Hudson shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“A lot of shit’s possible, Hudson. What isn’t, though, is you working this case.” There it was, the cool edge he’d expected. “You can text me that pic if you want and I’ll forward it to Wesson PD. But no more. I put my ass on the line for you to have a chance at solving this case, the Clive Reynolds case.” Steam puffed from his nose. He gave Hudson his phone back. “Don’t fuck it up. For either of us.”

Hudson wet his lips. They were chapped, cracked. A subtle tinge of blood hit his tongue. “You’re right. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be focused.” He tipped his chin toward the drowned Porsche, then turned and walked toward his Impala. Hudson listened as he slammed the door, started the engine. His tires crunched on packed-down snow as he ambled out of the impound lot and onto the street.

The walk back to his own vehicle felt arduous. He’d thought handing off the picture would make him feel lighter, but it had the opposite effect. It felt as though he’d given up something that didn’t belong to him, taken the solving of it from Garrison and given it to someone from Wesson PD who might never complete the case. Unfinished business. Garrison would be rolling in his casket.

Behind the wheel with the engine on, he gave his car a minute to warm up. He ripped the latex gloves off and threw them on the passenger seat. His fingers were almost too frozen to grip his phone when he took it out of his pocket again and pressed the Home button. A new email message popped up from Morgan Mori.

Can we talk? Off the record.

11 MORGAN

Investigator Hudson wasn’t one of those renegade cops like you read about in books or see on TV, she thought as she’d crawled into bed last night. He was the type no one gave a shit about, the type who followed rules, who dotted his i’s and crossed all his t’s. She’d emailed him yesterday to meet, but he didn’t get off work until 10:00 P.M. As if that were a reasonable response. What kind of guy had an opportunity for information regarding his best friend’s murder, and then asked the informant to save it for the morning?

But, at least he knew what “off the record” meant; he’d asked her to come over to his place, not the police department. Perhaps he had a rebellious bone in his body after all. It might only be his pinkie bone, but still.