Crossroads

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For the support of my family and friends, I thank you.

For Phil — these last two books are as much yours as mine.

IT’S NEVER A GOOD THING WHEN YOU’RE AWAKENED

from a deep sleep by someone pounding on the front door.

It’s worse when you stumble downstairs and see it’s a cop.

A cop you recognize.

My first impulse is to creep back upstairs and pretend I’m not home. But I know this cop. He’s probably already gone around back and checked the garage. Both my Jag and the Ford Crown Vic I use for work are parked inside. He knows I’m home.

Crap.

I pul open the door.

“Detective Harris. What a surprise.”

For a pain-in-the-ass cop, he’s not bad looking. Five-ten—

probably one hundred eighty pounds. Dark hair touched at the temples with gray. Square jaw, serious eyes. Beneath that off-the-rack suit, a body I suspect is neither lean nor flabby. Carries himself like he was once an athlete — a boxer, maybe. Now he’s a fortysomething man fighting middle-age spread and from the looks of it, winning the battle.

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