She rapped on the door, then swung through when it opened. An arm curled around her waist. She braced instinctively, then let out a little hiss of breath when she looked up and saw her brother grinning at her.

“Rachel, long time no see.”

“Yeah, it must be a day and a half.”

“Grumpy.” His grin widened as he pulled her out of the corridor and into the squad room. “Good sign.” His gaze skimmed over her shoulder and locked briefly on LeBeck. “So, they tied you up with that one. Tough break, sweetheart.”

She gave him a sisterly elbow in the ribs. “Stop gloating and get me a decent cup of coffee.” Resting a hip against the corner of his desk, she rapped her fingertips against her briefcase. Nearby a short, round man was holding a bandanna to his temple and moaning slightly as he gave a statement to another cop. Someone was talking in loud and rapid Spanish. A woman with a bruise on her cheek was weeping and rocking a fat toddler.

The squad room smelled of all of it—the despair, the anger, the boredom. Rachel had always thought that if your senses were very keen you could just barely scent the justice beneath it all. It was very much the same in her offices, a few blocks away.

For a moment, Rachel pictured her sister, Natasha, having breakfast with her family in her pretty kitchen in the big, lovely house in West Virginia. Or opening her colorful toy shop for the day. The image made her smile a bit, just as it did to imagine her brother Mikhail carving something passionate or fanciful out of wood in his sun-washed new studio, perhaps having a hasty cup of coffee with his gorgeous wife before she hurried off to her midtown office.

And here she was, waiting for a cup of what would certainly be very bad coffee in a downtown precinct house filled with the sight and smells and sounds of misery.

Alex handed her the coffee, then eased down on the desk beside her.

“Thanks.” She sipped, winced, and watched a couple of hookers strut out of the holding cells. A tall, bleary-eyed man with a night’s worth of stubble shifted around them and followed a uniform through the door that led down to the cells. Rachel gave a little sigh.

“What’s wrong with us, Alexi?”

He grinned again and slipped an arm around her. “What? Just because we like slogging through the dregs for a living, for little pay and less gratitude? Nothing. Not a thing.”

She chuckled and fueled her system with the motor oil disguised as coffee. “At least you just got a promotion. Detective Stanislaski.”

“Can’t help it if I’m good. You, on the other hand, are spinning your wheels putting criminals back on the streets I’m risking life and limb to keep clean.”