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Then again, they were in this together. Just like they had started together—
As his phone went off, he jumped and shoved his hand into the inside pocket of his sport coat. Extracting the thing, he had to brace himself—
Only to deflate. “Hey, honey,” he murmured.
His wife’s voice was worried. “Where are you?”
“I’m . . . working a case.”
“Oh, I thought you were coming home.”
“So did I,” he said roughly. “How’s your day?”
“Long.” He heard a rustling and a thump and could picture her putting that huge bag of books and her laptop onto the kitchen table. “I’ve got an exam next week, so I’m just going to sit myself down and start studying while I wait up for you. How late are you going to be?”
“I don’t know. Could be . . . hours.”
“Okay.”
The easy way she said the two syllables was why they were still married. The woman was patient, and smart, and everything that was good in his life.
“I’m going to take you on a vacation.” His voice cracked. “Your semester is ending at the same time I get out. You and I are going on a . . . a married-moon. A week away, anywhere you want to go. You pick.”
Her laugh was surprised. “José, you hate to travel. You know this.”
“Not this time, I won’t. You and me, anywhere you like, it’s my gift to you.”
There was a hiccup on the other end of the line. “Really? You’re serious.”
“I’ll even get a passport for the first time in—well, actually, it might just be the first time.”
“Oh, José . . . I love you.”
“I love you, too—”
“Be careful out there tonight. It’s cold, and—I don’t know. I got a bad feeling for some reason.”
So do I, honey, he thought.
“It’ll be fine,” he said as Stan’s private bathroom light turned off.
José didn’t really track what was said as they ended the call, but as he hung up, he very clearly decided that this week away was a gift for them both. Maybe it could be a yearly thing, a tradition as she worked her way through her PhD.
Up on the third floor, all of the chief ’s lights went out, including the ones in the waiting room.
Before José put the phone away, he made sure that the ringer was on silent. Then he extended his seat belt out and resettled it across his sternum.
If Butch were here, that cop from Southie would have driven him nuts as they waited, rambling on with sports scores and twitchy, impatient shifts in the seat. The bastard had been the worst at stakeouts. He was an action man.
Had been.
And soon José would be in the past tense, too. Well, in terms of being on the force.
God, he wished his old partner were here. Butch would know how to handle this—actually, no. Butch would just walk up to the chief, shove the guy up against the wall, and start counting down to a beating.
Fuck protocol and all that—
The rear door to the station house opened, and a lone silhouette stepped out. The chief had a reserved space right next to the exit, and Stan looked around before he got into the sedan. The guy always parked ass in, so as he started the engine, his headlights came on, flaring across the mostly empty lot.
José ducked down even though he was all the way across the street in a pocket of shadow.
Stan’s car cut across the empty lines, and at the kiosk, which was also unmanned at this hour of night, he stopped and swiped his card. For a brief instant, security lights pierced the windshield and illuminated his face.
He looked death-knell grim.
Hanging a louie, he started down Muhammad Ali Blvd. And after a lead of maybe five car lengths . . .
José left his spot and oiled along after the chief of police, keeping his own lights off.
How had he known the man had to go back to the office tonight? Because someone who was disorganized and forgetful enough to leave all the doors unlocked in his suite after hours . . . was still going to have enough self-protective instincts to remember the mistake he’d made.
And return to get the evidence that connected him to not one, but two, homicides.
In the glare of the Monte Carlo’s headlights, Lucan put his hands up, in a move that was like the universal sign for choking when someone couldn’t breathe: When you had a gun in your face, you got those palms high and away from your body. Especially if you were armed yourself and didn’t want to get popped for a sudden movement.
Meanwhile, the woman who was staring down the muzzle of her gun . . . had just put two and two together—and come up with what in her tradition would be called werewolf.
