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said in a low voice, “I’m gonna beat the dog
     shit out of you.”
    Leal, a lean one-eighty, looked almost frail next to the heavily muscled Brice. But Leal, who had boxed golden gloves and
     been on an army boxing team, used his quickness to avoid the bigger man’s punishing blows. Sticking and moving, Leal’s jab
     repeatedly stung his opponent and set up overhand rights.
    “Brice is getting hit with so many rights, he’s begging for a left,” one of the onlookers said.
    Despite the large, sixteen-ounce gloves that minimized the blows, it soon became apparent that if anyone was getting the “dog
     shit” beat out of them, it sure wasn’t Leal. Brice continued to absorb the punishment, following the wispy Leal around the
     ring on sodden legs that looked ready to crumble. The fight finally ended when the supervisor, tired of seeing the big sergeant
     used for a punching bag, stepped in and declared the fight a draw. Leal had a slight bump on his cheek from a head butt, but
     Brice’s face was as swollen as a catcher’s mitt. Word quickly spread, and the fight did little to end the animosity. Both
     men gave the other a wide berth, and soon they were each respectively transferred to the sheriff’s police section and out
     of the jail. It was a big department, and their paths hadn’t crossed in the intervening years. Until now.
    With Brice running the show, this wasn’t just the catch Leal had worried about; it was catch-22.
    Brice still looked formidable. His shoulders had always been huge and his chest looked as solid as a wine keg. But his hair
     had thinned and turned steel gray. Large wrinkles fanned out from his eyes and bracketed his mouth. He held out a large right
     hand toward Leal, who accepted it.
    “Lieutenant,” Leal said, nodding in acknowledgment.
    As Brice grabbed Leal’s hand, it was all he could do not to wince. Brice had snared Leal’s fingers in a grip of iron, pumping
     the hand slowly and squeezing until Leal felt like going up on his toes. It was an old trick of Brice’s that Leal had forgotten
     about. Brice always called it “The Sissy Shake.”
    “Good to be working with you again,” Brice said. He turned slightly, still holding Leal’s hand, and pointed to the others
     in the room. “Let me introduce you to Tom Ryan, Joe Smith, and Olivia Hart. This is Frank Leal, everybody.” He punctuated
     each introduction with another bone-crushing squeeze.
    Leal managed to extricate his hand from Brice’s and waved an acknowledgment. Ryan he knew slightly, having met him before,
     but the other two were strangers. Or were they? Suddenly he recognized the woman. She was the bodybuilder he’d seen pumping
     iron in the gym, only now she didn’t look quite so muscle-bound in a white blouse and navy blue skirt. She held a matching
     navy jacket folded over her arm.
    Tom Ryan stepped over to him and flashed a quick grin as they shook hands. He was in his late thirties with a slender build
     and wire-rim glasses. His brown hair was flecked with a little gray, and his mustache was bushy. The black guy, Joe Smith,
     looked a decade younger than either Ryan or Leal, and appeared to be in good shape. He was tall, with a dark complexion and
     a razor-edge part cut into his very short hair. Leal noted that Smith’s grip was friendly and strong.
    Good, thought Leal. Maybe he can help get me into better shape if we get paired together.
    Hart moved forward to shake also, but Brice interceded.
    “You can get acquainted later,” he said. “Right now we’ve got to get in the pressroom for the sheriff.” He turned and led
     them down the hall, and then stopped abruptly. “Let me make this perfectly clear. At the conference nobody say nothing. Let
     Sheriff O’Hara handle the news media. He just wants us to be in the background as he introduces the new investigative team
     heading up the Walker case. Understand?” He seemed to glare at Leal in particular for a moment.
    They walked down to