“Yes, sir.”

“The media is burning a hole in the back of my neck clamoring for information. How close are we to closing this one?”

“Not as close as I’d like to be. I don’t have a clear-cut suspect at the moment—a few who had motive and opportunity—but no one’s popping for me just yet.”

“I’d like to see you when you get back to HQ.”

“About what was in the paper this morning?”

“Yes.”

“I can handle that, sir. There’s no need—”

“My office, four o’clock,” the chief said and ended the call.

“Shit,” she muttered as she returned the cell phone to her coat pocket.

“They have to take those kinds of threats against an officer seriously, Sam,” Freddie said. “They have no choice.”

“She’s a grieving mother who’s looking for someone to blame. I’m convenient.”

“Too bad she can’t see that her crack head husband is the one to blame, not you.”

Sam parked on Ninth Street, rested her hands on the wheel, and looked over at Freddie. “Listen, in the event that she’s not blowing smoke, there could be some trouble in the form of stray bullets flying at me. I’d understand if you wanted to partner up with someone else until this blows over.”

“Nice try, Sergeant, but you’re stuck with me.”

“I could have you reassigned.”

“You could,” he conceded. “But let me ask you this—if someone was taking pot shots at me, would you bail?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think I would?”

Under his junk food-loving, cover-boy exterior, Freddie Cruz was made of stuff Sam respected. “All right then,” Sam said, attempting to return things to normal. “When you get your pretty head blown off, don’t come crying to me.”

He stuck out his jaw. “You really think my head is pretty? You’ve never told me that before.”

“Shut up,” she groaned, reaching for the door handle. “Jesus.”

“I’ve asked you to refrain from using the Lord’s name in vain.”

“And I’ve asked you to refrain from preaching your Holy Roller crap to me.” There. Back to normal.

The ramp that led to Skip Holland’s front door was a stark reminder of the changes wrought by an assailant’s bullet. Inside, Sam called for him and smiled when she heard the whir of his chair.

“There’s my daughter who blows her curfew and stays out all night.”

“I left a message that I know you got.” She bent down to kiss his forehead. “So don’t give me any grief.”

“Morning, Detective Cruz. Have you eaten?”

“Earlier.” Freddie squeezed Skip’s right hand in greeting. “But you know me, there’s always room for more.”

“Celia made eggs. I think there’s some left.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Freddie flashed Sam a grin as he headed for the kitchen.