Frowning, Chet returned his unneeded weapon to its holster. “You all right? He didn’t cut you, did he?”

“I’m fine.” Brody handcuffed Jordan’s hands behind his back and patted down his pockets. “Why did you run, Jordan?”

“I’m not talking to anyone except a lawyer,” Jordan said to the grass.

Brody pulled a small baggie of white powder from Jordan’s jeans pocket. He scanned the kid’s arms. Jordan sported more tracks than Penn Station.

“Is that heroin, Jordan?” Chet asked. “You just got out of rehab.”

Jordan didn’t respond.

“Did you call for backup?” Brody asked Chet.

Chet nodded. “Patrol car should be here any minute.”

Brody hauled Jordan to his feet. Chet holstered his gun. They walked Jordan to the end of the alley. A Scarlet Falls PD cruiser pulled up, and Brody put the kid in the back. Then he took a minute to catch his breath. He inhaled a lungful of crisp November air, cooling his blood.

“Book him on assaulting an officer with a weapon, to start,” Chet said to the officer. The patrol car pulled away to transport Jordan to the police station.

Chet’s phone rang. He stepped aside to answer it and returned a minute later. “I’m working on a search warrant. Your suit is destroyed,” Chet said as they walked back to the unmarked car. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up on foot.”

Brody brushed at the mud on his trousers. Spotting a tear in the fabric, he gave up. Good thing he didn’t buy expensive suits.

“I guess it’s not a bad thing that I have to retire soon. These knees don’t have any more foot chases in them.” Chet had six more months before the mandatory retirement age kicked him off the force.

But they both knew it wasn’t Chet’s knees or age that had ruined his health.

“I’m fine.” Brody’s finger lingered on a slice in the fabric of his jacket. That had been a close call. If he’d been an inch or two closer to Jordan, Brody would have been gutted.

“You almost got stabbed because I wasn’t there.”

“I almost got stabbed because that kid pulled a knife on me. I’m fine, Chet. Let it go.”

Chet didn’t look convinced.

None of this was Chet’s fault, any more than Brody’s old partner in Boston was to blame for that disaster. Brody changed the subject. “If you’re going to retire, you need a hobby.”

Chet snorted. “Can you see me playing fucking golf?”

“Retired bankers play golf. Retired cops get boats,” Brody clarified with a grin.

“I hate fishing, too.”

“Woodworking?”

Chet snorted. Brody slid behind the wheel and drove back to the Brown house. Brody’s phone played the Hawaii Five-O theme. He glanced at the display but didn’t recognize the number. “Detective McNamara.”

The caller said, “This is Hannah Barrett.”