“The Reader’s Digest version: a junkie mugger with a cheap .22. That’s the thing about those small caliber handguns—what goes into the vic doesn’t always come out.”

“You’re walking around with a head full of lead?” Mendez said, incredulous.

“Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“I’m officially on a medical leave.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Uh . . . because I don’t want anyone to know,” Vince said. “Call me paranoid, but I think people treat a guy different when they know he’s got a bullet in his head.”

“You should be dead.”

“Yeah. But I’m not,” he said with a shadow of the big white grin. “Life’s a funny old dog. Don’t take it for granted, kid.”

They were quiet for moment. A couple of county cruisers rolled past them into the back parking lot. Just another night at the SO now. The show was over.

“You really are going to quit, aren’t you?”

Vince nodded. “If I didn’t know it when I came out here, I know it now. I know it tonight.

“You don’t want to end up like old Frank, kid; just a hanger for a uniform,” he said. “Nothing means anything to you except the job. It’s who you are. It’s what you are. Been there, done that, time to go.

“Love what you do. Don’t get me wrong. Have passion for it. But don’t make it your only mistress.”

“What will you do?”

“I want to do some teaching, some consulting, a little recruiting for old time’s sake,” he said. “But I really want the wife and the life. And at the end of the day, I want a soft place to put my bullet-riddled head that isn’t a cheap pillow at a Holiday Inn. Time for a young hotshot like yourself to move in and for me to move on.”

“You think I could make it to Behavioral Sciences?”

“You’d have to put in some field time, but yeah. You’ve got a good head for it, Tony. I’d like to see you think about it, anyway.”

“I will.”

“You poaching my best detective, Vince?” Cal Dixon said, wandering over to take the last spot on the bench. Like Mendez, he had showered and changed clothes in the locker room, trading the uniform with Frank Farman’s blood on it for jeans and a sweater.

Vince spread his hands. “What can I say? I’m a son of a bitch. I want him to be all he can be.”

“I’ll let it slide,” Dixon said. “You saved my ass tonight.”

“You did your part. I’m just a loudmouth. The nuns used to kick my ass for running my mouth like that,” Vince said. He let a beat pass, then changed his tone. “I’m sorry about Frank.”

Dixon shook his head. “You think you know a guy . . .”