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the back fence like a frenzied demon and disappeared into the night. Brody charged into the house to find Campese lying on the ground, groaning—thank God he was alive—and his knee a bloodied mess.
    Even now Brody could still taste the acrid bile that had risen as he called for assistance and tried to staunch the blood flowing out of his partner’s leg. Campese had turned the air blue with his cussing, and Brody had never been so glad to hear it. When they learned the suspect had got away, he’d expected some of that cussing to be directed at him, but Campese had never once blamed him, which had only made Brody feel worse. A few years passed before a string of robberies was linked to Dave Campese’s assault, and Brody knew the man he was searching for was Michael O’Brien.
    Brody met Shane’s concerned look. “I know that, but that doesn’t mean I’m ever going to stop looking.”
    As if he’d sensed being the subject of discussion, Campese walked into the bullpen and nodded at the two detectives. “Hey, fellas. How’s it hanging?”
    As usual, Brody forced his eyes not to linger on the sergeant’s gimpy leg that had never fully recovered from the gunshot wound. Somehow, Campese’s unwavering friendliness always made him feel more guilty, and now that Brody and Shane were permanently assigned to the second district—after yet another head-office managerial shuffle—where Campese was stationed, he got to feel guilty on a daily basis.
    “We’ve just finished our shifts,” Shane said.
    “Going down to Kelly’s for a beer?”
    “Nope. Got a date tonight.”
    “How ’bout you?” Campese asked Brody. “S’pose you’ve got a girl waiting for your call tonight.”
    “Not me. Think I’ll watch a movie on TV tonight.” Or maybe take a drive past Katherine O’Brien’s house one more time. You never knew.
    “My date’s got a friend who’s just your type,” Shane said to Brody. “Want me to get her number for you?”
    “Nah, I’m good.”
    Shane gave him a weird look. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, she’s just your type, and believe me, I know what your type is.”
    Brody rubbed the back of his neck, feeling strangely contrary. Somehow his type didn’t hold any appeal to him tonight. Maybe he wanted something different. Maybe he was growing old. Shit.
    “Aw, shucks, the poor guy needs a rest,” Campese said, studying Brody’s ripped jeans more closely. “What happened on your shift today, man? You look like you’ve been in a scuffle with some asshat.”
    Yep, no doubt about it, he never would have hauled Abigail down here. Campese and Shane would be cracking up if they knew who he’d been scuffling with.
    “Naw, it’s nothing.” Brody shrugged, close-mouthed.
    Campese gave him another narrow stare before his expression relaxed into a grin. “Glad I’ll be finished with asshats soon. Only four weeks before I sign off for good. I got a fishing rod with my name on it waiting for me.”
    The sergeant limped off, leaving Brody frowning after him. Campese might put on a brave face, but everyone knew the leg injury was forcing his early retirement. Before that retirement cake was cut, Brody wanted to bring in the man responsible. That was all he was going to concentrate on this coming month.

Chapter Three
    An imperative knocking on the downstairs door roused Abigail from her bed on Sunday morning. Heavy with sleep, she flung on a dressing gown and fumbled her way down, only to find Detective Brody Donovan standing at her front door. Dressed in dark blue jeans—a clean pair without rips—and a white T-shirt under his sports jacket, he brought with him the crisp morning air and a sense of purpose that only made her feel more disheveled and hazy.
    “What’s the emergency, Detective?” she asked, tugging the edges of the dressing gown closer to her.
    “I woke you up. Sorry.” His hair was fresh and thick, his hazel-green eyes clear like forest pools. He indicated the gym bag he was