s office, introducing myself as a detective again.“ Abe sobered. „Do I get a desk?“ he asked and saw the pain that flashed in Mitchell’s eyes.

She swallowed hard. „Yeah. I still have to clean it out, but – “

„It’s okay,“ Abe interrupted. „I can do that.“

Mitchell shook her head hard. „No,“ she bit out. „I’ll do it. Go tie up your loose ends. The desk will be yours when you get back.“ Turning on her heel, she headed for the door.

Spinnelli faltered. „Mia…“

She spun around, rage supplanting the pain. „I said I’d do it, Marc.“ She was breathing hard as she fought for control.

„Did they, Mitchell?“ Abe asked softly.

Her eyes flew up to meet his. „Did they what?“

„Did Ray’s wife and kids have food on the table?“

Her breath shuddered out. „Yeah. They did.“

„Good.“ Abe saw he’d scored a point with his new partner. Her nod of response was jerky, but she was back in enough control that she didn’t slam the door behind her. Still, the blinds on the window clattered and shook.

Spinnelli drew a breath. „She’s not over him yet. He was her mentor.“ Spinnelli shrugged, and Abe could see he still had unresolved grief of his own. „He was her friend.“

„Yours, too.“

Spinnelli managed a smile before sinking back down into the chair behind his desk. „Mine, too. Mia’s a good cop.“ His eyes sharpened and Abe had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling Spinnelli was looking straight into his own soul. „I think you’ll be good for each other.“

Abe was the first to look away. He jangled his car keys. „I need to be getting over to the prosecutor’s office.“ He’d made it to the door before Spinnelli stopped him again.

„Abe, I have read your file. You were lucky to be alive at the end of that last sting.“

Abe shrugged. It was the story of his sorry life. Lucky, lucky, lucky. If they only knew the truth. „Looks like Mitchell and I have something in common after all.“

Spinnelli’s jaw tightened. „Mia went down guarding Ray’s back. You have the reputation of taking chances, riding in to save the day.“ Spinnelli’s expression was severe. „Leave your death wish in Narcotics. I don’t want to go to any more funerals. Yours or Mia’s.“

Easier said than done. But knowing what was expected, Abe nodded stiffly. „Yes, sir.“

Wednesday, February 18,

8:00 p.m.

Kristen jabbed the elevator button. She was late leaving the office again. „Go home and rest, my ass,“ she muttered. John wanted her fresh for tomorrow, but he’d also wanted a „quick check“ on a case. One thing led to another, just like every night. And just like every night she walked out of the office after everyone else had gone home, including John. She rolled her eyes even as she noted the burned-out bulbs in the hallway that connected their offices to the parking garage elevators. She fished her dictating recorder from her pocket.

„Note to Maintenance,“ she murmured into the recorder. „Two bulbs burned out at elevator entrance.“ Hopefully Lois would type up that note and the twenty others she’d recorded in the last three hours. Lois never refused, it was just a matter of getting her attention. All the prosecutors had staggering caseloads and every request coming out of the Special Investigations Unit was life and death. Unfortunately, Kristen’s caseload was mostly death. Which ended up taking most of her life. Not that she had much of one. Here she was, standing at the elevator to the parking garage, alone and almost too tired to care.