went all the way back to his great-great-grandfather Tomas, an Italian immigrant who had joined the St. Louis police force when it was little more than a ragtag group of men with guns and good intentions.
Rafe knew he had a lot to live up to, but he felt restless working the streets, and figured he had already paid his dues. He was tired of patrol duty. What he really wanted was to join his sister, Kate, on the homicide squad, where brains and reasoning and solid evidence-gathering far outweighed your ability to heft a drunk into the backseat of your cruiser.
Unfortunately, Rafe didn’t get the impression he’d be bumped up anytime soon. But a report of gunshots gave him hope. Not that he wished any other human being ill, but if he happened to luck into something big, maybe he’d get a chance to demonstrate his investigative skills.
He also didn’t mind the distraction from his thoughts tonight. As always, he had taken a long nap before reporting to duty, and a dream he’d had was haunting him—a vague, half-remembered remnant from his college years, featuring a girl he had once loved. He had awakened from it feeling disoriented and a little sad, filled with a vague, undefinable yearning that he couldn’t quite shake.
Rafe hadn’t seen the girl in over three years now, but she still showed up on the doorstep of his mind every now and then and he’d often thought of trying to contact her. Their breakup had been mutual—both convinced that they were too young to be getting serious—but Rafe often regretted the decision and wondered if she did, too.
He hadn’t met a woman since who had made him feel the way she had. And that dream, as hazy as it was, hadn’t done him any favors.
THE AUTO BODY SHOP was located on a deserted city street, nestled between a run-down apartment building and an abandoned drive-in liquor store.
The place was dark when Rafe pulled up to the curb. A sea of cars in various states of disrepair crowded the lot out front, making the place look more like a junkyard than a body shop. The garage—a large rectangular structure—was located in back and, by Rafe’s count, sported nine repair bays, each with its aluminum roll door closed and locked for the night.
Off to the right of the building was a connecting office with its front door hanging open, nothing but darkness beyond.
Something obviously wasn’t right here.
To Rafe’s mind, this was an indication that the caller might not have been hearing things. Too often reports of gunshots are nothing more than a car backfiring or kids playing with firecrackers, but that open door suggested something far more sinister.
Rafe called it in, told the dispatcher he was on the scene. That he’d stay in radio contact as he checked it out.
Grabbing his flashlight from the glove compartment, he killed his engine and climbed out of the cruiser. He moved off to his left, not wanting to approach the open door directly, in case the shooter—assuming there was one—was still inside.
Stepping into the sea of cars, he stayed low and carefully made his way around and through them, drawing closer to the office, making sure to come at the doorway from an angle.
He was about ten yards away when he stopped, crouched behind an old Chevy Malibu missing its grill, and peered into the darkness beyond the threshold, looking for signs of life inside.
Nothing but still air in there.
Nobody home.
Satisfied that he was alone out here, Rafe stood up, clicked the radio on his shoulder.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. Looks like it’s clear out here, but I’m headed inside for a closer look.”
“Do you need backup?”
“I think I’m good for now,” Rafe said. “I’ll stay in radio contact.”
“Roger, Fourteen.”
Switching the flashlight on, Rafe pointed it toward the building, then dropped a hand to the holster on his hip and unsnapped it, resting his palm against the grip of his Glock.
Using the beam to guide him, he approached the doorway and stepped through it, finding nothing but your typical cluttered office—a desk piled with paperwork, an adding machine, a few metal chairs, a bookshelf full of repair manuals, an old computer. There was a faded calendar on the wall featuring the Motor Babe of the Month wearing a barely there bikini and holding a wrench provocatively as she posed in front of a souped-up Ford Mustang.
Off to the left was another doorway that opened into a garage bathed in moonlight, which filtered in from a bank of high windows. It was about half the size of a football field, and there were cars parked in each of the nine bays, all but one in various states of disassembly.
Rafe smelled the odor of a cooling engine and ran the flashlight beam over the car closest to him—a shiny Jaguar XJ that looked as if it was in fine condition, no body work needed. There was a thin layer of road dust covering it and it didn’t seem to have been repaired at any time in the recent past.
So why was it parked in here?
Was it the owner’s car?
And, if so, where was he?
Before Rafe could ponder these questions, the beam of his flashlight caught something dark and glistening on the cement directly beneath the Jaguar’s front passenger side—
A small pool of red liquid that looked very much like blood.
It was coming from the crack beneath the door.
Rafe’s body tensed. Drawing his Glock from its holster, he shone his light through the car window and saw two figures slumped inside, both male, both very dead. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. Judging by their appearance—unshaven, rumpled clothes, with matching bullet holes adorning the middle of their foreheads—they weren’t Sunday school teachers.
And this was definitely the work of a professional.
Rafe was about to call it in when he heard a sound coming from across the garage—the faint clang and scrape of metal against concrete, as if someone had accidentally kicked a stray hubcap.
He wasn’t alone in here.
Jerking his flashlight beam toward the source of the sound, he illuminated the far end of the garage.
“Sheriff’s department,” he called out. “Show yourself and take it slow, hands in the air.”
He caught a glimpse of movement and reacted instinctively, diving sideways, just as a muzzle flashed and the bark of gunfire filled his ears. One of the Jaguar’s side mirrors exploded above his head and he dove for cover behind a tall, rolling tool cabinet.
Dropping the flashlight, he reached for the radio on his shoulder and clicked it on.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. I’m under fire. Repeat, I’m under fire.”
“Roger, Fourteen, we’re sending backup.”
More gunshots punched holes in the Jaguar and the tool cabinet, landing way too close for comfort. Rafe quickly snatched up the flashlight and closed it, tucking it into its loop on his belt.
No point
