D.D. had deliberately pulled the trigger of her department-issued weapon. At something, or someone.

Even she could figure out that much.

But at what or whom and with or without probable cause? Because her fellow cops never found anyone else at the scene. Just her unconscious form in the foyer of Christine Ryan’s apartment and three bullet holes in the wall. One of the slugs had passed through into the adjacent unit. Thank God it hadn’t hit anyone. But the neighbor hadn’t taken it well, and why was some cop shooting up the place next door, and . . .

Reports to the Bureau of Professional Standards inevitably included not just what an officer did, but how those actions made the entire department look.

D.D. was vulnerable, and she knew it. Only reason things hadn’t come to a head sooner was that the extent of her injuries had earned her immediate medical leave. No need for the department to rule too quickly about her return to work. Her doctor already said it wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

“No word,” Phil said.

“Oh.”

“Which is probably good news,” he continued briskly. “If there was obvious proof of misconduct, the administration wouldn’t hesitate to strike. No news is good news, and all that.”

D.D. eyed her longtime partner, thinking if only his words matched the expression on his face.

“Shoulder?” Phil asked.

“Ask me in another three months.”

“That long?”

“More like I’m that old. But I’m doing my PT. And practicing patience.”

Phil gave her a dubious look; he’d worked with D.D. long enough to know the extent of her patience.

“Exactly,” she agreed with him.

“Pain?”

“Only most of the time.”

“They didn’t give you anything for it?”

“Hell, they gave me all sorts of meds for it. But you know me, Phil. Why ease my pain, when I can share it with everyone else instead?”

Phil nodded in agreement. Alex stroked the back of her right hand.

“I see a new doc today,” she continued with an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. “Some therapist who specializes in mental techniques for pain management. Mind over matter, that kind of crap. Who knows, maybe I’ll learn something.”

“Good.” Phil finally handed over the mug of coffee, placing it carefully on the table where she could reach it with her one good hand. Mission accomplished, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself.

“If you weren’t here to talk about the discharge investigation report,” D.D. asked quietly, “why’d you come?”

Then, when Phil still wouldn’t look up, and Alex once more rubbed the back of her hand, she closed her eyes and let herself know what she’d been suspecting all along.

“There’s been another murder.”

“Yeah.”

“Same flayed skin, rose across her abdomen, bottle of champagne on the nightstand.”

“Yeah.”