Silently the two men stepped behind the front door. March looked out the peephole, gripping the hammer he’d break Scanlon’s arm with as soon as he moved inside, then he’d grab his gun.

He saw the young man walking, head down, to the gate in the picket fence in front of his house. He opened it and started up the winding walk, minding where he put his feet. If Scanlon had front house-lights he hadn’t turned them on.

Scanlon walked onto the low porch and then stepped to the side. They heard the mailbox open. A brief laugh, faint, at something he’d received—or hadn’t received. Then gritty footsteps on the redwood planks, moving toward the front door.

The sound of a key in the lock.

Then…nothing.

Jenkins turned, frowning. March took a firmer grip on the hammer. He peeked outside through a curtained window. He was staring at the empty porch.

“Leave!” March whispered harshly. “Now!”

Jenkins frowned but he followed March instinctively. They got only three feet back into the living room when a half-dozen Monterey County sheriff’s deputies, in tactical gear, flooded into the room from behind the beads covering the doorway to the kitchen. “Hands where we can see them! On the ground, on the ground! Now!”

And the front door exploded inward. Two other tactical officers charged in too. Scanlon, his own weapon drawn, followed. He looked at his painted wall and grimaced.

“Christ!” Jenkins cried. “No, no, no…”

March backed up, hands raised, and eased to his knees. Jenkins started to, as well, but his hand dropped to his side, as if to steady himself as he sank down.

March looked at his eyes. He’d seen the expression before. The gaze wasn’t defiance. It was resignation. And he knew what was coming next.

Calmly he said to Jenkins, “No, Chris.”

But what was about to happen was inevitable.

The small pistol was in the man’s tanned hand, drawn leisurely from his hip pocket. He swung it forward but it got no farther than four o’clock before two officers fired simultaneously. Head and chest. Huge explosions that deafened March. Jenkins crumpled, eyes nearly closed, and he landed in a pile on the floor.

“Shots fired. Suspect down. Medic, medic, medic!” One officer who’d fired dropped his radio and hurried forward, pistol still pointed toward Jenkins, though from the spatter it was clear he was no threat. Another two cuffed March.

The policeman removed the small gun from Jenkins’s hand, unloaded it and locked the slide back.

The others hurried through the house, opening doors. Shouts of “Clear!” echoed.

March said absently, “There’s no one else,” and continued to gaze down at his boss.

Maybe Jenkins actually believed he could shoot his way out of the situation. But that was unlikely. He’d chosen to take his own life. It wasn’t uncommon; suicide by cop, it was called. For those who lacked the courage to put a gun to their head and pull the trigger.

He stared at Jenkins’s body on the floor, the blood spreading in the shag carpet, a twitch of finger.