Pregnant Protector. Anne Duquette Marie

right before the shift ended. Said the refrigerator wasn’t working. The repairman couldn’t get there until the next morning. She needed him to pick up some ice. So we swapped.” Guilt stabbed through his pain. “If anyone should have spun out in the weather, it should have been me on the bike…not him. Hell, my tires are brand-new.” An uncomfortable pause told Nick more bad news was coming. “What?”

      “There’s more. Someone took a shot at the car in the rain. Your car,” Lansky said pointedly.

      For a moment, Nick fought to prevent being violently ill. He took a deep breath, like a raw rookie viewing his first homicide scene.

      “Julio left the office when you did. It was after rush hour, Cantello. Traffic was moving, but not that fast, with the rain. Julio spun out right after the shot was fired. We got cell phone reports from other drivers on the scene and we’ve been interviewing them all weekend.”

      Traffic on Southern California freeways was congested day and night, Sundays and holidays included. Beach exits were standstills in the summer. Tempers flared. Drive-by shootings in slow, crawling congestion were no novelty. Like earthquakes and wildfires, road rage was a price to be paid for living in the Sunbelt’s beach paradise and driving its massive freeway system.

      Nick swallowed hard. “Did…did Julio take a hit, or just the car?”

      “We don’t know yet. The divers are still trying to recover the vehicle, but it’s been all weekend, and still nothing. That shot sent Julio straight into the ocean. We had a chopper on-site, but by the time rescue got there…” Even the gruff veteran couldn’t finish.

      Julio drowned, and I was off on a pleasure cruise with a damn cell phone that didn’t pick up in Mexican waters. It’s my fault. Nick’s heart seemed to stop as he realized, That should have been me. I had his bike. He had my car.

      Nick echoed the words of all loved ones during tragedy. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure?”

      “We interviewed more than twenty callers over the weekend.”

      “Did they find the shooter? Description of vehicle?” He didn’t ask the question he usually asked, What about motive? He desperately tried, but for the life of him he couldn’t get the words out.

      “Nothing. The captain contacted the local gang specialists, but initiations usually involve members of another gang. Never cops. We’ll be checking out more after the autopsy. In the meantime—” Lansky drew in a deep breath “—the department’s handling the funeral arrangements. Julio’s wife and kids have left to stay with family in Mexico until then. She said she’d call you in a few. You need to check in with the captain and take some time off.”

      Nick issued an earthy expletive, which miraculously loosened the constriction of his throat. “I switched vehicles with my partner, he ends up dead, I might be tied to the real motive and you want me to go home?” Nick swore again.

      Lansky’s reaction was mild. He even shrugged.

      “I didn’t say home. You’ll probably get desk duty. Take it up with the captain after roll call.”

      Nick said nothing as his lieutenant rose from his chair. Sorrow had largely replaced shock now, but the guilt was still there when Lansky called the roll and started the fifteen-minute morning briefing. Nick ignored the other members of the squad—the lucky ones who still had their partners—and listened to Lansky skip Julio’s name on the roster. It hurt, almost as much hearing the news the first time.

      Lansky reviewed what new information SDPD had gathered from the cell phone callers over the weekend—which wasn’t much. “Funeral details will be posted later on. As always, full dress,” Lansky ordered.

      The silence in the downtown San Diego squad room was broken by a whispered, “I knew that rain meant bad luck.”

      During funerals held for Southern California cops, it always seemed to rain. This, in water-rationed San Diego. Always. Half the shaken cops in the room would probably repeat the old superstition—cops who rarely cried on the job, but waited until they were home with their lovers or spouses or six-packs of beer.

      “Any other comments?” Lansky asked. “No? We’re still investigating the possibility that the killer was targeting Cantello.”

      Nick felt the eyes in the room turn toward him.

      “So far, we have no motive. The captain himself will be coordinating with Homeland Security. If anyone has any leads, come to us. As I told you before, expect overtime. This is one of our own.”

      Nick’s lips tightened into a thin line. I should be in charge of this. He was my partner.

      “Keep your eyes open,” Lansky continued as he picked up his uniform hat. “The same goes for your wallets, boys and girls. For those of you who missed seeing me over the weekend, I’m collecting for Valdez’s wife and kids. Contribute on your way out.”

      “Baby showers, birthdays, retirement parties—now this,” someone mumbled. “Any more collections and I’ll need a second job.”

      Nick recognized the bleak attempt at humor, and wished it had been from anyone other than that particular guy. Nick didn’t particularly like Homicide’s T. J. Knox. In fact, he found him just as irritating as his father, Sergeant Richard Knox. Nick tended to avoid both men. Still, he couldn’t fault the son’s generosity. The bill in T.J.’s hand was a large one.

      Nick didn’t bother with his wallet. He quickly scribbled out a check, instead, then ripped it out with a vicious yank that tore a tiny chunk off the corner.

      “Here, Joe.” He folded it and dropped it into Lansky’s hat.

      Lansky unfolded the check and deliberately eyed the first digit and subsequent three zeros before the decimal point.

      Nick snatched the check out of Lansky’s beefy fingers and stuffed it back into the hat. “Mind your own damn business.”

      “You cops are my business. The captain’s still waiting to see you.”

      “I said I’m not going home,” Nick ground out.

      “So tell Girard, not me. I’m just passing on the message.” Lansky’s eyes were already on the next contributor. “Is that all you can give? Now Cantello here, there’s a man who knows how to donate. Look at his check.”

      Nick’s face burned as Lansky retrieved his check and waved it in the offender’s face.

      Damn that Lansky. Damn dress uniforms and funerals. And damn Julio’s killer to hell.

      CAPTAIN EMIL GIRARD WAS waiting as Nick stepped into his office. Seated at his desk, his boss looked thin and faded, almost to the point of frailty. But the correct impression of an elderly man soon to retire vanished when you noticed his eyes—alert and intelligent. Girard’s body might be past its peak, but his mind still functioned in high gear.

      “Sorry about Valdez. We tried to track you down,” Girard said quietly, gesturing toward a chair. “You don’t have a house phone, do you?”

      Nick shook his head and sat. He thought having an economical cell phone voice-mail system was enough. Sunbelt house phones were expensive, and like many practical residents, he did without one, using his cell exclusively for his personal calls; he had a police cell for work. Unfortunately, California’s cell towers couldn’t always handle heavy traffic or Mexican waters.

      “How are you holding up?” Girard asked.

      Nick’s response was clipped. “A hell of a lot better than his family. I didn’t even get to talk to them! I want to work this case, Captain. I’ve got a high percentage of solves, and—”

      “I’m familiar with your record, Detective,” Girard interrupted softly. “Just as I’m sure you’re familiar with policy. It’s against procedure for you to investigate your partner’s death.”

      Nick was prepared. “Then I’ll quit and investigate this