“Bitch,” Brower hisses.

Glock smacks the back of his head. “Shut up, loser.”

I smile. “Oh, and let him make his call.”

“Probably wants to call his mommy,” Glock mutters.

T.J. approaches me, his eyes taking in the blood on the front of my jacket. I’m not sure why, but the concern on his face embarrasses me. “I’m fine,” I snap.

“It’s just that your . . . um . . .” His face reddens.

I look down to see my shirt gaping. My bra is showing. The red, lacy job I ordered on a whim. Quickly, I rebutton my uniform shirt and zip my coat up to my chin. “Thanks.”

T.J. looks at the Baggie. “I’ll swing by the station, log this in and send it to BCI.”

“Any luck on the condoms?”

“Got a name on the guy who paid with cash.” Settling back into cop mode, he pulls a spiral notebook from his coat pocket. “Patrick Ewell. Lives out on Parkersburg Road.”

“That’s not far from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

My heart rate picks up, adrenaline of a different nature. “Get back to the station. See if he has a sheet. See if you can find a connection between Ewell and Amanda Horner. See if he was at the Brass Rail Saturday night.” That’s a lot for T.J., but I have more pressing things to take care of and time is of the essence.

“You got it, Chief.” He starts toward the door.

That’s when I spot Pickles standing by the window, smoking a cigarette, taking in the scene with the blasé expression of a seasoned cop who’s seen it all. I wonder how more than half of my small department arrived on the scene so quickly.

I start toward him. He makes eye contact with me and waits. He is a short man—not much taller than five feet—with grizzled hair and a day’s growth of whis kers. His eyes are the color of a robin’s egg and bracketed with lines as deep as a man’s finger. Wearing an old-fashioned trench and pointy-toed cowboy boots, he looks like a cross between Columbo and Gus of Lonesome Dove fame.

I extend my hand and we shake. “Welcome back, Pickles.”

He sucks hard on the cigarette and flicks it onto the floor, but not before I see the flash of emotion in his eyes. “Retirement’s for goddamn old people.”

“You up to speed on the murder?”

He nods solemnly. “Hell of a thing to happen to a young girl. Just like before. Hard to believe.”

“You do much work on the case back in the nineties?”

“Some. Seen one of the crime scenes. Gruesome shit, I’ll tell ya. I never puked so hard in my life.”

“What was the general consensus?” Pickles is smart enough to know I’m looking for information that wasn’t necessarily written in any report. Unfounded hunches or suspicions. You never know where something like that might lead.