Chapter One

Jim pulled off Hank's harness in the elevator and smiled as Hank shook himself out. The German Shepherd always relished the time they'd get home and he would be off-duty, no more pressure to be Superdog.

Jim enjoyed the evenings at home, too. He would take off Hank's harness in the elevator so he could walk into his apartment on his own, his big furry companion more like a guard dog than a guide dog. His favorite time of day sometimes, that unpressured evening when nothing needed to get done, there was nowhere to go, he could finally kick back, relax, let his guard down.

The elevator doors dinged open and Jim shifted Hank's harness and leash to the same hand so he could fish out his keys.

"Dunbar! There you are!"

Jim stopped in his tracks as the voice of Sonny Famigletti reached down the hallway toward him. Sonny, his regular snitch, not a close friend, not even someone he wanted to know where he lived. He was sort of a slime ball, but they had a good working relationship.

"What are you doing here?"

"No hello?"

"No. How'd you know where I live?"

"I asked around," Sonny said, a shrug in his voice.

Jim moved in front of his apartment door, Hank at his side. He crossed his arms and set his lips in a no-nonsense line.

"Dunbar, I need your help."

Jim raised his eyebrows above his customary sunglasses he used to help keep the world at bay.

"I'm in over my head."

"What else is new?"

"That is new!"

"Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"I may not have tomorrow."

Sonny liked to embellish thing to make them sound good, but there was no mistaking the tremor in his voice. Sonny was like a bad-guy magnet. He hung out with all sorts of unsavory people and heard horror stories every day, liked to think he could laugh in the face of danger. But often, if anything happened, he'd come running to hide behind Jim's coattails.

"Can I come in?"

"No."

"Fair enough."

"Why didn't you just call?"

"For the same reason I've been sitting in your hallway for three hours instead of coming down to the station."

"Sonny, I'm not your own personal bodyguard."

"Jim?" The door to his apartment opened and his wife poked her head out. "I thought I heard you out here."

"Hubba—"

Jim elbowed Sonny in the ribs.

Sonny doubled over and coughed. "Same Dunbar," he gasped.

"Yeah, I am." He turned to Christie. "I'll just be a minute."

"Did you want to come in?" she asked hesitantly.

"No—"

"Much obliged," Sonny said, still with a hint of pain in his voice. He hurried forward, eluding Jim's outstretched hand.

Jim swore when he missed his mark. He pulled his hand back and hurried after Sonny's footsteps.

Christie grabbed the corner of his jacket as he passed and pulled him back. "Sorry," she whispered and leaned up to kiss him.

Jim unclipped Hank's leash. "Sonny, we're not going to talk here." He left his sunglasses on as he dropped his keys on the table across from the door.

"Snazzy place," Sonny said from across the room.

Jim's confident steps carried him over to the windows the other side of the couch and he grabbed Sonny's arm, pushing him in front of himself.

"Dunbar, you're not very hospitable, are you?"

Jim kept pushing him toward the door.

"I can't talk to you looking like that," Sonny said plaintively. "You look like a cop."

"So?"

"So I'm not supposed to go to the authorities, you know the drill."

"We'll talk in the hallway, we're not going out for a friendly drink."

"Dunbar, someone's bound to hear us. Anyone could just walk right up!"

"Like my neighbors would give a rat's ass if they saw you." Jim opened the door with his free hand and pushed Sonny into the hallway.

Sonny wrenched free of his grasp and hurried toward the elevator. "I'll meet you at that little coffee shop around the corner, okay?" he called. "That spiffy joint with the neon sign." The elevator doors dinged.

Jim sighed and shut his door. He didn't really want to go back out, but he was glad to no longer have Sonny in his apartment. He stripped off his suit coat as he headed for the bedroom closet.

"Who was that?" Christie asked.

"My informant. Apparently he's run into some trouble, wants to talk." Jim pulled on a fitted crew neck shirt.

"You could have talked to him here—"

"No." Jim shook his head and turned around. "I don't like it when my work follows me home."

"He can't be all bad; he thought I was attractive," Christie teased.

"Even blind men find you attractive," he teased back.

Christie kissed him.

"You want me to start following you around going hubba-hubba?" Jim asked with a small smile.

"Maybe not. That's not your style."

Jim passed her and hurried across the living room, snagging his leather jacket from the coat rack. He shrugged into it, then fished his cane out from the inside pocket of his overcoat. "I shouldn't be long." He slid his cell phone into the front pocket of his jeans.

"You're not taking Hank?" She sounded surprised.

"No… It's not that far. Hank had a long day." Jim turned away from her. He'd never really gone into the details of how the case had gone bad when they lost Hank. He didn't want Christie worrying about him, didn't want to think of Sonny's part in that case. He ran his hand through his hair and unfurled his cane, tapping it on the floor to lock the pieces in place. "I'll call if something comes up, but Sonny usually exaggerates, so I'm not too worried."

"Should you call Karen?"

Jim grimaced. "Christie, I'm a grown-up. It's just coffee."

She sighed.

Jim grinned. "I know, famous last words. See you soon." He pulled open the door, pleased with how well he'd been able to hide his apprehension. Christie wasn't your typical cop's wife. Sure, she'd held up miraculously well after the shooting, but when it came to the day-to-day stuff, Jim usually found the less information, the better.

He smelled the place a block away, at the end of his street, wished he could remember the name of the coffee shop, wished he could remember the neon sign. So many things had changed since the last time he saw them, though, he couldn't be sure the sign had even been there. He hesitated, running his cane along the building, not sure where the door was. The tip of the cane struck something and Jim reached out with his foot, locating a stair, then another, then the door, glass with an old-fashioned handle.

Inside he paused, letting his senses measure the room. Counter to the front. To the right, a wall maybe ten feet away. People talking to the right, maybe a couple tables; he could hear glasses, spoons. A cappuccino machine started and Jim momentarily lost his grasp on the room, then listened to the echo off the high ceilings, how the sound disappeared to the left. That must be where most of the tables were. Knowing Sonny, he'd probably be hiding in the corner as far from the door as possible, crouched down with his back to the room so no one would see him. Probably not even watching for Jim.

Jim headed left, keeping the swinging cane close to his body. It tapped the back legs of a chair and he skirted around it.

"Hey," Sonny said, weaving through tables, dodging around.

Jim took his arm.

"No dog?"

"No," he said shortly.

"Oh." Sonny paused while they walked. "I'm sorry about that, you know that, right?" He stopped walking, pulled out a chair and sat down.

Jim stood there a second, then made his way around the table to the other side. He folded up his cane before pulling out a chair for himself.

"So… you want some coffee, Ted?"

Jim frowned. "Ted?" The sound of the name Sonny'd picked for him in the undercover drug deal still made his stomach and his fists clench.

"Do you just not understand that I'm in trouble here? If I call you by name, we're all going to hell in a hand basket. I'm keeping you out of it, all right?"

"How is dragging me here "keeping me out of it"?"

"I didn't drag. You came, out of compassion, I'm sure."

"Right. Spill."

"No coffee?"

Jim just stared at him.

"Right. So anyway, I'm talking to this guy named Hans—"

"Hans?"

"Yeah, Hans."

"Hans have a last name?"

"Doesn't everybody? I don't happen to know what it is, but yeah, I'd guess he has one."

Jim shook his head and looked down. "Cut to the chase, okay?"

"You're the one interrupting."

"Fine, I'm sorry. Please continue." Jim found himself toying with the container that held swizzle sticks on one side and sugar on the other.

"Are you paying attention?"

"Yes!" Jim pulled back and dropped his hands into his lap.

"Dunb—Ted, there's something you gotta understand. My mother is the sweetest, nicest person you're ever going to meet. She's like a saint. She's cherubic—but not in the baby way. Just in the old lady way."

Jim motioned for Sonny to continue.

"She's so freaking nice, sometimes you just want to kill the lady. She's so helpful. Everything's always great. And she says it over and over and over. Isn't that so great? Isn't that so great?"

"So you killed her?" Jim asked, jumping ahead.

"No! Come on, she's my mother. She gave birth to me. 36 hours in labor, and you think I'm going to take her life?"

"So she's a saint."

"And she's driving me crazy. My apartment building, it's getting fumigated, so I've been staying with her all week, and all week it's been, Sonny, clean your room, Sonny, don't drink from the milk carton, Sonny, do the dishes. I moved out for a reason. I know she's just trying to make me a better person, but she says this over and over."

"All mothers nag. That's what they do."

"I realize that. But you're sitting in a bar, and you're a grown-up, and you don't want to go home because your mom's there waiting up, like she doesn't trust you. So you start talking. Everyone's complaining about their wives or kids. And I don't have a wife or a kid to complain about. So I pick my mom."

"Okay…"

"And I feel really bad. She's my mom; I shouldn't complain about her. She means well."

"So what'd you do?"

"I told this guy, Hans, how she's been driving me crazy. She's turning me into Mister Rogers—any minute I'm going to start hallucinating and talking to trains, okay? And she's got me wearing these awful sweaters—you're lucky you can't see me—which she spends all her time knitting in front of the fireplace. It's June, Ted. She has the fireplace going all the time, 'cause she's cold."

Jim couldn't help but smile. He turned his head down toward the table to try to hide it.

"And this guy slaps me on the back, stands up, and says he'll take care of it."

Sonny paused, waiting, the end of the story. He'd gotten to the punch line and Jim laughed loudly.

"This isn't funny, Ted. This is serious."

"You think he's about to go find your mom and kill her?" Jim asked skeptically, grinning over at Sonny.

"You weren't there. You didn't hear how he said it. It was all sinister."

"Yeah." Jim stood up, unable to stop smiling. "Happens all the time." He pushed in his chair.

Sonny jumped up and came around the table, taking Jim's arm to keep him from leaving. "Look into it," he pleaded quietly. "I'm not about to be the cause of my mother's demise. I'm a good son, Ted, I really am."

Jim slapped Sonny on the back. "Go home and do the dishes."

"You don't believe me!"

"Do you have any proof?"

"Well…"

"Sonny, you know I need proof."

"I'll get it. I will."

"You do that."

"I will, Ted. Just you wait. Her death, it'll be on your head!"

Jim grabbed his cane from the table. "Sonny, relax."