The Killing Game by Nancy Bush Page A

realized everyone was having a good old hah-hah at his expense because he was teamed with Ray Bolchoy. Nobody, but nobody, wanted to be partnered with the gruff old-timer. Better to stay back in robbery or work missing persons, or vice . . . anything but homicide with the stubborn, single-minded detective.
    In those early days, Luke had learned that Bolchoy had a lot of rules, although most of them were superseded by rule number one. Luke tried hard to stay the fuck out of his partner’s way, though a few times he’d made the mistake of getting underfoot in an investigation, at least according to Bolchoy, and then there’d been hell to pay. It took years before Bolchoy trusted him enough to truly treat him as a partner, so many in fact that Lucas’s brother, Dallas, had urged him to quit long before he actually had.
    “Be a writer,” Dallas had told him. “Your partner’s a crackpot who’s nearing retirement but won’t retire. Unless they force him out, you’re stuck with him for more of your life than you need to be. It’s worse than a marriage. Go back to writing that stuff you did in college.”
    Easy for Dallas to say. Yes, he liked writing, but he wasn’t a great writer. He knew that. His best attempts were filling out reports. He had a technical mind, and it was restful putting things down in chronological order. But a writer? Of fiction? Yeah, sure, Dal. I’ll get started on that right away . . .
    He drove to his office in a dark mood, annoyed by the uncommon humidity that seemed to hang in the air like an invisible shroud. It wasn’t his nature to be gloomy, but Iris, and the hovering hangover that hadn’t fully presented itself yet, was getting to him. He parked his truck in the spot behind the back door that led to his office. The door was rust-colored, from paint and maybe just because it was, and it was one of many other rust-colored doors that lined the back of the strip mall. He’d rented the one-room space alongside the Asian fusion restaurant for next to nothing. The scent of curry occasionally wove through the air, which had a tendency to draw him like a cartoon finger of aroma, beckoning him inside, but otherwise his office was exactly what he needed.
    He sat around and shuffled papers and kept an eye on the clock. It was early. Still time to hit the hearing. He wanted to support Bolchoy, but he didn’t want to get snagged by more reporters; they always pissed him off. Still . . .
    He headed out at eight-fifteen, fighting the snarl of traffic that took him east on the Sunset. He almost didn’t make it in time and then had to pay for parking three blocks away. It was hot and his shirt was sticking to him. He hurried up the steps, but sure enough, that piranha of a reporter, Pauline Kirby, was standing in his way.
    “Mr. Denton,” she called loudly. “How do you think the hearing will go for your friend, er, ex-partner, Ray Bolchoy?”
    “I’m hoping the judge sees there’s no reason to go to trial.”
    “So, you don’t think the charges against Bolchoy are credible?”
    “What I think doesn’t matter.” He tried to move past her, but she kept with him, step for step.
    “But you believe in Bolchoy’s innocence.”
    Innocent wasn’t a word he would choose for Ray Bolchoy. We all just want this in the rearview,” he said, then ducked inside.
    He took a seat toward the rear and waited while everyone got set up. He saw the Carrera boys seated across the aisle from him. They both wore those supercilious smiles he detested, but he tamped down his frustration as he watched the defense and prosecution put up their evidence. It was difficult at first to tell which way the judge was going to rule until the prosecution couldn’t come up with the false confessions Bolchoy had allegedly turned in. Luke gazed in surprise at his old partner, who sat stoically beside his lawyer. He suspected Bolchoy had done exactly what he was accused of. He was a man out for justice, whether it was legal or