“He could petition as a family member,” Jonas Hayes said while pouring himself another cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen area of the squad room. Why he was defending a man who had yanked him all the way down to Santa Monica at night to work things out with their PD, Hayes didn’t understand. He must really hate himself.

“Ex-family member,” Bledsoe reminded him, rankling Hayes even further.

Hayes had always thought Bentz got a raw deal way back when, blamed for not solving the Caldwell case and shooting a kid while protecting his partner. Yeah, the guy got jammed up with the department. But those mistakes didn’t add up to making him the scapegoat for everything bad that had happened in homicide twelve years earlier.

Hayes stared down into his inky coffee. “If he finds out it’s not his ex-wife in that grave—”

“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.