The Partner. Kay David

answered. “Wilson here.”

      “We’ve got trouble.” Stan Richards, Grady’s boss, sounded somewhat more awake than Grady but just barely.

      “Imagine that.” Grady tested his theory. “I thought you might be calling to give me a raise.”

      “You don’t need a raise,” Stan said sourly. “You’ve already got more money than God and you’re probably going to quit next week anyway.”

      Grady ignored the money comment—he taught two night courses at the University of Houston on the side, so everyone thought he was rich. They had no idea college professors were as badly paid as cops. “You might be right about the quitting part,” he said instead. “I’ll decide after I hear about this trouble.”

      Richards’s voice became serious. “It’s bad. In fact, it doesn’t get much worse. We’ve got an officer down over on the Strip.”

      “Dead?”

      “Not yet, but it doesn’t look good.”

      “Damn.” Grady swung his legs to the side of the bed. “Who was it? Anyone we know?”

      “Guy by the name of Luke Rowling. SCD.”

      “Sex Crimes? What’d he do? Wander into a bust or something?”

      “We don’t know right now. Chief Tanner got called so I got called so you got called. Go find out. I’m supposed to report directly to her personal assistant.”

      “Directly?”

      “Did I stutter?”

      “Well, no, but—”

      “The guy’s partner is Risa Taylor. You do know her, don’t you?”

      “‘The Body’ Taylor?”

      “The one and only. You’re a lucky man.”

      Grady moaned. “I’m too damn old for this, Stan. Call someone else—”

      “Can’t do that. It’s certainly not official but rumor has it, you were requested for the case. Taylor’s family is true blue and she’s tight with the chief. I suspect the Iron Lady wants this done right with no questions left.”

      “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

      “I don’t approve of your techniques, but you are the best. When you’re finished with it, everyone will know the case is tighter than a gnat’s ass and they’ll be satisfied.” Grady heard papers shuffling, then Stan spoke again. “They’re still on scene, Fifty-six eighty-nine Richmond, Tequila Jack’s. Samuel Andrews is the homicide lieutenant.”

      As Stan hung up on him, Grady realized what was going on. Chief Tanner might have requested Richards to report directly to her assistant, but she wouldn’t have asked for Grady. Stan had put him on the case because he didn’t like Grady and had probably wanted to call him out at this ungodly hour.

      A former instructor at the Police Academy, Catherine Tanner had been the HPD commander for some time, but Grady’s direct interactions with the woman had been too limited for her to ask for him, even if she were inclined to do so. Despite the gossip he’d heard about her, she was supposed to be fair and levelheaded, but a few people thought she’d gotten her job through connections rather than talent, and rumors continued to circulate about some type of vague corruption going on at the higher levels. Fair or biased, crooked or straight, it didn’t matter to Grady. He only delivered the truth.

      Fifteen minutes later he was dressed and in his car. Fifteen minutes after that he pulled into the parking lot of the bar. Grady had the feeling he could have found the place without the yellow-and-purple neon sign of a fat man wearing a huge hat and holding a margarita glass. Dozens of cop cars with flashing red lights were parked haphazardly on the sidewalk and in the street. Nearly that many television vans lined the street on the opposite side.

      Pushing through the reporters and hangers-on, Grady spotted Samuel Andrews. Simultaneously yelling into a cell phone, talking to two other cops and answering a reporter’s questions, the African-American lieutenant saw Grady and motioned him forward.

      Grady nodded but took his time, looking around first. A blue plastic sheet covered a body, but it was the only one. Scanning the scene, he searched for Risa Taylor. He’d popped off about her nickname, but in truth, he wasn’t sure he’d even recognize the woman. She was supposed to be a looker and very, very smart…so naturally most of the male cops hated her and/or lusted after her. Grady couldn’t think of a more volatile mix inside a police department—resentment and sexual tension. Yipperdoodle, he thought dryly. This was going to be a real fun case.

      He came to Andrews’s side and waited for his turn. Andrews handled everyone else smoothly and quickly then he faced Grady, his expression wary, his demeanor less friendly. Grady barely noticed. He was accustomed to the low-level hostility that followed him wherever he went. Everyone hated Internal Affairs.

      They shook hands. “Bad night,” Grady said. “Any news on the officer who was shot?”

      “I wouldn’t be counting on him for the next shift. They took him to Ben Taub but he looked like he was already gone.”

      Grady held back a flinch. Most of the patients who were sent to the trauma hospital were so bad the docs swore they brought the dead back to life more often than they healed the sick.

      “Where’s the partner?”

      “EMS guys took her, too.”

      “She was hurt?” Grady’s voice held surprise. Stan had said nothing about this.

      Andrews lifted his hand and drew a line down his cheek. “Just a graze. Didn’t look too bad but you know the medics. She tried to stay then finally gave in.” He tilted his head toward the blue-covered mound behind them. “That’s Juan Doe, número uno over there. Número dos went to Taub with the rest of the party, but I think he’s had his last enchilada.”

      Andrews continued his explanation and Grady listened, his eyes going to the other side of the parking lot, where support guys had begun to crawl between the cars and underneath the bushes. Every once in a while, they’d stop, open a baggie and drop something inside.

      “Any questions?” Andrews finished.

      “Not for now.” Grady always let the lieutenants talk, but he got his real information from the officers and the scene itself. “I’ll be in touch, though.”

      Andrews nodded with a dour expression. “I’m sure you will.”

      Grady wandered for another half hour, talking to the uniforms and letting the details register. He was just about to leave for the hospital when he overheard two of the techs. They’d been crisscrossing the parking lot, looking at the cars and trees.

      “Even I coulda hit something,” one of them said, shaking his head. “That many shots fired? These guys musta been blind.”

      Grady stopped. He knew a lot of the crime-scene technicians, and for the most part, they were friendlier to him than the officers. “What’s up?”

      They looked up and greeted him. “No slugs,” the nearest one explained. “I don’t know what these guys were smoking, but they musta been shooting into the sky.” He held up his baggies. “Plenty of shells, but no slugs yet.”

      “Keep looking, gentlemen. I’m sure you’ll do your best for the glory of HPD.”

      They grinned and returned to their search as Grady headed for his car. The techs always said they couldn’t find the slugs, but sooner or later they located them. Lodged in telephone poles or buildings, tires or pavement, the spent bullets hid themselves well. Once, the day after a shooting, they’d had a guy bring a motorcycle into the station. Without even realizing it, he’d driven by a holdup in progress and caught a slug in his tire. When he’d heard the news that night, he figured out why he’d gotten a flat.

      Back on the Southwest Freeway, Grady