Flipping on the light, she set her coffee aside and booted up the computer. Just as she was opening the file on the Kensington murders, Hal Callum rolled in wielding his usual good-natured grin, greeting her and Cord.

‘Morning lady and gent.’

Alyssa glanced up, noticing right away that something was different about the department’s most favored advice-giver. ‘You’re sporting a new chair!’ Her smile stretched from ear to ear.

A few months ago, Hal’s wheelchair had begun showing its age, squeaking and squealing with every inch of movement. Everyone, especially his wife, had hounded him about purchasing a new motorized one, but he’d dug his heels in. One night while celebrating with drinks at a local brewery after successfully locating a missing three-year-old, Alyssa had asked him what was up with his stubborn refusal to ditch the old chair.

He’d chugged half his Blue Moon and then stared off into space, uncharacteristically quiet before finally answering. ‘When I was shot, lots of folks told me I’d never work in law enforcement again. Even more told me I was stupid for wanting to. This ole gal’ – he stroked the chair’s arm the way someone might stroke a lover – ‘became a symbol of my determination. Giving her up when she’s the one falling apart feels like a betrayal somehow.’

Alyssa had nodded and then asked one simple question: ‘If the tables were reversed, and it was me in that chair, what sage advice would you give me?’

He hadn’t answered, but the next day she’d walked in on him checking out wheelchair websites. It might’ve taken him a while to settle on one he liked – he still refused to roll around in a motorized chair, much to his wife’s dismay – but apparently he’d found ‘The One,’ and despite its shiny newness and the brilliant purple seat, it looked much like the old one, which was probably why he was looking pretty pleased with himself.

Cord whistled and walked around the chair, eyeing it up and down like he might the fancy sports cars he coveted. ‘Nice wheels there, Hal.’

Eyes twinkling, he replied, ‘You can call me Your Highness.’

Alyssa barked out a laugh. ‘Let me guess: it’s royal purple?’

They were still chuckling when Officer Joseph Roe walked in carrying a large brown bag of bagels in one hand and balancing a wobbly takeout tray of drinks on his shoulder, grumbling, ‘Ten more days of this.’ Cord leaped over to rescue the cups before they could tumble to the floor.

With no other context than that, Alyssa knew Joe was referring to Albuquerque’s International Balloon Fiesta. The official first day wasn’t until tomorrow, but the streets were already clogged with travelers from every state and a multitude of countries, which added at least twenty-five minutes to her commute.