With a sigh she nodded. “Yeah, I know. I get it.” And she did. Corrine O’Donnell had been a crack detective, the lead on several high-profile cases, until she’d broken her leg and blown out the ACL on her knee during a chase when she’d been hit by a car. Lucky to be alive, she was now reduced to pushing papers in the department. Active duty was out. Despite the fact that she worked out, was strong and otherwise healthy, the knee was still an issue. Though she tried to hide it, she sometimes, though rarely, walked with a bit of a limp. What really bugged her, Hayes knew, was the fact that she couldn’t wear three-inch heels any longer.

“I’ll get you the drink.”

“I should go back to the station.”

“Tomorrow’s early enough,” she said, rattling around in the freezer for ice cubes. “You’re not going to bring those poor girls back.”

That much was true, yet they both knew that the first hours after a murder were the most crucial. As the time between the commission of the homicide and the gathering of evidence lengthened, the chances of catching the killer diminished.

“It’s so weird that the Twenty-one killer would show up after all these years.” She appeared holding out a short glass with three fingers of whiskey, then handed him a cold can of ginger ale. “You can do your own mixing.”

She winked at him and he smiled for the first time since seeing the bodies. Being with her was easy; she didn’t make too many demands and understood him, far better than either of his wives had. And she was pretty. Trim and lithe, with the build of the long-distance runner she’d once been, Corrine O’Donnell was a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes were large and deep-set, a flinty gray that, when she was aroused, smoldered deep and dark. If he hadn’t been so gun-shy, he might just let himself fall in love with her, not that she was asking for any commitment.

Yet.

“Look, Hayes, you’re off duty. Have a drink…maybe nothing quite as strong as this, though, since you and I both know you’re going back to the station.” She plucked the glass from his hands, carried it back to the kitchen, and returned with a light beer. “Okay, so relax, have a little dinner, then go back and hit it again.”

“You’re okay with that?” he said, skeptical. Delilah would have had a fit; but then, Delilah had never been a cop.

“Okay with it? Well, I’m not thrilled, but yeah, I’m okay. However, the minute you catch the creep, you throw his ass in jail and you hightail it back here.”

“It could take longer than a few hours,” he said, but took a swallow from the long-necked bottle of Coors light.