Fordebrand was six two and pure beef: the reincarnation of a Brahma bull.

“You want to take this, Sheriff?” he asked Beckham. “It’s your jurisdiction.”

Beckham tugged a corner of his gray mustache.

“Seems to me it’s right on the border between County and Foothill.”

“Closer to you,” Fordebrand said.

“Detective, how ’bout you and me slicing through the shit,” said Beckham. “You don’t want to do this now. And I don’t want to do this now. We’d both rather be home, downing a brew and singing carols to the Savior.”

“How about a joint operation?” Fordebrand tried. “Cut the paperwork by half.”

“Why don’t you flip a coin?” suggested Decker.

“I like the man’s logic,” Beckham said. He won the toss and smiled. Fordebrand made a last-ditch effort.

“I still think it’s on your side of the border, Sheriff,” he said.

“You’re being a sore loser, Detective,” said Beckham.

“Go home,” Decker said. “We’ll work it out.”

Fordebrand gave Decker a dirty look.

“My replacement’s coming in a half hour,” Beckham said. “I’d appreciate it if you could fill him in. If any questions should come up, who do I call?”

The big bull took out his card and gave it to him.

“Edward,” Beckham said, reading it and sticking out his hand, “it’s been a pleasure.”

Fordebrand grumbled, then pumped the deputy’s hand firmly. “You call and ask for me or call the same extension and ask for Detective Sergeant Decker here—”

“I’m not working Homicide,” Decker said.

Fordebrand smiled cryptically, still digging at his forearm. The rashes and welts were manifestations of an allergic reaction that occured whenever he dealt with corpses—inconvenient, considering his chosen profession.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you gentlemen now,” said Beckham.

“Yeah,” Fordebrand said. “Merry Christmas. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Beckham jogged away and Fordebrand turned to Decker.

“Goddam hillbilly shitheads. What the hell do they do all day? Sit up in the ranger station and jerk their chains?”

“He’s right,” Decker said. “The area does belong to Foothill. He might as well save himself the hassle.”

“Stop being so noble.”

“What’s with the shit-eating grin when I said I wasn’t working Homicide?”

“Well, when you get back you’ll notice that we’re slightly shorthanded.”

“We’ve got five homicide dicks.”

“Pilkington’s transferred to Harbor Division, Marriot’s on vacation, Sleighton’s father took sick in Canada, so he flew out to be with him for the holidays. That leaves me and Bartholemew. I just found out today that Bart broke his leg riding a bicycle.”

“Shit.”

“Morrison did a little rearranging. Starting December twenty-sixth, you and Dunn are working Homicide. Dunn is actually jockeying back and forth between Homicide and Sex and Juvey—”

“I don’t want to hear about this, Ed. I’m still on vacation.” Decker looked at the boys. “Such as it is.”