“It’s her, for chrissakes! He fuckin’ identified her. Why the hell are you playing fuckin’ devil’s advocate?” From his chair at a table with the L.A. Times spread across it, Bledsoe pointed at the carafe in Hayes’s hands. “Any more in that?”

“Empty.”

“Shit.”

“You could make some more,” Martinez suggested as she walked into the kitchen and rinsed out her cup.

“Yeah, right.” Bledsoe snorted at the idea.

“Have you ever made the coffee?” she demanded.

“Yeah, I think so…back in ninety-seven,” Bledsoe said with a snicker.

Paula Sweet, a detective who sometimes worked with the K-9 Division, swept into the lunchroom. “I remember that.” In her mid-thirties, Sweet had been divorced twice, seemed content to be on her own, and was known to take in stray dogs and cats. She glanced at Martinez. “Believe me, you don’t want Bledsoe anywhere near the coffeepot.”

“Hey! It wasn’t that bad.”

Sweet gave him the you-are-so-full-of-it stare. “No, it was worse. You got the crossword in there?” She was already pushing pages aside, searching for a section of the newspaper.

“Somewhere.” Bledsoe shrugged and turned his attention back to Hayes. “Maybe an exhumation wouldn’t be such a bad idea. We pop the coffin, take some DNA samples, and find out the corpse inside is really his ex-old lady. Then Bentz can crawl back under the rock he came from.”

“If it’s her,” Hayes said.

“Don’t tell me you’re buying his crap now.” Bledsoe snorted in disgust. “Of course it’s her. As I said, he positively identified her. Him.” He pushed his chair back so hard it scraped against the floor. “Once a bad cop, always a bad cop.”

“Ouch.” Sweet found the section of the paper she wanted and swept it off Bledsoe’s table. “Didn’t mean to tick him off,” she said to the room as a whole.

Bledsoe scowled, obviously disgusted that no one was jumping on his let’s-all-blame-Rick Bentz bandwagon.

“Don’t worry about it.” Martinez grabbed the empty pot and began rinsing it. “He’s always in a bad mood.”

“And you’re always a bitch.”

Martinez swallowed a smile, pleased that she’d goaded him. “Don’t ever want to disappoint,” she mocked.

“I’m outta here. I have work to do.” The senior detective left the table in a mess and strode out.

“And good riddance,” Sweet whispered, glancing conspiratorially at Martinez, who grinned even more widely.

Hayes rubbed the back of his neck. He understood the tension in the air.

It was late in the day. Everyone in the homicide area of the Robbery-Homicide Division had been logging in overtime. The detectives’ nerves were strung tight as bowstrings, their tempers pushed to the limit. Because the truth of the matter was that they were getting nowhere fast solving the Springer twins’ homicides.

Yeah, it hadn’t been long since the murders had been committed, but not one solid lead had developed. No one had seen anything, heard anything out of the ordinary, or sensed anything was wrong. Interviews with friends, family, and neighbors had produced zero suspects. They had zippo to go on. The press was squeezing their public information officer, and in the meantime they’d dragged the old Caldwell twins case back to page one.