Glowering, Bentz muttered, “Thanks,” then jammed the damned phone into his pocket.

“Bad news?” Montoya asked, suddenly sober.

“Jaskiel doesn’t think I’m fit for duty.”

“You’re not.”

Bentz bit back a hot retort as a dragonfly zipped past. Considering his current state, he couldn’t argue. “Is there a reason you came all the way out here, or did you just want to give me a bad time?”

“Little of both,” Montoya said. This time his teeth flashed white against his black goatee. “They’re reassigning me. Making Zaroster my”—He made air quotes with his fingers—“‘temporary’ partner.”

Lynn Zaroster was a junior detective who had been with the department a little over two years though she was barely twenty-six. Cute, smart, and athletic, Zaroster was filled with enthusiasm. She was as idealistic as Bentz was jaded.

“Change of pace for you.”

“Yeah.” Montoya’s smile faded. “Sometimes I feel like a goddamned babysitter.”

“You’re afraid this might be permanent.” Because Bentz was being pushed out of the department.

“Not if I have my say, but I thought I’d tell you myself. Rather than you hearing it from someone else.”

Bentz nodded, wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. From inside the house, through the open window, he heard the sound of Olivia’s parrot, which, like the dog and this little cottage, she had inherited from her grandmother. “Jaskiel’s been hinting that I should retire.” His lips twisted at the thought of it. “Enjoy what’s left of my life.”

Montoya snorted. “You’re not even fifty. That’s a whole lotta ‘left.’ Thirty—maybe forty—years of fishing, watching football, and sitting on your ass.”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.”

Reaching down for Bentz’s crutch, Montoya said, “Maybe you could retire, draw a pension, and then get your P.I.’s license.”

“Yeah…maybe. And you can keep babysitting.” Ignoring the preoffered crutch, Bentz started inside, the little dog hurrying ahead of him. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Have you gone off the wagon?” Montoya was right beside him, hauling the damned crutch.

“Not yet.” Bentz held the door open. “But then, the day’s not over.”

CHAPTER 2

Bentz was slipping away from her.

Olivia could feel it.

And it pissed her off. Yes, she was sad, too, she thought as she tore down the road in her old Ford Ranger, a relic with nearly two hundred thousand miles that she would have to trade in soon.

She loved her husband and when she’d vowed to stick with him through good times and bad, she’d meant it. She’d thought he had, too, but ever since the accident…