And now the department was verifying his vacation time and maybe sending that Bartlettt asshole to spook him.

Health facilitator. Meaning what? Be careful not to get unhealthy?

Suddenly, he wanted very much to make someone else deathly ill.

When he pulled into his driveway, the white Porsche was parked up near the garage, little red alarm light blinking on the dash, extra-strength lock bar fixed to the steering column. Rick loved the car, was as careful with it as he was with everything else.

He found Rick at the kitchen table, still wearing his scrubs and eating warmed-up Chinese food from last night. A glass of red wine was at his elbow. He saw Milo and smiled and gave a weak wave and the two of them shared a brief hug, and Rick said, “Working late?”

“The usual. How’d your day go?”

“The usual.”

“Heroics?”

“Hardly.” Rick pointed to the empty chair across the table. The final dark hairs in his dense cap of curls had faded to gray last summer, and his mustache was a silver toothbrush. Despite being a doctor and knowing better, he liked to tan out in the backyard and his skin had held on to summer color. He looked tired. Milo sat down opposite him and began picking at orange chicken.

“There’s more in the refrigerator,” said Rick. “The egg rolls, the rest of it.”

“No, I’ll just take yours.”

Rick smiled. Weary.

“Bad stuff on shift?” said Milo.

“Not particularly. Couple of heart attacks, couple of false alarms, kid with a broken leg from falling off a Razor scooter, colon cancer patient with a serious gut bleed that kept us busy for a long time, woman with a darning needle in her eye, two auto accidents, one accidental shooting—we lost that one.”

“The usual trivia.”

“Exactly.” Rick pushed his food away. “There was one thing. The shooting was the last case I pulled. I couldn’t do anything for the poor guy, he came in flat, never beeped. Looks like he was cleaning his 9mm, stared into the barrel, maybe making sure it was clear and boom. The cops who came in with the body said they found gun oil and rags and one of those barrel-reaming tools on the table next to him. Bullet entered here.” Rick touched the center of his mustache, under his nose.

“An accident?” said Milo. “Not suicide? Or anything else?”

“The cops who came in kept calling it an accident, maybe they knew something technical. It’ll go to the coroner.”

“Sheriff’s cops?” said Milo.