The Killing Game by Nancy Bush

walk-in closet, the one nod to luxury in his two-bedroom/one-bath apartment.
    “For God’s sake, Luke ...” she trailed off.
    “Iris, go home. Or to the courthouse, or wherever.
    “You just can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?” she asked bitterly, sweeping up an airy black scarf that she threw around her shoulders. Her makeup wasn’t even smeared, and he wondered how the hell she managed that.
    “We’ve been through this scenario before. A couple of times.”
    “We need to talk. No matter what you think, we need to talk.”
    “I’m all talked out.” He pulled out another pair of jeans and a white shirt, freshly pressed, and took them to the bathroom. Iris followed him and tried to hold open the door with the palm of her hand. “Iris,” he warned.
    “Listen to me. Just listen.” She pushed back on the door when he tried to close it with slow but steady pressure. “You can’t help Bolchoy. He doesn’t want to be helped. He wants to be right, and he’s wrong. He forged the Carrera brothers’ names on those confessions. He admitted he did it. This case is not subject to interpretation. You know it and I know it. It’s going to trial.”
    “The Carreras have intimidated and coerced and threatened. They zero in on their next real estate acquisition and drive everyone out. They don’t care how. They pretend to offer a fair price, but they never follow through. Anyone who thwarts them ends up in some kind of ‘accident,’ or some other misery befalls them. That’s what I know.”
    “You can’t be a one-man vigilante on this. The judicial system will get them eventually. Go back to Portland PD, or finish with that law degree. Luke, come on ... don’t let this get in our way.”
    He yanked open the bathroom door so hard, she fell forward and had to catch herself. “I’ve got a different job now.”
    “Private investigating?” she said with a sneer. Her eyes widened a moment later when he clamped his hands on her shoulders, turned her around, and steered her toward the front door. She actually tried to dig in her heels and grip the sides of the door frame. “My purse!” she yelled and, with a pungent swear word, he was forced to let go of her.
    “Don’t move,” he warned in a cold voice as he turned back and swept the purse from the nightstand, returning a few moments later and slapping the clutch bag into her hands.
    She gripped it in one hand, then raised up both in surrender. “This is ridiculous. Honestly, Luke. Come on.”
    “You don’t like what I do. You don’t like my friends. You don’t really like me.”
    “That’s not true—”
    “Darlin’, this is over.”
    To his consternation, her skin pinkened and he sensed that she was about to cry. She didn’t do it often, but she was about to do it now. “I love you,” she said tremulously.
    He shook his head, unable to come up with an answer to that one. The movement aggravated the headache forming like a storm. He eased Iris out the door, and this time she went meekly, as if all the stuffing had been smacked out of her. It made him feel bad, but not bad enough to change his mind. He needed to be separated from her. For good.
    Turning the lock on the door, he headed back to the shower, stripping off his jeans. He stood beneath the hot spray for a good ten minutes, then dressed in the fresh clothes on the counter. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to midforearm, then combed out his wet hair, the light brown strands unnaturally dark from the water. He stared into his own blue eyes, registering how harsh the light felt. Evil drink. What good had it gotten him? Bolchoy wasn’t going to go free. Iris had been right about that.
    “Rule number one, buddy,” the older detective had told Luke when they’d first been partnered. “Stay the fuck out of my way.”
    Luke had been taken aback. It was his first job as a detective and he’d been assigned to homicide, a real coup. Or, at least he’d thought so in the beginning, until he