I turn around and see Sergeant Kevin Spearman waddling over. Years ago, when I first joined the force, he was a SWAT platoon leader, as cocky as he was fit—until a training injury landed him behind a desk for good. Since then, he’s put on at least seventy pounds, but hasn’t lost one ounce of arrogance.

“I didn’t think you’d have the balls to step foot in here again,” he says, giving me a locker room–style tap on the ass. “Unless it was to beg for your pension back. On your knees.”

“That reminds me, Kev,” I shoot back. “How’s your wife doing?”

Spearman briefly sets his jaw in anger, then forces a laugh. “Funny guy.”

“I’m trying to get upstairs to see my old CO,” I say. “Can you get me inside?”

Spearman hesitates for a moment, and then whatever good nature that still exists in that flabby mind rises to the occasion. He nods, first at me, then the desk officer, who lets me pass.

I take the elevator to the fourth floor, like I’ve done hundreds of times before. Trying to keep a low profile, I stalk through the major crimes bull pen, exchanging only the briefest of hellos with the handful of surprised former colleagues who notice me. I also take the long way to Cunningham’s office, bypassing my old desk. The only thing worse than seeing it bare would be seeing somebody else sitting at it.

Cunningham’s door is open, but he’s sipping coffee from a paper cup and has his head buried deep in a stack of papers. I give the frame a firm knock. My old chief looks up—and practically spits out his steaming beverage in furious disbelief.

I step inside and shut the door, just as he swallows, wipes his mouth, and stammers, “Are you kidding me, Rooney?”

“Nice to see you too, Chief,” I say, sitting down in front of him. “We need to talk, and there’s no kidding involved.”

CHAPTER 28

Cunningham rises from his desk and starts pacing around his office like he wants to step out and leave me and my problems behind.

“Whatever this is about, it better be worth the risk you took,” he says. “If Morgan finds out that you barged in here, if he suspects you’re sniffing around his case—”

“He already knows,” I say, leaning back in the chair, my folded hands across my belly.

He places a hand to his forehead, sits down heavily in his chair.

“Christ, Caleb!” he says, practically moaning. “I told you to be … I thought you knew what you were doing!”

“I do know what I’m doing, Chief,” I say. “That’s why he knows. Yesterday I tracked down a guy that’s come up on our radar before.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ibrahim Farzat,” I say. “A Syrian refugee we arrested last year for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.”