Alex immediately looked up from his seat at the round kitchen table. Not his father, but her squad mate Phil, was slower to follow. Alex’s features were already politely composed. Clearly he’d been up for hours, having showered, shaved and taken care of their three-year-old. Now he was dressed for work, a navy blue academy shirt tucked into his dress khakis. The shirt emphasized his dark eyes, salt-and-pepper hair. A good-looking man, she thought, not for the first time. Handsome, intelligent, dedicated to their son, sensitive to her needs.

Across from Alex sat D.D.’s oldest partner, Phil, thinning brown hair, married forever to his high school sweetheart, Betsy, father of four kids, who once claimed he’d joined Boston homicide to escape the gore.

Already she was suspicious.

“Cuppa joe?” Phil asked brightly. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, pushing back his chair, heading straight for the coffeepot.

“You don’t golf,” D.D. said.

A small smile lifted the corners of Alex’s mouth.

“What?” Phil, still diligently focused on how to best pour coffee into an oversize mug.

“Neither of you gamble. Nor do you have best buds in common for a bachelor party. In fact, your only connection is me.”

Phil finished pouring the coffee. Carefully eased the carafe back in place. Slowly picked up the steaming mug. Deliberately turned toward her.

D.D. pulled out a chair and sat abruptly, wincing as she did so. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Alex wasn’t smiling anymore. Instead, he reached across the table and gently touched the back of her right hand.

“Get any sleep?” he asked.

“Sure. All sorts. Never been so rested. Just wish I could fall down the stairs again so I could lie around in bed even more.”

D.D. kept her attention on Phil. He was the weak link. Whatever was going on here, he’d be the one who’d cave.

“FDIT?” she guessed softly, when Phil remained standing before her, still holding the coffee mug between his cupped hands.

In copspeak, FDIT stood for Firearms Discharge Investigation Team. Anytime an officer discharged her weapon, including in a darkened crime scene at no identifiable target, FDIT had the responsibility to investigate the event and determine if the officer acted appropriately or with negligence.

By the time D.D. had regained consciousness at the hospital, the FDIT team had already taken possession of her firearm, and the future of her policing career rested on the report they would eventually deliver to the Bureau of Professional Standards.

Her fellow detectives had told her not to worry. Most likely, her weapon had discharged during her tumble down the stairs. Except Sig Sauers didn’t simply fall out of snapped shoulder holsters. Nor did an officer’s right index finger generally land on the trigger while cascading backward through open space, then fire off three consecutive shots.