“LET THE DEAD rest in peace.”

“But someone is getting away with murder.”

“I don’t believe anyone gets away with anything forever.”

Woody and Abby’d had that conversation fifteen years ago, three years before she started the police academy. And twelve years earlier, a coroner had zipped up the body bags containing the remains of her murdered parents.

“I’ve dreamed about finding my parents’ killers for more years than I had with them,” she’d told Woody back then. She was fresh out of high school, and providence had brought her back to Long Beach on an athletic scholarship to play volleyball for Long Beach State. The first thing she did was look up Officers Robert Woods and Asa Foster. She knew from newspaper articles that the pair had been the first on the scene of her parents’ murders that day and had saved her from the fire that consumed their restaurant, the Triple Seven.

But neither of them thought much of her desire to plunge in, demand the case be reactivated. They’d gladly met with her and encouraged her aspirations to join the PD when she turned twenty-one. The encouragement stopped there. Their attitude about catching her parents’ killers took her by surprise. Why didn’t they want the cold case solved?

“We’re afraid you could still be in danger, as well as your aunt. Even after all these years. Not only was the restaurant burned down, but your parents’ house burned to the ground that day as well. It was a personal crime, and someone with a grudge like that won’t quit.”

“But so much time has passed —how can there still be danger?”

“Trust us. Be patient; patience always pays off, and an opening will come.”

Reluctantly, she’d taken their advice and started life in Long Beach anew, not telling a soul who she was or why it was so important to her to eventually become a homicide detective. Abigail Morgan had been pulled from the fire and she was now Abby Hart, having been adopted by her aunt, Deidre Hart, and raised, from age ten, miles away in Lake Creek, Oregon. When she did apply to the PD, she knew that Woody and Asa stepped in to protect her secret, convincing the chief and her background investigator to seal her file when she was hired.

Over the years Abby built a cold case file with what she could glean from public record. While in the academy, as she learned about police work and investigations, she’d spent her weekends in the library, filling notebooks with ideas and theories.

Dede was aghast. “Abby, you’re young; you should be out having fun, meeting people, not shut up in the library on weekends.” The word obsession surfaced then, with Dede afraid Abby’s preoccupation with the cold case would drown her.

After that, she’d kept her search to herself, adding more official paperwork to the file as she moved on in the department. By the time her promotion to homicide came, she and Ethan had a casual relationship that soon blossomed. She’d known him forever. He lived near her aunt and was a big part of the youth group at the church there. Abby went from looking up to him as a big brother to cherishing his friendship. When she moved to Long Beach, they still talked from time to time on the phone. She’d been a cop for five years when he took a job at her church in Long Beach as the missions director. It wasn’t long before they began to date. When things got serious with Ethan, for a time she could let go and put the case in the background.

Six months ago, when he’d asked her to marry him and she’d said yes, she thought she’d shut the door completely on the past in favor of not jeopardizing her future with him. When she’d confided in him who she was, he’d joined the chorus and agreed with Asa and Woody.

“These men have been officers longer than you have and they think it’s dangerous, so you should follow their advice. The killers will not get away with it. You need to trust that God will deal with them. You can, can’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I can.”

“Then put it behind you and us. Don’t let that tragedy be what defines you.”

Now, one name brought the twenty-seven-year-old cold case screaming to the forefront of her mind. As hard as she’d tried to ignore and push back every emotion bubbling up about her parents’ unsolved murders, today the door had been kicked open by the mention of Lowell Rollins.

Governor Lowell Rollins was someone she’d wanted to speak to for a long time but never had a valid reason to approach. Using a murdered relative as an excuse was not a move Abby would normally ever make, but this might be her only chance.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Sliding it off her belt, she read a not-unexpected response to a query she’d sent earlier.

Coroner will make notification.

Turned out the governor was in Sacramento, and he was too big a VIP for Abby to presume that it was up to her to arrange the notification. As she told Woody, Abby had bounced the ball to the watch commander’s court and he’d made the call to wake up the head coroner.

Even as she slid her phone back onto her belt, agitation roiled about not being able to notify Rollins.

I have to speak to him somehow. I came back here on a mission. I thought I could pack it away because people I care about wanted me to, but I can’t any longer. I won’t.

I need to find my parents’ killers.

The governor might come to LB because of this murder, and Abby knew that if an opportunity arose that would allow her to approach him about what they had in common, she’d take it. Even if he remembered nothing, he was someone who could get the cold case reactivated. Maybe he would at least do that for her. Woody, Asa, and her aunt would have to understand that she’d been patient long enough. And Ethan . . . well, she didn’t know what she’d say to Ethan, and that was the hardest part.

She imagined Rollins would inquire into the investigation at some point, for a photo op if nothing else. Maybe that would be her chance.

Abby rubbed her forehead as her own cynicism surprised her. Cora Murray was the governor’s great-aunt, a family member no matter how far removed. Let’s not assume he doesn’t care, she scolded herself.

The clang of the coroner’s gurney banging the steps as he wheeled Cora out of the house brought Abby back to the here and now.

She scanned the yard and found Woody at the edge of the sidewalk. He’d hung around and chatted with the coroner and swapped stories with the remaining uniformed officers. Since Asa had retired, Woody was the most senior officer on the force, and that earned him quite a bit of cachet. He was hardworking and smart, and every cop Abby knew looked up to him.

“Still up for breakfast?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin. “River’s End?”

Abby smiled wide, happy with the pick.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to finish up while I log out and change. Meet you there in thirty.”

She flashed a thumbs-up and returned to her crime scene as the doors of the coroner’s van slammed shut. Even as she’d been looking through the house, chatting with Woody, talking to the other uniforms about their reports, and struggling with her own demons, names of known burglars had been floating in and out of her thoughts based on the description Murphy had given her. She’d made an extensive list of known cat burglars after the first murder. Several had already been cleared. But now, with Murphy’s description, one name from the list popped out at her. He’d need to be checked out ASAP.

“Detective?”

“Yes?” Abby faced the last officer on scene, frowning when she saw that the cop had a little black-and-white dog with a flat face in her arms. Abby had no idea what kind of dog it was, but it was small, kinda cute, and obviously scared because its little body shivered.

“This was the victim’s dog. I put him in our unit so he wouldn’t be in the way during the investigation, thinking animal control would be here by now.” She shrugged. “We’re past end of watch. Animal control is short; they want us to drop it off.”

Abby glanced at her watch. The officer was past EOW by twenty minutes. Her gaze fell on the dog and the eyes got her. They were victim’s eyes; she’d seen them too many times. And worst of all, she’d seen them once or twice when she looked in the mirror.

“I’ll take it,” she said, holding her arms out and noting the relief in the officer’s eyes. “They just want me to drop it off at the shelter?” She asked the question as the dog settled into the crook of her arm and immediately stopped shaking.

“Yes.”

The officer put a blanket and a toy in Abby’s car before she turned to leave. “The dog did his business a few minutes ago, so you’re good there, but he might want some water. And he’s good on the leash.”

“Thanks,” Abby said, looking at the small creature that smelled like an old woman’s perfume. He had a tag and she nudged it with her index finger. Bandit was etched on the small blue dog bone. “Well, Bandit,” she said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The little guy looked up at her, yawned, and then settled his furry head back in the bend of her elbow and closed his eyes. For a reason she couldn’t identify, Abby felt a lump form in her throat as she looked at the little fur ball. Swallowing, she raised her head in time to see that public service had arrived to secure the house so she could leave.

The shelter was out of her way. She should hurry if she was going to meet Woody at River’s End. She set the little dog on the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side.

Once in, she activated her computer and sent a message to the sergeant on the Career Criminal Apprehension Team. She asked him to look for the crook whose name came to mind. He went by the moniker Lil’ Sporty. An ex-jockey, Lil’ Sporty Davis was a crackhead known to frequent hotels and businesses on Pacific Coast Highway. PCH was three blocks from the victim’s residence.

Davis had never been violent, but he’d been pinched for cat burg before and he certainly fit the description Murphy had given —small build and quick. If he could be found, CCAT would find him. She referenced the homicide case and knew they’d move quickly. With luck she’d have Lil’ Sporty in an interview room before the day was over.

She copied the records section what she’d sent to CCAT as a shorthand way of filing a follow-up to the homicide report the patrol officers would have submitted by now.

At some point during her computer work, Bandit crawled into her lap, and she let him stay there.

She started the car, but before putting it into gear, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she did a little research about the missing case Murphy was working. After a few minutes she’d read everything she could find about Nadine Hoover and had no idea what she’d do with the information.

Yawning, she looked down at Bandit. “I know I’m hungry; how about you?”

Abby left the west side of the city for the east side and animal control. She’d have just enough time to drop the dog off before breakfast with Woody. Though she was preoccupied with how she was going to tell Woody she’d decided to pursue her parents’ case in spite of his warnings, it impressed her that the dog barely stirred. Abby had no trouble driving with him in her lap. She pulled up at the city shelter ten minutes later but sat in her car with the motor running.

An animal shelter was sort of like a foster home for dogs, she thought, frowning at the drab brick building. Even in her car she could hear the barking and yapping of the prisoners within.

“Prisoners,” she said out loud. “Funny I should think of them as prisoners.”

The dog stirred and looked at her with those big brown eyes. She didn’t understand why they flooded her all of a sudden, but she couldn’t stop the memories —all the foster homes she’d been shuffled through, the fear and anxiety she’d felt not knowing if this new house would be a good one or a bad one, a safe one or a hurtful one. Her throat constricted and tears burned in her eyes. Taking deep breaths, she backed out of the parking space, knowing she couldn’t dump this warm little body the way she’d been dumped so many times after her parents were killed.

This feeling further reinforced her decision to plunge ahead and dive into investigating the murder case. After she was orphaned and because social services wanted to hide her, she’d been lost in the system and it took four years for them to connect her to Aunt Dede. The years had been hurtful and hard for Abby.

She phoned the coroner and let them know she had possession of the victim’s dog. If the governor wanted the dog, she’d have to give him up. Looking down at the fur ball, she knew getting attached would be a mistake.

“I’ll deal with it, Bandit. I’ll deal with it,” she said as she drove toward River’s End.

When she got to the restaurant, her pulse had slowed and the burning in her throat had subsided. River’s End Café was her favorite restaurant, and the familiar setting calmed her angst.

“You kept Bandit?” Woody asked as Abby joined him in front of the restaurant, dog in tow.

“I didn’t have the heart to take him to animal control.”

Woody looked down at Bandit, and Bandit looked up at Woody. “He’s a cute enough little dog. He always behaved for Cora. If the governor doesn’t want him, someone would likely adopt him soon.”

“Don’t they kill them if they aren’t picked?”

“I guess.” Woody studied the little dog. “What do you want to do, keep him?”

The question gave her pause. “I don’t know. I always wanted my own pet dog. My aunt had a working dog, an Australian shepherd, to help with her animals. He was never a lapdog. You think the governor will want him?”

“Got me. Probably depends on the dog’s party affiliation. Let’s talk about it while we eat. I suppose we’re sitting on the patio?”

“Of course.” Abby gestured for him to go first, and they found a table where dogs were allowed. River’s End was a small grill in Seal Beach. It sat next to a bike path that ran along the flood control channel, ending here where the water emptied into the Pacific Ocean. The channel was a dividing line in more ways than one. This side was Seal Beach, while the other side was Long Beach.

Twenty-seven years ago her parents’ restaurant, the Triple Seven, sat by itself across the way on the edge of the ocean. Today the area was a large, grassy park. Abby had returned to Long Beach at age eighteen, but she’d never visited the park. She liked the view from River’s End, imagining the place her parents built, loved, and died in. Somehow Abby believed that visiting the park would destroy the illusion fixed in her mind. River’s End’s outside seating area was the perfect vantage point for her to gaze and daydream about a time and place she barely remembered.

River’s End was also a homey locals’ place. Sometimes Abby found herself humming the tune to Cheers because it was a place where everyone knew your name. And even though she didn’t live in Seal Beach, the locals accepted her as one of their own. Today the patio was almost full because it was a nice, cool summer morning.

Regulars like the retired teacher —alone today —would push two tables together on Saturdays, and the group of old guys would argue politics over coffee and newspapers. Then there were the blonde bombshells, a mother and daughter who met there often after their long morning walks, and Kai, the buff veteran lifeguard having breakfast before work. All said hello and commented on Bandit’s cuteness and his manners. River’s End felt like a sort of home for Abby, and the “family’s” goodwill toward Bandit buoyed her.

Maybe I’m worried for no reason, she thought. Maybe some nice family would adopt him.

“A new addition?” Sandy, one half of the team who owned the place, asked when she came to take their order. Bob, her husband, did the cooking, and their adult daughter helped when she was home from school.

Abby tilted her head. “He belonged to a victim. Not certain what will happen to him.”

“Ooo.” Sandy’s brows scrunched together. “If he needs a home, let me know. He’s too cute. Now, what can I get you?”

“I’ll have the usual,” Abby said. For her that was a Belgian waffle with a side of bacon and two poached eggs.

Woody always got a Denver omelet with a side of River’s End’s hottest sauce.

“You guys are too easy,” Sandy said as she poured them coffee.

“If by that you mean boring,” Woody said with a shrug, “I can live with that.”

Sandy smiled and left to put their order in.

Bandit settled down quietly at Abby’s feet. “So you’ve got dogs,” she said. “Will this be hard, taking care of the little guy?”

“One that small would be a Scooby Snack for my two.” Woody chuckled. “Dogs can be great companions.”

“Can be?”

Woody cocked an eyebrow. “Well, they take training. If you train ’em, get them to do their business where they’re supposed to and not where you don’t want them to, then they’re good companions.”

“I’m sure there’s a book out there to tell me what to do if I keep him.”

At that, Woody laughed as Abby knew he would. Books were sacred and respected to Abby. They had been the one constant in her life after the loss of her parents when she found herself shuffled from group home to foster home and back again. Even the bleakest group home she landed in had books.

“That’s right; I know about you and books. Keep the dog. Your house will be the best place for him after you read your book.”

Their meal came, and for a few minutes both of them concentrated on eating. After plowing halfway through her eggs and a portion of the waffle, she told Woody about her hunch, that Lil’ Sporty was their crook.

Woody gave her a thumbs-up. “Good guess. You put CCAT on him?”

She drained her coffee and looked to Sandy for more. Once the cup was full and she had worked up the courage to tell Woody she planned to pursue her parents’ murders, he surprised her with a question before she got the words out.

“You had a chance to talk with Murphy. What do you think of him?”

Abby choked on her coffee. “As a witness?”

“Yeah, he’s an observant guy.”

She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “He gave me a great lead —I have to thank him for that. Don’t tell me you’re a fan of that WWE video of him?”

Woody chuckled. “That was something, wasn’t it? I like the guy. You know he almost became a cop.”

“No, I didn’t know that.” Abby sat back in her chair. “Almost?”

“He quit the academy. When he told me about it, I remembered because a buddy of mine was the sergeant out there then. A lot of guys tried to talk him out of it. They thought he’d be a great cop.”

Abby crinkled her nose. “Probably couldn’t take the fact that real police work is not a TV cop show.”

Woody shook his head. “He was top of his class when he quit.”

Abby sipped her coffee, wondering why Woody wanted to talk about Murphy. But she let him talk, hoping to soften him up, prepping to broach a subject sensitive for her mentor.

“He’s got a solid rep as a PI, WWE video notwithstanding.”

“I will give him credit for getting that predator off the street. He’d been a problem for a long time.”

Woody agreed and took a sip of his coffee.

It was time to ask the question she really wanted answered.

“You know,” Abby began as she pushed her plate away and switched the subject back to Cora Murray, “I don’t like the idea of Governor Rollins having a connection to my homicide, but this might be my chance.”

Woody’s coffee cup stopped just short of his mouth. “What, your chance to talk to him about the Triple Seven?”

“I’ve wanted to for a long time. You know that.”

He set the cup down, looked away for a minute, and didn’t speak until he turned back. “I thought you decided to let it lie. What will you tell Ethan?”

Abby winced. Woody knew where to jab.

“I don’t know. I, uh . . . I can’t help it. To finally be able to speak to the governor —” she spread her arms —“this could open doors, jog a memory. It’s time to tell people who I am.”

“Once you do, who you are will never be a secret again.”

“Does it really need to be? I mean, it’s been almost thirty years. I never got to sit down with the original investigators. Now Ollie Cleaver is dead, and Zeke Russell has Alzheimer’s. Maybe I need to come out, announce who I am, and reinvigorate the case.” Even if Ethan doesn’t like it.

Woody held her gaze with his steel one. “You want to smoke the killer out? Make yourself a target?”

“If he’s still alive.” She reached across the table and put her hand over his. “I’m a big girl now, and I even carry a gun. If the man or men who killed my parents are still alive, I hope they come after me. I want answers, and I can handle myself.”

“Your dad thought he could handle himself.” Woody spoke sharply, and she could tell by his expression he regretted the tone. He looked away again. When he turned back, the expression on his face was softer. “I guess old habits die hard. I’ve been looking out for you since the day that cook handed you to me through the fire. But you’re not six years old anymore.”

Abby smiled. “No, I’m not. I’m a big, bad homicide detective and I want more than anything to know who killed my parents and why. Rollins was my dad’s partner back then. He knew my mom and dad. I remember him as Uncle Lobo. I need to talk to him.”

Woody looked down and rubbed his cheek. Abby sensed he had something else to say and waited.

“It’s hard to appreciate now how scary that crime was then.” He took a deep breath. “The killers shot your parents point-blank and meant for you to burn to death. Then they traveled a mile and a half and burned down your house. The entire city was frightened by the viciousness. Asa and I just wanted to protect you.”

“I know, Woody.” Abby had the case memorized. “I hope you’ll lend a hand if I need one. You’re my Yoda; you always give me the best advice.”

Woody stayed silent, searching for words, Abby thought.

“That day changed my life,” he said after a minute. “It changed my attitude about work. I’d seen death and destruction before, but it had never hit so close to home. I knew your parents. I liked them. The Triple Seven was more than just a pop stop.”

Abby held her breath and waited for him to continue. She had heard often that her parents “popped” for cops, fed them for free. Many restaurants and businesses used to, acting on the belief that being a pop stop would encourage cops to hang around and discourage criminals. The practice was frowned on now; the PD brass discouraged businesses from giving anything away free to cops. They felt the businesses would expect something in return. In her parents’ case, though cops loved them for being benefactors, it had not kept the criminals away in the end.

“I would have given anything that day to run down the pukes who killed them. Puff and Puff More worked that case hard.” He used Russell and Cleaver’s nicknames. Abby had been told they were both four-pack-a-day smokers. It was lung cancer that had killed Cleaver.

“For all those reasons I need to talk to Rollins,” she said. “I know he’s been asked, but the question still burns inside me: who hated my parents enough to try to obliterate everything about them? Maybe he can force the case back to the top of the pile.”

Woody smiled without pleasure. “Just remember, be careful what you wish for.”

After breakfast as Abby walked to her car, Bandit in tow, she let the anger she felt about Cora Murray simmer and boil into renewed anger about her folks. Abby had settled back into the driver’s seat when her phone rang.

It was Sergeant Page from CCAT. “We got a line on Sporty and we’re getting ready to swoop. Wanna come?”

“You bet,” Abby said as she started the engine.

Page gave her the address where CCAT was staging, and she pressed the gas pedal, thinking of Cora Murray and her mom and dad as her back tires squealed out of the lot.