But despite Kilburn’s calm smile, his heart pounded and sweat collected under his arms. The lab report held repercussions far beyond the fate of the poor couple in front of him.

What the hell is brewing in your chest, Tom?

7 - Portland, Oregon

7

Portland, Oregon

Arms folded, Detective Seth Cohen stood motionless in the alley. A light dawn fog drifted by his feet, but his eyes were fixed a yard in front of him on Portland’s twenty-second and twenty-third murder victims of the year. Jimmy Mitchum and Mack “Frigerator” Baxter—whose bloody shattered sunglasses still sat perched on his nose—lay in the center of the alley sprawled at right angles to one another. In his nine years with Homicide, Cohen had come to know these two drug dealers better than he’d wanted.

“Hey!” Detective Roman Leetch called out from where he stood beside the Crime Scene Investigation truck blocking the end of the alley. Leetch put a hand on his heart in mock sorrow. “Stare as long you want, but Jimmy and Frigerator ain’t coming back, KC!”

Cohen didn’t bother to look up from the corpses. The initials, which stood for “Kosher Cop,” no longer registered with him. The nickname dated back to his days in the police academy when the others found out that he didn’t eat pepperoni or ham on his pizza. He had tried to explain that he wasn’t a kosher Jew, he just didn’t like meat on pizza, but the moniker stuck the moment it passed his drunken friend’s lips. Lately most people shortened it to KC.

Leetch lumbered up to Cohen’s side and punched him playfully on the shoulder. “So, KC, what’cha think?”

Cohen pulled his eyes away from the murder victims and looked over to his partner. The youthful-looking, fifty-year-old detective carried at least fifty pounds too many on his tall frame. Cohen battled the opposite problem. At six feet, he had trouble maintaining his weight—an already lean 160 pounds—but he knew the distance running he did wouldn’t help.

“I think it’s a miracle, Rome,” Cohen finally said.

Leetch’s face creased slightly with confusion. “A miracle?”

Cohen nodded at the bodies. “That no one did this sooner.”

Leetch broke into a slow chuckle that sounded like an engine catching. “No kidding,” he said. “These boys had no shortage of enemies. Might as well open the Portland White Pages and call it our suspect list.”

Cohen nodded. “Still …”

“Still what, KC?” The grin left Leetch’s lips.

Cohen squatted down until his head was only two feet from Mitchum’s. He pointed at the hole in the middle of his forehead. “A very good shot.”

Leetch didn’t bother to hunker down to Cohen’s level. “Probably an execution,” he said with a wave of his big hand.