Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman
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all of them out.”
“You going home after impound, Loo?”
“No, I’m going by Myron Berger’s house. Something’s way off with that.”
“Be careful.”
“Always am.”
“See you, Loo.”
“See you.” Decker rubbed his hands, then his arms, watching Gaynor totter back to his car. The man had two more years before he’d be forced to hang up his shield. Forty-five years of police service: thirty-five of them as a detective third grade, fifteen of those as a Homicide detective in brutal gang territory. And yet the guy was always neat, clean, punctual. As dependable as Big Ben and still had a bounce in his step at twelve-thirty in the morning.
Way to go, Farrell.
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