I break every speed limit in the book on the way to the Melody Trailer Park. Making a big arrest is always a thrill, particularly for a violent suspect that has been elusive. I can feel our collective adrenaline zinging around the inside of the cab. Beside me, Tomasetti grips the armrest. He looks excited—too excited considering his superiors have no idea he’s here. It’s a subject we should have dealt with already. I won’t risk screwing up this case. I know from experience if some defense lawyer gets his claws on that kind of information, he’ll use it to get his client off, guilt be damned.

The Explorer’s tires screech when I make the turn into the trailer park. Pulling up to the curb two lots down from Long’s place, I hit my mike. “This is 235. I’m 10-23.”

Glock’s voice crackles back. “I’m 10-23 at his place of work. Long didn’t show up today.”

“Get over here.”

“Ten-seventy-seven five minutes.”

I rack the mike. “Backup’s on the way.”

“Let’s go.” Tomasetti reaches for the door handle.

I grab his arm and stop him. “Are you armed?”

He glares at me. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re only here to observe.”

Temper flashes in his eyes. “Goddamnit, Kate.”

“I mean it,” I snap. “I want this done by the book.”

“Fine.” He shakes off my hand with a little too much force.

We disembark simultaneously. I can see Long’s trailer from where I parked. The black pickup sits in the driveway. “Looks like he’s home.”

“I’ll go around back,” Tomasetti says.

Giving him a nod, I draw my .38 and ascend the wooden steps of the deck. Standing slightly to the side, I knock hard on the storm door. “Todd Long! Police! Open the door. We need to talk to you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tomasetti disappear around the rear of the trailer. I hammer the door with my palm. “Police! Open up!”

A cop has got to be cautious when approaching a suspect’s residence. Contrary to popular belief, the door doesn’t have to be open for you to get shot. Depending on the weapon, a bullet can go right through a steel door. This particular door is made of wood and has a small diamond-shaped window just above eye level. Opening the storm door, staying to one side as much as possible, I set my toes on the threshold and put my eye to the glass.

The interior is dim. No lights. Curtains drawn. I see a living room with dark paneling. A kitchen with oak cabinets. Countertops littered with beer cans, newspapers and several days’ worth of mail. A bottle of top shelf whiskey sits on a glossy coffee table. Beyond, I see the outline of a flat-screen TV.