“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.

All the attention to the Springer twins’ double homicide didn’t change the fact that it was just one of many as yet unsolved homicides. Some were older, others fresh. A domestic violence homicide had happened just last night while Hayes had been in Santa Monica, saving Rick Bentz’s ass, as well as trying to convince him to go home.

In the domestic case, the husband was the primary suspect, his wife of three years the victim. Then there was the nineteen-year-old kid in the morgue who’d taken five to the chest in the early hours of the morning.

All those were just the tip of the iceberg.

Everyone’s caseload was getting heavier by the second.

Hayes walked back to his desk, glanced at the clock, and inwardly groaned. He wouldn’t be home early tonight, and he’d probably have to cancel his plans with Corrine.

She would understand, of course, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be a little pissed.

He settled into his desk chair and started clicking through pictures of the Springer crime scene, trying to see something new. He flipped to the statements of the people closest to the girls, including the last people to see them alive. In Elaine’s case, it was her roommate, Trisha Lamont, who had caught a glimpse of Elaine, or “Laney,” as Trisha called her, cutting across the quad after their last class together. Trisha had assumed she’d gone straight home, and no other evidence or statements discounted that.