Tempest Court. Jan Walters
homicides, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Brett grinned. “That’s a good thing.”
Marge reached over and patted his hand. “Glad you’re back, O’Shea. It’s been quiet around here. Tomorrow, I’ll bring in some of those homemade cinnamon rolls you like so much.”
“I can’t tell you how much I missed good American comfort food. Thanks.”
An opening door drew his attention. He glanced up and saw his boss, Chief of Detectives, Jake Foster, approach them.
“About time you got back.”
Brett slid off the desk and stood in front of Foster. “Marge was filling me in on what’s been going on here.”
Foster grunted, “Nothing. Just the way I like it. By the way, Tim Randall is back.”
Brett froze. Randall! He and Detective Randall worked together briefly last year, but when Randall roughed up a prostitute, Chief Anders transferred him to Traffic. Then Randall had come to their aid on the vampire case and had redeemed himself. Brett shook his head. He didn’t know if he could trust the guy.
Brett was opening his mouth to reply when Foster cut him off. “Deal with it. Time to head down to roll call.”
Foster flashed Brett a smile before he left. Brett’s mood soured.
“Where’s Randall’s office?” he asked Marge.
Her devilish smile widened. “Next to yours.”
His mouth opened and closed. No way! He glared at Randall’s office door. As if on cue, Randall exited his office. His blue eyes twinkled. “Hey, O’Shea. Glad you’re back.”
“Thanks.” Brett heard Marge chuckle before she answered the phone.
“I’ll walk down to roll call with you. Can’t wait to hear about your trip.”
Brett followed Randall down the stairs. The younger detective had slimmed down; his former paunchy stomach was nearly nonexistent. Even his buzzed blond hair was longer. Brett wondered if Randall had a girlfriend.
Entering roll call, Brett spotted his friend and fellow detective, Kevin Donnellson, in the back corner. Donnellson was the modern version of a Viking warrior. With blond hair, blue eyes, and a hulking body that could overpower almost anyone, Donnellson didn’t have many people challenging him. Brett enjoyed Donnellson’s wit and positive attitude.
Donnellson had a big grin plastered on his face. “O’Shea! Glad to see you. How was it?”
“Fantastic.” Brett glanced over at Randall, who joked with other officers.
“I suppose you heard about Randall being back?”
With arms folded across his chest, Brett nodded. “Yeah. First thing Foster told me.”
“That’s Foster for you.”
Chief Anders entered the room, which was unusual. Everyone rose to their feet. Anders motioned them to return to their seats.
“I’m only going to take a minute so the captain can finish with his announcements. I want to remind everyone to wear your body cameras. There have been a couple of instances lately where someone forgot.” Anders glared at the room full of officers. “When I get complaints, I have to come down here to talk to all of you. Also, watch your language and keep the F word to a minimum. Trust me, you all don’t want me to come back and talk about the damn cameras.”
Anders stepped aside and headed toward the doorway.
Donnellson elbowed Brett and whispered, “Yeah, I can see it now. When we’re arresting a robbery suspect with a gun, instead of saying ‘Get the fuck on the ground,’ we’ll say ‘Sir, please cooperate and lie on the ground.’”
Brett glanced up and grimaced. Anders stood behind Donnellson. Brett turned and noticed that the chief’s face had turned a deep shade of red. Oh shit!
“Donnellson. My office now.”
Donnellson’s eyes widened as he jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”
Brett’s friend hurried from the room, heading for the door. Brett wished he was anywhere but here. Awkward.
With hands on his hips, Anders stared down at Brett. “Do you have anything to add to the conversation?”
“Nope.”
“Good choice. Walk with me for a minute.”
They shuffled in choreographed motion to the doorway. Brett followed suit, but Anders stopped him near the elevator, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Glad to see you survived the camel ride,” Anders mumbled. “I ran into your mom at the grocery store. She filled me in on your itinerary.”
“Yeah, it was quite the experience.”
Inside the elevator, Brett studied the aging chief who was now in his early fifties, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed to the side. The barrel-chested chief let out a deep breath. The guy looked like he carried the weight of the city on his shoulders.
“Anything going on?” Brett wondered what Anders wanted.
Anders shook his head. “We haven’t visited much since the vampire case.”
Brett groaned. “Don’t remind me. Between you and me, we’re getting a collection of battle scars.”
Anders patted Brett on the shoulder. “And that’s why I’m glad you took some time off.”
“If Lisa had her way, I’d be taking more time off.”
“Caroline is always complaining I don’t take enough time off.”
“Your wife is a smart lady.”
The elevator door opened. “It was nice catching up.” Anders smiled. “Oh, before I forget, you need to hit the firing range and get certified.”
“Will do. Nice seeing you, Chief.”
Brett smiled and leaned back against the wall of the elevator. It felt good to be back at work. He was anxious to get to his office and start working. For once in his career, there were no big cases, no serial killers. No weird things were going on, though he was still bothered by Hassan’s actions and the rug. He was letting his imagination run wild again. Maybe Lisa was right. He seemed to anticipate danger where there wasn’t any.
He’d never see Hassan again, so he needed to let it go. The strange events that went on in Morocco were in the past. He simply needed to let it go.
Chapter 4
Michael O’Shea’s shimmering figure materialized in Brett’s kitchen. Michael glanced around the room. He opened the refrigerator door. Yep, it was full. Brett and Lisa had returned from their vacation. He glanced at the clock. The pair were due home from work anytime.
He sauntered into the family room, claiming Brett’s favorite recliner, which overlooked the neighborhood—a quiet residential area on the south side of Des Moines. The Southside was a blend of ethnic groups, including a large Italian population and mom-and-pop restaurants.
Unfortunately, rules that pertained to ghosts were restrictive. Michael couldn’t eat or drink. Thinking of the beer in the fridge, Michael groaned. He’d give anything to taste an ice-cold beer again. A rumble of thunder shook him from his reverie. “Just joking,” Michael mumbled. He glanced out the window, almost expecting a bolt of lightning to hit the front yard. Why do ghosts have to follow rules? He leaned back in a chair.
After the last case he and Brett worked, Michael was called in for “reconditioning.” “Reconditioning, hell,” he muttered. It was more like an ass-chewing. He didn’t follow orders very well. He was supposed to stay invisible, except when necessary. He wasn’t supposed to scare people. Michael sighed. He disliked rules,