“I tell ya, Kevin,” Jack said, slurping his drink between breaths, “damn Rodney screwed up the wording of the warrant so bad that Judge Norton tore it up and threw it straight back in his face—­literally ripped it in two—and the task force that was all geared to rock ’n’ roll at dawn had to park up for another twenty-four hours. Cap was spitting tacks like you wouldn’t believe, and the feds were too. I’d have written the warrant myself, except it’s not the only thing I’ve got going on, you know?”

To underscore his point, Jack then summarized everything else he had on his plate: a double homicide in East Burnside, an ongoing drug ring investigation, and, finally, a missing person case he’d been overseeing down the coast.

“Anyway,” he said, straightening his back, “you don’t need me bleating on about work. Tomorrow you’ll be back with me at the grind, so how about we save the unpleasantries till then.”

Kevin stared ahead, throwing back the last dribble of his drink. He had completely forgotten that it was a mere twenty-four hours before he was due back at CID. The thought landed in his gut like a heavy rock. He’d been trying to reassure himself that work would help distract from the grief of losing his wife, but the truth was that he felt apprehensive about returning to the bleak realities of his job. With Helen gone and the way things were with his daughter, he wasn’t sure he was ready, wasn’t sure how he was going to cope.

He raised the empty glass in the air, signaling the bartender for another.

Jack folded his arms and rested them squarely on the table, as though to communicate disapproval at the vigor with which Kevin was putting away his liquor. “How are you doing, buddy? Are you okay?”

Kevin winked and raised a thumb. “Superb,” he drawled.

“I’m serious. I’m asking as your brother, not as a cop. How are you holding up . . . in general, I mean?”

“In general? What exactly do you want to hear?”

“How about the truth? How are things at home?”

The question made Kevin retreat into the pit of his seat and start picking at the edges of his soggy coaster.

“Not good, huh?” Jack said.

“Let’s put it this way—after what happened last night, I’m not sure things can get much worse.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Kevin shook his head, his expression grim as the bartender arrived and poured a fresh glass.

“Damn, Kev, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Besides, I shouldn’t be surprised. Amy and Helen were very close, and now all she’s got left is me, and, well, let’s face it, we both know I’m not exactly father of the year.” He tipped his head back and took another generous gulp.